The Disdainful Marquis (6 page)

“You're here,” he said, leaning down and looking into the coach, and giving the downstairs maid a ferocious wink. She colored up and pursed her lips and looked expectantly at Catherine, so that Catherine had no choice but to dismount.

Opening the door to the modiste's establishment was like opening the door onto a new reality. Whereas the outside of the shop might have been discreet to the point of plainness, the interior reminded Catherine of what she had always imagined a harem to look like. There was a quantity of rich fabric tossed about a large carpeted room. Several couches and divans and chairs stood at odd angles everywhere. Bolts of scarlet velvet, royal blue gossamer, and shining emerald silks lay opened and half opened, spread out for display over all unoccupied surfaces.

There were a few women dressed in dazzling style peering at the bolts of fabric, and, to Catherine's surprise, there were also a few fashionably dressed men lounging or sitting and gazing at the women and each other through quizzing glasses. There was a low babble of talk as she entered, and, to her chagrin, the conversation seemed to come to an abrupt stop as she stepped into the shop. Both the women and the men, Catherine realized, were staring at her with undisguised curiosity.

She held her head high and motioned the maid to sit, and when a small black-eyed woman approached, wearing a quantity of measuring tapes about her neck, as if they were a priceless necklace, Catherine held out the duchess's note.

“I am Catherine Robins, the Duchess of Crewe's companion. She sent me here to purchase some gowns.”

There was stifled laughter from somewhere to Catherine's left, and the other occupants of the room began talking again, some, however, still staring at her fixedly.

“Right,” said the little woman smartly. “She says you're going to Paris. You're dressed for a convent now. Come along, I'll take things in hand.”

She led Catherine, who was trying to hold her head high and ignore the attention she had caused, to the back of her shop. There, in another room, were several tables, each with a row of girls stitching. She walked past them and took Catherine to one of a few curtained partitioned stalls. As Catherine stood undecided as to what she should do next, one of the curtains billowed and a ravishing-looking woman stepped forth. She was tall and statuesque. Her hair, great golden masses of it, had come loose with her dressing, and she swung her hips slowly as she stepped up on a little dais in front of a mirror in the center of the room. Her heavily lidded eyes lit up with satisfaction as she caught her reflection.

“Perfect,” she breathed.

Catherine stood transfixed. She had never seen a gown so low in the front that most of its occupant's person seemed to threaten to spill out at any moment. The fabric above the high waist seemed sufficient for a waistband, and the magnificent creature in the gown surely needed three times that much before she could go out in public. Still, she had to admit that the startling vibrant blue color and the extreme cut of the gown made the woman in it an unforgettably vivid picture.

“He'll be pleased,” the woman said and smiled at herself in the mirror. “But I want him to see me in the amber, so he'll come across for that one.” And, without further ado, the sensational-looking female reached behind her, unbuttoned a few buttons, and quickly slipped out a few pins. Then with a shrug, she stepped out of the gown, leaving her entire person, Catherine noted with shock, nude from the waistline up, and only wearing a gossamer-thin demi-train below.

Catherine gaped. She had seen her sister nude, of course, on rare occasions when they were growing up. And seen herself, when she was undressing. But this female was as unaware of her nudity in front of strangers, even though they were all female, as a child might be. Although, she thought quickly, as she watched the woman's eyes linger lovingly on her own reflection, she was not quite unaware of herself after all. And there was nothing childish in her expression of self-satisfaction. She swept past Catherine into her cubicle again. “Bring the amber one quickly,” she ordered. “He grows bored quickly.”

The middle-aged woman looked at Catherine impatiently. “Come along,” she said. “Let's have a look at you without that nun's habit on. Come along, strip it off and I'll be back to have a look-see. La Starr's in a taking, and I have to get her amber gown seen to if she's to get it from her gentleman today.”

Left alone, Catherine hurriedly removed her dress. She held her discarded gown in front of her chest as she waited, chilled, for the dressmaker to return. There was a small mirror in the little alcove, she noted, and she realized that the other female could just as easily have seen herself there in privacy, without swaggering out to display herself in front of strangers.

As she waited she could hear the voices of a few other women admiring their gowns or calling for changes in them. None spoke in the accents she thought acceptable for a lady. Bored, and feeling cold, she watched her reflection in the mirror. Her black hair had come loose from its pins again, and there was a high flush along her cheekbones. On an impulse, seeing her reflection clutching her gray gown in front of her, and hearing no one approaching, she lowered the gown from in front of herself. She gazed at the reflection guiltily. Hers, she thought aimlessly, were higher and a better shape than the other females'. And then, scandalized by her train of thought, she whipped the gown in front of her again and held it in a death grip.

“Let's have a look,” the dressmaker said, bustling into the alcove with her. “Take that gray rag away; I can't see through it.”

Catherine lowered the gown again, shrinking with embarrassment.

“Right,” the little woman said briskly. “You're a knockout all right. The dowager's grown some taste, leave it to her. I know just the things that'll do. Almost the lady, that's the ticket,” she muttered to herself, and left again.

“I can't,” Catherine cried out, fifteen minutes later, as the dressmaker told her to turn around. “I can't possibly appear like this in public. I am a companion, not an actress. This gown is lovely, but it is not seemly.” She had been resigned to the duchess providing her with a new wardrobe; after all, one's employer had the right to dictate in matters of an employee's garb. But this gown and the others that the dressmaker had shown her were out of the question. At the dressmaker's brisk insistence, she had allowed herself to be pinned into it, but she knew it was entirely unsuitable in the dressing room, and now, in front of the mirror, in front of the other girls at their sewing, she knew it was impossible.

It was of a rich and ruby red, and it was so low in front that even her spanned hand could not cover the naked expanse it showed. Looking down, she could clearly see her breasts as they appeared to her when she was in her bath. The reflection showed little less. The waist was high and its folds clung and draped about her lower person so that she seemed to have been mired in some rich red sea kelp that outlined all her lower body. Her hair, untidy from changing so often, had loosened and curled. The whole effect was that of a wanton.

“No,” she said desperately, “I know the duchess would never approve.”

The dressmaker snorted.

“In a pig's eye, my girl. Didn't I have the entire dressing of Violet? And then Rose? Never fear, the duchess will approve. Come,” she said, more kindly, “it's the very thing. It's all the rage. You're going to Paris, my lady, and anything else would make you a dowd. And the duchess can't abide dowds.”

Seeing the indecision on Catherine's face, the dressmaker began to chuckle, as if struck by a new idea.

“Come, let your maid see it. She'll tell you what all the fine ladies wear, and what the duchess likes. Come along, come with me.” And taking Catherine by one cold hand, she pulled her into the outer room.

Catherine allowed herself to be tugged forward by this intractable little woman and before she had time to think of the audience that lay outside the door, she found herself the center of their attention.

She stood, cheeks high in color, eyes wide and expectant, in her incredibly indecent gown, in the midst of all the strangers waiting in the front room. There was a sudden quiet as she entered. Conversation ceased as they caught sight of the lovely young woman before them. Catherine held her head high and wished to disappear into the ether as she heard the dressmaker, through the pounding in her ears, ask the little maid what she thought the duchess would say. But curiously, the dressmaker's eyes were not on the little maid, but rather watching the tall blond-haired female she called “La Starr” in the bright amber dress. The blond woman had been posing and turning and posturing in it, showing it off to a gentleman, before Catherine appeared. And the moment that Catherine appeared in the doorway, the gentleman's eyes left her and did not return to her. She stared angrily at Catherine.

Catherine looked over in their direction and saw the amused gray eyes staring at her insolently. It was incredible how she had not forgotten a detail of his face since that morning in the fog. He stood leaning against a mantel, his long athletic form impeccably clothed in gray again. His face resembled, Catherine thought, a picture she had seen of a red Indian, with his cool angular good looks, high cheekbones, and black hair. But his look held mockery and disdain and an infuriatingly belittling humor.

He glanced over at the dressmaker. “I applaud you, madame,” he drawled, “as I am certain the duchess will. You have turned a little country mouse into a dazzler. Congratulations.”

He walked slowly over to where Catherine stood poised for retreat, although perversely refusing to flee in the face of his impudence.

“I see you found the right place, little one.” He smiled with what was not at all a smile. His eyes lingered at her breasts, and while her hands itched to fly up and cover herself, she only stood stock still and tried to return his stare with all the dignity she could muster. “See if you can make my little Starr something on this order,” he said over his shoulder. “It is a most impressive display of…taste.” And then, with a careless shrug, he turned and went back to the blond female, who was darting glances of the purest dislike at Catherine.

“Who,” Catherine panted, stripping herself out of the hated dress with fever in the curtained alcove, “was that insolent man? That popinjay, that man who spoke to me?”

The dressmaker spoke through a mouthful of pins.

“Who?” Catherine insisted, buttoning herself all wrong in her haste to get back into her good, decent little gray dress again.

“He is the Marquis of Bessacarr,” the dressmaker said placidly. “A neighbor of the duchess's. I expect that's how he knows you. And you should be flattered that he did. He doesn't acknowledge everyone, you know.”

“He need not acknowledge me,” Catherine insisted, setting herself aright again. “He need not ever acknowledge me again.”

Catherine left, with her maid in tow, carrying the few parcels the dressmaker had readied for her. The rest, she promised would be delivered as soon as might be. She had turned a deaf ear to all of Catherine's protests, telling her she knew well enough what would be a suitable wardrobe for the duchess's companion.

Catherine swore to herself, on the way home in the carriage with the stony-faced maid, that she would sit up nights if need be, adding on fabric to those indecent bodices. Style or no, she was never again to be ogled in that fashion.

*

Madame Bertrand sipped her tea and chuckled at her work table. It had been worth it, even though it had cost her some trade, just to see the look on La Starr's face. Brazen little hussy, going to her competitor for her dressing when she was in funds, and coming back to her dear Madame Bertrand when she was sailing the River Tick. Madame Bertrand knew her clientele well—they were the cream of the demimonde. And she had discovered that La Starr was going to a society modiste when she was in clover. But now, when her protector, the marquis, was growing bored with her, she had entreated her old friend to let her pose in a few gowns to see if he would bite and purchase them for her. But he had paid for only the blue one, after all. And after seeing that black-haired new beauty, he might not buy her any others either. Well, Madame Bertrand thought, there were plenty more where La Starr came from, both for herself and for the marquis.

*

“Sinjun,” the blond woman cooed at her companion as they walked down the street, “did you not like that amber gown? I swear I thought it would suit you down to the ground. “

“It would hardly suit me, my dear. Amber is not my color,” he said in a low amused voice, “and it did not suit you so well either. But that is not strictly true. Truly, I grow weary of clothes shopping with you. I think in future you should go yourself. I will draft you a check, my dear, to better enable you to do so. Oh, don't look crushed. It will be a very substantial amount—just recompense for the delightful time we have spent together. But I think the exclusive nature of our acquaintance is over. After all, I plan to be traveling again soon, and it would not be fair to tie you to one companion now.”

“Travel to Paris, for example,” she said spitefully, “where the duchess might have a companion to compensate your idle hours?”

“Hardly,” he said, with real amusement. “Her companions are not so exclusive, you know. And it was the exclusivity of our relationship that I valued. As well as your own delightful self. One may admire a thing without wanting it,” he said slowly, “much as one may admire a public prospect, such as this pleasant well-worn thoroughfare, without wanting to spend all one's time on it. It is too public a place, after all. Private places bring more pleasure.”