Chapter 8 #3
Despite their surroundings and the danger of discovery, his desire surged when Catherine said the word lover.
That word in her mouth. Her breath brushing his ear.
He flashed on the two of them in a bed, her curls tossed over the pillows, his mouth on her shoulder, her small hands pulling him into her.
Her beautiful breasts again exposed to him and his eyes, his hands, his tongue.
He felt his groin drawing towards her, aching and wanting.
His cock, which had stirred to life at first sight of the goddess, throbbed and stiffened.
He should lift her petticoat and scoop her off her feet and impale her on his shaft, thrusting deep inside her, her bare feet dangling.
Take her upright, here, his hands groping her buttocks as she moaned, a goddess no longer, but weak flesh.
Taking her like a frenzied lover would, with thoughtless haste and abandon.
She turned the knob on the door and shoved him out into the alley.
Heart racing, breath short, face flushed. She needed to calm herself.
Catherine crossed back to the center of the room and put on her slippers. She had just begun looking for the steps to place next to the platform when she noticed how quiet the modiste’s shop had become.
“Finalement!” Madame Beauchamp proclaimed as she swept into the room, holding the stays and chemise she had promised Catherine twenty minutes ago. She said the word as if it had been Catherine who had kept her waiting, rather than the reverse.
The modiste stopped mid-stride when she saw Catherine standing by the platform. She raised her fierce eyebrows and the corners of her mouth curved down.
Catherine stood up straighter.
Yes, I moved off the platform, but I won’t be shouted at by a French dressmaker.
Nor by anyone. I’m tired of being accommodating.
I’m tired of being restful and managing everyone else’s temper.
Once upon a time, I was the one with a temper.
Once upon a time, I was the one who raged.
I may no longer have the youth to seduce a Marquess of Daventry, but I am no cringing crone.
However, she was mistaken about Madame Beauchamp’s attitude. The modiste crossed to Catherine, tossing the stays and chemise to the table.
“Tournez-vous, madame, s’il vous pla?t.”
The s’il vous pla?t startled Catherine so much that she turned. The modiste clucked her tongue, ran her hand over the blue silk wrapping Catherine’s breasts, said “là, là,” and kicked the portable steps over to the platform and assisted Catherine in ascending to the platform.
Madame Beauchamp drew a pencil out from her chignon and seized a thin board and a piece of foolscap. She began to sketch rapidly, muttering to herself as she did so, “Quasiment—how do you say—Queen Anne, but straight across.” She seemed almost delighted. “Oui, parfait, a halfway turn, oui.”
“Has your other customer left?” Catherine asked.
“My other customer?” Madame Beauchamp looked up from her drawing. “Oh, non, non, there was no other customer. I only opened the shop for you today. Did you hear something, Madame?” Madame Beauchamp’s eyes narrowed.
“Just voices.” Catherine shrugged. “Someone was upset. I couldn’t really hear anything.”
Madame Beauchamp resumed sketching. “Oh, yes, the man who imports my silks came. I was angry parce que la facture—the invoice—was wrong. Je suis vraiment désolée for any delay, Madame Lovelock.”
“Oh, I see.” Madame Beauchamp had something to hide, that much was clear. Catherine had never heard the woman apologize. Ever. “What a bother. Men always think they can take advantage, don’t they?”
Madame Beauchamp smirked a little in answer.
Then Catherine remembered the very insistent bell that hung on the shop door, the one she had heard ringing over and over again when she had been here last month. She hadn’t heard it since she had entered.
It had been silent today.
Anyone who might have come into the shop would have come in from the back. Not like a customer would.
There had been no young mistress as she had imagined, no ballet dancer flouncing into the shop to have James select and pay for her next dress.
She smiled.
Once Madame Beauchamp had her fill of sketching Catherine’s improvised bodice, she helped her into the new gown.
And then Catherine found herself smiling again.
The new dress was stunning. Daring in its cut.
In its color, it matched her eyes extraordinarily well.
It would be ready in a week, Madame Beauchamp promised.
Catherine knew that meant two weeks, but nothing could put a damper on her buoyant spirits.
In this dress, anything was possible.
Only once she was back in her own lavender day dress, did Catherine have the terrible thought: no mistress in the shop today did not mean James had no mistress.
And the smell of his breath when his face had been so close to hers? It had been sweet. Clean. No trace of alcohol. And indeed he had not seemed drunk. He had been steady and assured, except when she had shown him her breasts.
She had never heard of James Cavendish, Marquess of Daventry, not being drunk.
And what other reason could there be for reform than the love of a woman?
Bloody hell.