Page 8 of Portrait of a Lady
The modiste leaned in close to hear her, seeming to try to catch her gaze. Evelyn’s face flamed hot as she went on, the words tumbling out now that she’d finally begun.
“It must be daring, unlike anything any other woman in London possesses. When I put it on, I want to feel like the most ravishing woman in all the world.”
Now, she met the dressmaker’s stare, finding that the older woman studied her with a sharp gleam in her eye, lips pinched. Silence descended between them while the modiste studied her as if making certain she’d heard Evelyn correctly.
Evelyn squared her shoulders and met Madame Hershaw’s gaze, determined not to back down. She had done it. She’d spoken the code that ensured the woman knew she had certainlynotcome here to have a gown made. Her friend, Samantha, had given her specific instructions so she’d know what to do. Now that she’d managed to get the words out, her anxiety had abated just a bit.
“Material?” the modiste asked, the word falling hard and brusque from her lips.
“Satin,” she replied without hesitation.
Madame Hershaw narrowed her eyes. “Color?”
“R-red.”
Before the proprietress could ask, Evelyn retrieved the slender calling card she had tucked into her glove. It proved a bit damp from being against her sweating palm, but there could be no mistaking the emblem upon its surface. Samantha had implored Evelyn to show it to no one but Madame Hershaw, and never speak of it to anyone.
Upon the white card was printed the letters GC, surrounded by a distinctly masculine pattern of swirls. There was no name, no other marking that would tell its recipient what it was for. This was because only those whoknewwould ever be able to decipher or use it. Without one’s presence in this shop, or the words Evelyn had just spoken, the card proved all but useless.
The modiste accepted the card, her bright smile appearing once more. “I have just the thing, but only for certain clientele. I can tell that you are a woman of good taste and will appreciate the select fabrics I store in the back for such requests. Come.”
The woman led Evelyn toward a door she assumed opened into the secretive back rooms, where she would find what she’d truly come for. Her heart hammered wildly, her throat constricting as she took one last look back at Patience.
“I’ll just wait right out here for you, Miss,” the companion said with a secretive grin. “Perhaps I’ll find new trimmings for your canary ball gown.”
Madame Hershaw led her into a shadowy corridor, maintaining a light hold on her arm and steering her toward one of three dimly lit rooms.
“You’ve arrived just in time,” said the modiste. “He’s almost finished taking appointments for the day.”
Evelyn did not bother to ask who ‘he’ was. All of this was kept so quiet, she supposed she’d be told only the most pertinent of details. Discretion was of the utmost importance, not just for the ladies being ushered into the back room, but also for those offering this very unique service.
“Go right in, he’ll be with you in a moment,” Madame Hershaw said, opening the door and motioning for Evelyn to go inside.
She obeyed, finding herself in a room that struck her as being far different from what she’d expected. Considering her reasons for being here, she’d thought to enter a chamber that looked as if it belonged in a bordello. Instead, she stood in a space decorated in pink and gold silk, with shining brass fixtures offering soft lighting. There was an oak desk facing a pair of armchairs upholstered in pink and gold striped damask, which matched the drapes shutting out the light of the sun. A plush, pink settee sat in one corner, and near it stood a sideboard holding a tea service along with rows of crystal decanters and glasses.
The settee and chairs looked comfortable, but because she hadn’t been invited to sit Evelyn remained near the door where the modiste had left her.
Who was this man that would come to greet her? All Samantha had told her was how to go about securing an audience. There had been no further description of what she was to expect or experience. Would this man become her lover? He was likely a worldly man, skilled at seduction—she would expect nothing less.
Dear God. Such a man would likely wish to get right down to business. He might even think to seal their agreement in some unseemly way. Her stomach churned with dread as she imagined some dark-haired rogue sweeping into this room, ripping off her gown, throwing her onto the settee and…
“Oh, relax, you ninny,” she muttered to herself.
Her overactive imagination was taking her to the most ridiculous places. Of course it wouldn’t be that way. This was only a preliminary meeting, and her friend had assured her that she would be in complete control of the entire arrangement and its terms. After all, the primary aim of this endeavor was to cater to the wants and needs of women.
Despite her determination to remain poised and relaxed, she nearly leapt a mile in the air when the doorknob turned. She whirled just as a man strode in, confidence and command emanating from each of his sure steps. She backpedaled a bit, then caught herself, straightening her spine and raising her chin. This man likely dealt with all manner of women—the sorts who knew what they were about and would attend such a meeting with enthusiasm and excitement. While she did want this for herself, Evelyn hated the feeling of not knowing what to do or say, what to expect.
And the man who stood in this room with her…God, he was a beast of a man. Tall and broad-shouldered, a Corinthian frame stretching the seams of his coat. Unruly blond hair fell about his head in rakish disarray, a bristle of sideburns running toward his jaw on either side. He looked as if he’d shaved just that morning, but his facial hair had already begun to rebel, leaving a dark blond shadow along the lower half of his face. Pale blue eyes seeming to stare straight through her, leaving nothing uncovered. She shuddered at the coldness glittering in the depths, further emphasized by a face that was all harsh angles and slopes. It was quite a handsome face, she had to admit, despite the way looking him in the eye unnerved her. There was a slight bump on the bridge of his nose, as if it had been broken once or twice, though it only made him appear all the more dangerous.
She could see how such a man had come to be in in a business like this. Women all over London must blush when he set those eyes on them, and whisper about how he might have broken his nose.
Evelyn, however, felt as if she might swoon in a dead faint just looking at him.
However was she to go through with this?
“Good afternoon,” he said with a deep, gravelly voice. “Miss Coburn, is it?”
He offered a hand and gave her an easy smile—a move that transformed his face into something more approachable and less intimidating. She put her hand in his, stiffening when he raised it to his lips and brushed a kiss over her gloved knuckles.
