Silk Is For Seduction - Loretta Chase [67]
Clara glanced at him, then returned to Noirot. “Well, then, I shall try it, and I shall say it is all because Clevedon is so infernally discriminating, worse even than Longmore—”
“Clara would it not be better if you—”
“But what am I to wear to Almack’s tomorrow night?” Clara said. “You’ve rejected everything.”
Almack’s, he thought. Another dreary evening among the same people. He would have to pluck Clara from her hordes of admirers and dance with her. Whatever she wore, he would know Noirot had touched it.
He said, “Since no one was being murdered, and I seem to be de trop—”
“Not at all, your grace,” Noirot said. “You’ve arrived in the nick of time. Her ladyship has been remarkably patient and open-minded, considering that I’ve upset her universe.”
“You have, rather,” Clara said.
“But here is his grace, come to take you for a drive. Fresh air, the very thing you need after this trying morning and afternoon.”
“But Almack’s—”
“I shall send you a dress tomorrow,” Noirot said. “I or one of my sisters will personally deliver it to you, at not later than seven o’clock, at which time we shall make any final adjustments you require. The dress will be perfect.”
“But my mother—”
“You will have already dealt with her, as I suggested,” Noirot said.
Clara looked at Clevedon. “She is the most dictatorial creature,” she said.
“His grace has been so kind as to mention this character flaw before,” Noirot said with nary a glance at Clevedon. “I serve women of fashion all day long, six days a week. One must either dominate or be dominated.”
Ah, there it was: the disarming frankness, leavened with a touch of humor.
Gad, she was beyond anything!
“I have had enough of being dominated for the present,” Clara said. “Clevedon, pray be patient another few minutes, and I shall be glad to take the air with you. I promise to be back in a trice. Mrs. Noirot has left me a few paltry items she finds not completely abhorrent. My maid shall not have any momentous decisions to make regarding bonnets or anything else.”
She started toward the door, and hesitated. Then, with the look of one who’d made up her mind, she went out.
She had exactly what she wanted, Marcelline told herself. More than she’d hoped for. She hadn’t even had to wait for the betrothal. She had Lady Clara already, and a large order. Tomorrow night, the crème de la crème of Society would see Lady Clara Fairfax wearing a Noirot creation.
Maison Noirot would soon be the foremost dressmaking establishment in London.
Marcelline had accomplished everything—and more—than she’d planned when she set out for Paris, mere weeks ago.
She could not be happier.
She told herself this while she set about sorting the various rejected items of Lady Clara’s wardrobe.
“Are you going to burn them?” came Clevedon’s voice from the corner to which he’d withdrawn.
“Certainly not,” she said.
“But they have no redeeming qualities,” he said. “I should never have noticed the poor choices in color before you poisoned my mind, but even I can discern inferior cut and stitchery.”
“They can be taken apart and remade,” Marcelline said. “I am a patroness of a charitable establishment for women. Her ladyship was so generous as to allow me to take half the discards for my girls.”
“Your girls,” he said. “You—you’re a philanthropist?” He laughed.
She longed to throw something at him.
A chair. Herself.
But that was her shallow Noirot heart speaking. He was beautiful. Watching him move made her mouth go dry. It wasn’t fair that she couldn’t have him without complications. In bed—or on a carriage seat or against a wall—it wouldn’t matter that he was idle and arrogant and oblivious. If only she could simply use him and discard him, the way men used and discarded women.
But she couldn’t. And she’d used him already, though not in that way. She’d used him in a more important way. She’d got what she’d wanted.
A maid entered,