Page 18 of One Night with a Prince
Worse yet, Byrne merely chuckled. “Mrs. Watts has dealt with me often enough, my sweet, to know that I pay my bills with admirable regularity.”
Christabel glared at him. So much for trying to shame the man into behaving. Ignoring her frowns, he turned his attention to the dressmaker. “And speaking of payment, I’m willing to pay more to have these gowns finished in three days.”
Mrs. Watts eyed him with a wily gleam. “It will be a great deal more.”
“Whatever it costs.”
The woman smiled broadly. “Very good, sir.” Then she untied Christabel’s chemise and pulled it down to form a line across the very top of her breasts. “Now, milady, for your evening gowns, is this an acceptable neckline?”
“No,” Byrne said, before Christabel could even answer.
Mrs. Watts pivoted to him like a dog following the bounce of a ball. She pulled the chemise down a little more. “Here, then?”
“Lower,” he said.
As Christabel seethed, Mrs. Watts went down another half inch. “Here?”
“Lower.”
“Perhaps I should simply pop out my breasts and serve them on a platter,” Christabel grumbled. As the dressmaker coughed to hide her laugh, Byrne raised one eyebrow. “While that sounds intriguing, my sweet, when we’re in public you’d best keep them in a gown.”
“Inbeing the important word,” she retorted.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.htmlMrs. Watts continued to hold the chemise in its present position, her gaze fixed on him. “Sir? Is this all right or not?”
He glanced from the dressmaker to a glowering Christabel, then back to the dressmaker. “That’ll do for now, I suppose. We’ll see how the gowns look once they’re done.”
With a nod, Mrs. Watts finished her measurements. “Will that be all, sir?”
“No. She needs something to wear for the next few days, so if you could alter one of her old gowns, something she wore before she went into mourning—”
“She can’t,” Christabel broke in. “We dyed all my old gowns black.”
“Allof them?”
She stuck out her chin. “Yes.”
“Bloody hell. At least that explains why you persist in wearing them.” He turned to the dressmaker.
“Could you make her mourning gowns a bit less…severe? And have one of them ready in the morning?”
“Certainly, sir.”
He rose and strode to the door. “I’ll call her maid to fetch them.”
As he opened the door, Rosa practically fell into the room. Christabel rolled her eyes. Rosa would never go meekly off when there was gossip to hear.
“Forgive me, sir,” Rosa babbled, “I was merely coming to tell my lady—”
“It’s all right, Rosa,” he broke in. “Just go bring us the prettiest of your mistress’s mourning gowns, will you?”
“But they are all ugly, senor.”
“What a surprise,” he said dryly. “Very well, then take Mrs. Watts with you. She can assess which ones are best for alteration.”
Rosa and Mrs. Watts went off, and Byrne closed the door. Only then did she realize they were alone. And she was dressed most scandalously.
He seemed to realize the same thing, for his gaze took outrageous liberties as he surveyed her scantily clad form.
