Braced for battle and schooled by the man she was now meeting on taking the offensive, Reggie stepped into the room.
And the argument she’d prepared swiftly died.
Of everything she’d contemplated—being turned out, having Broderick renege on the terms of their arrangement—this certainly hadn’t been what she’d expected to find waiting for her in the brightly lit, yellow parlor.
Madame Colette, the most sought-after modiste on New Bond Street, conversed at the center of the room with Broderick. That plump woman blushed and preened before Broderick. Broderick, who, when he chose to wield his charm, could have talked Satan out of sinning. Neither of them gave any indication they’d observed Reggie’s arrival.
And should that come as any surprise? Broderick never saw you standing there.
Nonetheless, knowing that as she did, a miserable niggling of jealousy rooted around her belly.
She curled her fingers tight, hating herself for the pathetic creature she was.
With the ease with which he’d manipulated her into joining him in London, and with the threat he posed to her future, she shouldn’t feel anything for Broderick. Nothing but the sting of resentment and bitterness. Alas, the heart knew . . . nothing, it seemed.
The pair looked up.
All warmth immediately faded from the modiste, transforming the plump beauty into a dour-faced harpy. As her gaze locked on Reggie in the entranceway, she pursed her lips. It was not, however, the stranger’s antipathy that cut to the quick but rather the icy coldness Broderick reserved for her.
And coward that she was, Reggie was the first to look away. “You summoned,” she stated crisply. Of their own volition, her eyes wandered the room, taking in the bolts of fabric and handful of seamstresses at makeshift workstations.
“I did. Madame Colette has been”—he drew the woman’s hand to his lips and placed a lingering kiss on the inside of her wrist, earning a breathy giggle—“extraordinarily generous with her time, and she’s agreed to perform a fitting here.”
Only Broderick could manage to secure an appointment in his household with the most sought-after modiste in London.
The woman preened under his adulation. “You are too kind, Mr. Killoran.”
Reggie rolled her eyes. “Yes, most kind, is he not?” Neither seemed to hear her droll retort. Or if they did, they paid her no notice. God, she despised how every woman had ever fallen down at his feet, herself included. She hated that she’d allowed herself to be charmed by him years ago. Oh, her reasons had not been born of his subtle flirtations or long, seductive glances, but rather of the care and regard he’d shown his siblings . . . and Reggie. “If you’ll excuse me?” She sketched a curtsy. Broderick’s eyes narrowed on that deferential dip. “I’ll gather Miss Killoran.”
She made it two steps.
“Stop, Miss Spark.”
Broderick’s smooth baritone earned sighs from several of the young seamstresses.
Reggie gritted her teeth. She’d once appreciated that melodic flow of his speech, so controlled and yet with a hint of sin underlying each word. His was the kind of voice that made a lady toss aside logic in order to know what other promises were contained within that slightly husky tone.
Drawing on the years of long-buried-but-never-forgotten time as a governess, she forced herself back with measured movements that didn’t set so much as her hem aflutter. “Mr. Killoran?” she murmured, clasping her hands as demurely as an abbess before her. “Is there something else you require?”
Those thick golden lashes she’d spent years envying him for swept down as he leveled a piercing stare upon her. The sharp intensity of that look was softened by a single lock that slipped over his brow.
Reggie’s heart did a pathetic jump.
“Madame Colette is not here for Gertrude.”
It took a moment for his words to sink through the bothersome haze he’d cast. The modiste wasn’t here for Gertrude. Then who in blazes was—
“She is here for you.”
“For me,” Reggie repeated dumbly.
“You,” he said coolly.
And just like that, he’d upended her previous bravado. “Wh-what?” she squeaked.
“Your wardrobe, Miss Spark.” Broderick flicked a glance over her person, and she drew back under that cool scrutiny. “You’ll require a new wardrobe.”
On cue, the modiste clapped her hands together once. “Shall we begin?” Not bothering to wait for an answer, the plump woman swept over to an ivory sofa that had been overtaken by heinously bright fabrics and lifted several bolts to reveal one of gold-and-silver satin.
“No. No, we shall not.” Reggie held her palms up, warding off the modiste, preferring the fight she’d been prepared to face to . . . this.
Gasps exploded around the room.
Madame Colette’s jaw fell agape as she glanced over to Broderick.
Reggie lifted her chin. “I am grateful for your . . . generosity.” Generosity he’d thrown in her bloody face not even a day ago. She’d take not one more thing from this man.
Ever perceptive, he narrowed his eyes at that slight taunt.
“For my purpose here”—as a dutiful servant and prisoner—“my garments are just fine.” The last thing she wished for was to have her drab dresses stripped away and replaced with the finest satins and silks. Not when she’d spent the better part of her adult life using her coarse garments as a protective shield against the leering stares that had once been directed her way.
The young seamstresses looked around at one another.
Broderick’s gaze locked with Reggie’s, and she shivered at the frost there. He’d no intention of conceding this point. He was one who didn’t surrender in any battle. But then, she’d never gone to war with him, either. The clock ticked away, leaving with each passing moment another level of tension upon the room. “Leave us,” he said quietly.
So he’d seen that fight, or mayhap he’d simply seen the logic in not wasting a single shilling on a wardrobe for a mere companion. Either way, a thrill of triumph humming in her veins, Reggie dropped another—albeit hasty—curtsy and turned on her heel.
“Not you, Miss Spark.”
Bloody hell.
Of course it would never be that easy with this man.
The small army of seamstresses filed past her in a neat line like perfect ducklings, with Madame Colette close behind. Each young woman shot Reggie a disapproving glance as she went.
After the door had closed behind them, Broderick stalked toward her with sleek, panther-like strides. He was a predator toying with his prey, and every instinct screamed to flee. “Do not challenge me in front of anyone, Miss Spark. Not my servants. Not my family.” That hit with a daggerlike pain and precision in her chest. For the Killorans had been the family she’d lost. “Not my guards. And not those who I employ at any level.” Broderick finally stopped, several steps between them. “Am I clear?”
Do not let him intimidate you . . . he’s used that lethal whisper in front of you . . .
But never on her.
Refusing to be cowed, Reggie gave a toss of her head. “Come, never tell me you’re worried that a gaggle of young girls will not find you suitably impressive.” The sting of jealousy pulled that from her before she could call it back.
“Is that what you think this is about?” he murmured, drifting closer.
And despite her resolve, Reggie faltered. Broderick Killoran had torn down the empires of rivals. He’d shredded the reputations of men who’d slighted him. She’d be wise to not toy with him. In a bid to escape so she might regroup before battle, she stepped sideways.
He shot an arm out, laying a palm against the door, blocking that path. “Hmm?” he pressed.