Blood for Ink (The Scarlet Plumiere Series #1) (16 page)

Michelle emerged in a new creation of light pink with a dark pink skirt. Even with the black embroidered flowers, it looked far more appropriate for a sixteen year old, so Livvy shook her head. Then she looked to Lord Ashmoore, who shook his as well. They shared a smile.

She did not look to see Lord Northwick’s reaction, and after the same happened with the next of Madame Bouchard’s creations, the seamstress stopped watching for his reaction as well.

Fashion plates were considered while Michelle changed since the other models had been sent along with the rest of the seamstresses for home appointments. Except for Mrs. Fortescue, the milliner, who brought a collection of hats from Lock and Company next door, their appointment remained quite private.

No one seemed to consider Lord Northwick might like a look at a plate until he stuck his hand out like a beggar.

The dress he took over-long considering was a frumpy frock with ribbons trailing from a billowy waist. By the time he passed it back to Livvy, she merely placed in the pile of undesirables without asking his opinion. He did not ask to see another plate.

From the corner of her eye, she could see the man’s hackles rise when Lord Ashmoore reached over to feel a sheer organza Madame Bouchard had draped across her shoulder.

“Does not ziss white look exquisite next to your hair, Livvy?” Madame sighed.

“I agree,” said Lord Ashmoore. "Though the garments made from such things should not be ordered with men about, I dare say.”

Northwick jumped to his feet. "Perhaps we should step outside.”

“
Absolument non
!” Roxelle stomped her French slipper. "It will only do harm for Lord Northwick to be seen hanging about my door. And Cherie and I can discuss her delicate lingerie while she is in a dressing room having her measurements taken.”

“You are perfectly correct, Madame.” Lord Northwick inclined his head. "I will sit here and try to do no harm.”

Roxelle nodded, as if giving him her royal permission to remain.

“When I do find my lady writer,” he continued, "we will wish to be married quickly. How long would it take to create something original for a wedding gown?”

Livvy giggled. "I thought you said you have not yet located The Scarlet Plumiere. You are confident she will have you? And so quickly?”

“I am confident, yes. I am quite sure we are compatible. She is a clever girl.”

“And you are a clever boy?”

“Most days. Today just does not seem to be one of those days.” He tugged at his sleeves.

She laughed again. "And what color do you suppose is her hair? Will puce look lovely with her skin?”

Ashmoore opened his mouth to speak, but Northwick stopped him with a quick shake of his head.

“What have I missed?” She looked to Ashmoore. "I demand to know.”

“Well, Lord Northwick is hoping she is blond...and less than fairly—”

“Ash!” Northwick scowled at his friend, then turned to her. “I did not wish her to be blond. Ashmoore and I agreed that to hope for a blond woman would be the safest—”

“Safest? How so? If she had dark hair like mine, she would put you in some sort of danger?” She felt her spine might snap, but relaxing was not something she could accomplish at the moment.

“No, no. That’s not what we meant at all.” Northwick stood and began to pace. She was glad to have made him at least a little nervous.

She turned to Ashmoore. "We?”

The dark earl held up his hands. "North had created an image of the woman. We thought that if he,
we
, imagined her the opposite of this image, he, er,
we
would be less likely to be disappointed.”

“Truly? You had hoped...The Plumiere would be a brunette?”

“A beautiful brunette,” Ashmoore added.

“Of course.”

What man would not require his wife to be beautiful? For a heartbeat, she wished her face were a bit lopsided, a bit swollen. She wrinkled her nose at Northwick and he immediately blushed.

“I assure you, her appearance has no bearing.” Northwick looked off, seeing something that was not there. "I am sure, somehow, I will recognize her.”

“How can you say so, since it is likely the two of you have already met?” Such a statement was dangerous, but she could not resist pointing out the error in his logic.

“Perhaps.” He had lowered his voice, sounded almost reverent. Good heavens but the man was in love!

Perhaps it was her duty to prepare him for disappointment.

“And perhaps, if she is such a clever woman, you will never find her,” she said gently.

“Perhaps.” He began a close examination of the blue lace circling the crown of a particularly horrid hat from the brim of which dangled a bird that appeared frozen in death rather than frozen in flight.

“Can your honor not handle such a blow?”

His eyes raised to meet her own. "Can my heart?”

The room went silent. No fabric rustled in the back rooms. No fashion plates tilted and slid from their piles. For once, Ashmoore was in no hurry to torment his friend.

Madame Bouchard came forward and took Livvy’s hands from her lap.

“Come, Livvy. Let us see if your measurements have changed much in a year.”

Northwick raised his hand to get their attention. "I beg your pardon, ladies, but I think perhaps it would be better for me to go now, so when Miss Reynolds departs she is seen with only Ashmoore.” He turned to his friend. "Take care of her.”

“I will.”

The dark earl suddenly seemed her personal knight, pledging his life to see to her safety. But as Northwick bowed and walked to the door, she realized the knight she very much wanted, the knight she could never have, was the one leaving.

The door closed slowly. She felt like that road of possibilities, the one from her dream, had just closed for her as well. But it was a blessing. At least now she could stop tempting herself.

Was it the after taste of her breakfast or the memory of a certain caper that left her tongue bitter as she preceded Roxelle through the curtains?

The heavy velvet drape creating the fourth wall of the dressing room muffled the sound of the street and whatever little noises Ashmoore might make. Even the air seemed soft around her as she undressed. In the distance, perhaps at the millinery, a door squeaked slowly open.

Roxelle held a pencil between her teeth but managed to say, "Zat is only Michelle, leaving.”

Finally, the woman measured six places on each arm and wrote the numbers in a small notebook. "You are a little smaller this year. I hope you are eating enough, Cherie.”

Livvy laughed. "I am. And far too many capers.”

Roxelle raised her brows in question.

“Pay me no mind. It was a private jest.”

“Shall I call for your maid?”

“I can manage with this dress, I think.”

“Then I will go upstairs and record your measurements in my secret notebook, then I will burn this page. Some people might commit murder for a peek at another woman’s numbers.” The woman backed through the curtains and was gone.

The velvet fell into place and she reached for her dress. It would be nice to have some warmer gowns this year, no matter that she would have few places to wear them. The winter was mild, yes, but there was a chill in her bones that might have nothing to do with the weather. And there was a draft in the room, she realized, as she pulled her dress over her head. Before she made her way through the bodice, the light next to the mirror went out. The thick velvet prevented the light from the hallway from penetrating the darkness except for a jagged line above the curtain rail.

She was not too worried. She had no problem buttoning her front in the dark. Then she reached out to push the velvet aside and a hand gripped her own while another covered her mouth! A man stood behind her, pulling her back against him!

“Do not scream, Miss Reynolds. It is only I,” a deep voice whispered in her ear, pouring dark chills down her neck, continuing through her, all the way to the floor. "You know my voice by now, surely.”

She nodded her head carefully, and he took his hand away.

“How dare you,” she hissed, no more anxious to have his presence discovered than he would be. “What if I had screamed?” She tried to turn but he held her shoulders still, held her against him.

“I think you are of sterner stuff, Livvy, even if you pretend not to be.”

She dared not respond to that. She had done a poor job at acting the part of the simpering miss who had needed The Scarlet Plumiere to save her. The man should have suspected her by now. He was just so blinded by that image in his head—so blinded he did not realize that image might resemble her!

“I have never given you permission to call me by my Christian name, Lord Northwick.”

“North. Please.”

“I am sorry, my lord. I could not possibly.”

“If I kissed you, you would have to call me North.”

“You will do no such thing,” she hissed, even though she prayed he would do just that. She should not encourage him. She should not lean her head back against his collar bone, but she did. What in the world had come over her?

It was the darkness. It had to be. If there was even a hint of light, she would not dare act as she was. But perhaps that was a trick men used.

She tried to straighten but was immobilized by chills as first his hair brushed against her ear, then his breath skimmed over her neck. Warm lips against her shoulder turned her knees to liquid and they melted beneath her.

He caught her, lifted her, held her up while he continued. She sighed as she had never done before. He laughed quietly against her skin, then straightened.

“Forgive me, Livvy. That was quite unfair of me.”

“Hmm?” She could think of not a word to say, or a muscle that might help her say it. With chills down the front of her and Northwick’s warm form behind her, she felt quite content to remain that way until she woke in the morning. For the mist covering her brain had to be a dream. Only in her dream would Northwick choose her over his precious Plumiere.

“Livvy?”

“Shhh.”

“Livvy,” he growled in her ear.

Chills began their waterfall all over again.

“Livvy, listen to me. Are you listening?”

“Mm. Yes.” She began rocking slightly, pleasantly. Side to side. Side to side.

“When Ashmoore kisses you, I wanted you to have something to compare it with. I want you to remember me, standing here, holding you this way. I want you to remember how you are trembling.”

“You made me cold. Clearly not my fault.”

“No, Livvy. It is all my fault. I did this to you. I will be the only one to make you cold and make you hot. Only me. I cannot stand by and smile, Livvy darling. You are meant for no one but me. Remember that, when Ashmoore takes your hand—”

She shook off the mist, pulled her shoulder out from beneath that waterfall of chills, and turned toward the darkness.

“Just a moment, Lord Northwick. Just what are you demanding from a woman you do not plan to marry? Were you not speaking of your lady love less than an hour ago? Arranging for her wedding gown? Just what do you think I will mean to you after you have walked her down the aisle? So pray, do not tell me in whose arms I am meant to be!”

His arms pulled her forward. His lips searched and found her own, pressed his argument into their flesh, demanded that she return the kiss. But she knew not how. She could only mimic his movements to keep from looking a complete fool.

She wanted him to remember this kiss as well, for it was the only one he would ever have from her.

He growled into her mouth and she knew she had succeeded. He would remember. God knew she would remember. And remember. And wish she had never kissed him back. She would wish she would have screamed—wish she had not driven him to desperate actions with her teasing.

“
Cherie
!” Roxelle’s voice carried from down the hall.

“Tell her you will be right there,” he whispered against her lips.

She turned her head and obeyed.

“Miss Reynolds!” Ashmoore’s voice boomed. “Are you quite all right?”

“I am fine, my lord. I will be with your directly.” She called to the ceiling, hoping her voice would carry over the curtain rod. Then she whispered, “Good-bye, Lord Northwick. And happy hunting to you.”

He found her hand, pulled her back again. His other hand pulled her face around. Their noses touched. “Have I ever given you a reason not to trust me, Livvy?”

“Not until now.”

How she got disentangled from both him and the curtains, she would never know. But a heartbeat later, she was walking into the light and toward the dark form of the Earl of Ashmoore. There were no white teeth, no smiling eyes to greet her, and as she neared, she realized the man held a long knife in his right hand. He must have had it hidden on his person.

Suddenly she realized why Northwick had said Ashmoore was the best man for the job.

They had whispered. Surely the man had not heard Northwick’s voice! Was it possible the man was angry enough to hurt his friend?