Page 8 of A Secret Correspondence
“That would not leave Madame Perreau with very much time.”
“But we do not yet know what they have planned.”
“True.” Mrs. Kimball’s wrinkled mouth pursed into a frown. “We will return when we have more information. Just the ball gown for now.”
“Of course, madame.”
Mrs. Kimball whirled, a pleasant smile—or as close as she could achieve—curling over her lips. “Mr. Harding, it isalwayssuch a pleasure to see you, sir.”
He turned slowly, matching her false smile. His hand ran over Claude’s head, lulling the cat to sleep. “The pleasure is entirely mine.”
“How is your mother? I must have her to tea soon. It has been far too long.”
“She is well. I thank you for asking.”
“I did not know you had a cat, Mr. Harding,” Miss Kimballsaid. She stepped forward, reaching toward Claude as though she would pet her, but Mr. Harding took a healthy step back.
“She is not in a friendly mood, I am afraid. You’ll have to forgive me for being terribly rude, but I would never be able to forgive myself if she were to scratch your flawless skin.”
Marguerite was obliged to acknowledge that he was certainly a charmer.
Miss Kimball tittered.
“In fact, she recently escaped from our esteemed modiste’s abode. I am merely returning her.”
“Oh, dear,” Miss Kimball said, laying a hand over her heart. She glanced back at Marguerite. “It is no wonder you were so shocked to see them walk through the door. I had thought you’d seemed overly surprised.”
A blush warmed Marguerite’s cheeks—a frustrating and uncommon occurrence. “Yes. I hadn’t expected such a dashing rescuer.”
Mr. Harding glanced at her, his blue eyes glittering with amusement. They shared a moment where she imagined he was finding the same humor with the situation that she was, but that was ridiculous. She was not of the same world as them. Mr. Harding certainly would not share in a joke with her.
There was no joke, anyway. She merely needed to relieve him of her cat so he could be on his way.
Time to move the patrons from her shop. She had a half-stitched bodice to return to and Mr. Harding likely had a dinner engagement to prepare for or a comfortable chair awaiting him somewhere. “I shall notify you the moment I have your finished gown, madame.”
Mrs. Kimball looked at her sharply. “Of course. Come, Philippa.”
“Yes, Mama.” Miss Kimball followed her mother from the shop, the bell tinkling overhead as they closed the door behind them.
Silence rang in its wake.
If Mr. Harding wouldn’t break it, then Marguerite certainly would. “I’m afraid you went to too much trouble, monsieur. Claude spends most of her days out of doors.”
He glanced down, his golden brows furrowing. “Does she? I had wondered how you managed to keep her inside at all hours.”
“Impossible. I only attempt to keep her from our prowling neighbor at night.”
“Ah.” His knuckles brushed gently over Claude’s head again as she buried herself against his chest. “Shall I set her down?”
“You may.” Marguerite felt compelled to look away. The careful way he cared for her cat was softening her heart in a dangerous way. Surely such a foppish dandy cared too much for his waistcoats to allow a cat to sully them with its hair. Though now he was proving that false.
He glanced up, smiling. “It is the strangest thing. She has caused me no small amount of grief, yet I am having trouble releasing her.”
There was a small tug at her chest. “I understand.”
“Do you?”
“When I found her abandoned, I only meant to clean her up and give her something to eat. I did not imagine the imprint she would have upon my heart. Now she takes up the whole of it.”
