And then Mara couldn’t speak, because the modiste’s dark gaze flickered to her, eyes going wide. “This one is beautiful.”
No one had ever described her as such. Well, perhaps someone once . . . a lifetime ago . . . but no one since that night she’d run.
Another thing that had changed.
The dressmaker was wrong. Mara was twenty-eight, with work-hewn hands and more lines around her eyes than she’d like to admit. She wasn’t painted or primped or pretty like the women she’d seen at The Fallen Angel that night, nor was she petite the way ladies in style were, or soft-spoken the way they should be.
And she certainly wasn’t gorgeous.
She opened her mouth, ready to refute the label, but Temple was already speaking, chasing the compliment away with his lack of acknowledgment. “She needs dressing.”
Mara shook her head. “I don’t need dressing.”
The Frenchwoman was already moving to light a series of candles surrounding a small platform at the center of the dressing room, as though Mara hadn’t spoken. “Remove your cloak, please.” The dressmaker cast a quick look in Temple’s direction. “An entire trousseau?”
“A half-dozen gowns. Another six day dresses.”
“I don’t—” Mara began before Madame Hebert cut her off.
“That won’t see her through two weeks.”
“She won’t need more than two weeks’ worth.”
Mara’s gaze narrowed. “She is still present, is she not? In this room?”
The dressmaker’s brows rose in surprise. “Oui, Miss—”
Temple spoke. “You don’t need to know her name yet.”
Yet. That single, small word that held so much meaning. Someday, the dressmaker would know her name and her history. But not tonight, and not tomorrow, as she draped and crafted the gowns that would be Mara’s ruin.
Hebert had finished lighting the candles, each new flame adding to the lovely golden pool into which Mara could only guess she was supposed to enter. Reaching into a deep pocket, the dressmaker extracted a measure and turned to Mara. “Miss. The coat. It must go.”
Mara did not move.
“Take it off,” Temple said, the words menacing in the darkness as he removed his own greatcoat and relaxed onto a nearby settee, placing one ankle on the opposite knee and draping the massive grey cloak across his lap. His face was cast in the room’s shadows.
Mara laughed, a short, humorless sound. “I suppose you think it is that simple? You command and women simply jump to do your bidding?”
“When it comes to the removal of ladies’ clothing, it often works that way, yes.” The words oozed from him, and Mara wanted to stomp her foot.
Instead, she took a deep breath and attempted to regain control. She extracted a little black book and a pencil from the deep pocket of her skirts and said, “How much does disrobing typically cost you?”
He looked as though he’d swallowed a great big insect. She would have laughed, if she weren’t so infuriated. Once he collected himself he said, “Fewer than ten pounds.”
She smiled. “Oh, was I unclear? That was the starting price of the evening.”
She opened the book, pretending to consider the blank page there. “I should think that dress fittings are another . . . five, shall we say?”
He barked his laughter. “You’re getting a selection of the most coveted gowns in London and I’m to pay you for it?”
“One cannot eat dresses, Your Grace,” she pointed out, using her very best governess voice.
It worked. “One pound.”
She smiled. “Four.”
“Two.”
“Three and ten.”
“Two and ten.”
“Two and sixteen.”
“You are a professional fleecer.”
She smiled and turned to her book, light with excitement. She’d expected no more than two. “Two and sixteen it is.” The coal bill was paid.
“Go on then,” he said. “Off with the coat.”
She returned the book to her pocket. “You are a prince among men, truly.” She removed her coat, marching it over to where he sat and draping it over the arm of the settee. “Shall I dispense with my dress as well?”
“Yes.” The answer came from the dressmaker, feet behind them, and Mara could have sworn she saw surprise flash through Temple’s gaze before it turned to humor.
She stuck one of her fingers out to hover around the tip of his nose. “Don’t you dare laugh.”
One black brow rose. “And if I did?”
“If I’m to measure you, miss, I need you wearing as little as possible. Perhaps if it were summer and the dress were cotton, but now . . .” She did not have to finish. It was late November and bitterly cold already. And Mara was wearing both a wool chemise and a wool dress.
She placed her hands on her hips, facing Temple. “Turn around.”
He shook his head. “No.”
“I did not give you permission to humiliate me.”
“Nevertheless, I purchased it,” he said, easing back onto the settee. “Relax. Hebert has impeccable taste. Let her drape you in silks and satins, and let me pay for it.”