Chapter Eleven
Kitty finished the last of the opal beads on Mrs. Eris’s bodice and set the dress onto a shelf with a satisfied sigh. Between what she’d earned from Cordon and the garments she’d completed that morning, she was well on her way to earning enough to pay Mr. Blaylock.
More shocking, however, was the complete lack of change in her business. There had been no one waiting at her door that morning to ask about her relationship with Viscount Grayson, no newspapers writing about their time at the opera. Somehow, Cordon had kept his promise with a mere false name.
She packed Mrs. Eris’s dress into a box and closed the lid.
For the first time in weeks, she thought not about the next project she was going to work on—fabric choices, silhouette, embroidery, embellishments—but about Cordon.
What manner of scandalous activity would he want to engage in next?
Perhaps he’d ask to sneak into a gaming hell or steal a priceless artifact from a museum.
At the thought of Cordon shoving a bulky diamond necklace into his trousers, then swearing as he flattened it to avoid detection, she burst into giggles. It was so ludicrous that it was likely exactly what he had in mind.
The man was a terrible distraction. She should have been preparing to open her shop, but she kept imagining how his lips would feel against the sensitive areas of her body and playing out scandalous scenarios in her mind.
If he’d only allowed her, she would have undone the buttons of his jacket and shirt, then spread her hands across the strong planes of his chest. He would have kissed her so thoroughly as to make her lightheaded again, then turned her around, flipped her skirts, released his cock from the fall of his trousers, and buried himself to the hilt.
She hefted the box of lace in her arms and walked out of the back room, prepared to call out Alyssa’s name and tell her the orders were ready for delivery.
Instead, she came face-to-face with the man who had plagued her thoughts, dressed in a suit that was so similar to what she’d imagined moments earlier that her jaw dropped open.
“Good evening,” he said.
“Lord Grayson,” she said, returning to formality in case Alyssa overheard. “Is there something I can help you with?”
He smiled. “I realized I was hasty the last time I was here. If you are to be my tailoress, you will require my measurements.”
Her cheeks burned. Measuring him would require her to run her hands all over his body. As much as she would have enjoyed that task immensely, she had what remained of her reputation to protect. “That would be highly inappropriate.”
She could engage in scandalous activities at night, but to do so when her shop was still open was unthinkable.
He sighed. “I suppose you are right. I will arrange for my previous tailor to send what you will require. Perhaps you might show me fabric, then? For the masquerade costume.”
“The swatches?” Alyssa asked, appearing behind Kitty so suddenly, she had to swallow a yelp.
Cordon held up a hand. “Swatches are so…bland.” He twisted his lips. “No, I prefer to see the fabric in a more natural state.” He slid his hands down his chest. “Draped over my body.”
If Kitty’s face got any warmer, it would melt off.
“I…” She licked her dry lips. “Yes, of course, my lord. Alyssa, there are several pairs of unfinished trousers in the bottom of the trunk at the foot of my bed upstairs. Bring me…”
They were practice pieces she’d created during her apprenticeship, but she suspected Cordon would not care what she presented him with.
His goals were clearly of a more rakish nature.
Unfortunately, it was not yet late enough that Alyssa would have returned to the room she rented in a boardinghouse nearby, or she might have indulged his whims. She was curious to see if he was as impressive as she suspected after feeling him throbbing beneath her at the opera.
“Miss?” Alyssa asked.
Kitty cleared her throat. “Ah, yes. Fetch the brown twill and…” Cordon was very pale, so bright colors would not work. “The black wool.”
Alyssa scurried off. Kitty led Cordon to a dressing room, then busied herself picking up strips of fabric from the ground, folding measuring tapes, and retying the apron about her waist. Anything to avoid looking at Cordon and revealing how nervous she felt around him.
“Do you have a preference for theme for your costume, Lord Grayson?” she asked, adjusting a mirror. Whenever she tilted it in his direction, he shifted out of the way, as if he didn’t want to see his own reflection. Strange behavior for a man so vain.
“I thought I might be a wolf, and you could be a lamb. You would look lovely in a soft pink,” he said. “Perhaps the color of your lips.” He lowered his voice. “Or your nether lips.”
The blackguard was intent on seducing her in the middle of her shop. She abandoned trying to capture him in her mirrors and spun around. “That’s enough, Lord Grayson. You will behave.”
He winked. “You would deny an old man his fun?”
“Old man.” She snorted. “You cannot be more than three-and-forty.”
His eyes crinkled. “As you say.”
What an odd response. Before she could consider it further, Alyssa returned, holding several pairs of trousers. She placed them on a stool before quickly vanishing. It took a moment for Kitty to realize why.
Cordon placed his hands on his hips. “I believe your assistant is shy.”
Kitty shuffled backward. “It is entirely inappropriate for either of us to help you change, my lord.”
He chuckled. “You might want to turn around, then.”
In the time it took her to realize what he meant and avert her eyes, he had slid his trousers to his knees, and she was given a lovely view of his backside.
“Cordon!” she whisper-shouted. “You are not wearing drawers!”
“I find them restrictive.” There was a shuffling sound. “I am now decent.”
She reluctantly turned and forced herself to look only at the trousers he’d donned.
They fit reasonably well at the waist but were too large at the thighs and pooled around his feet.
Before she finished that thought, she crouched before him, gathering the fabric and pinning it into a better position.
He might only have visited to flirt, but she fully intended to make him a costume that would impress his wealthy colleagues.
“I had hoped to have you to myself,” he said. “Alas, your assistant is listening to everything we’re saying.”
She tugged the fabric around his thighs. Frowned. Tugged again.
“Problem?” he asked.
“Quiet,” she said. There was something wrong with the bias. Had she sewn the fabric inside out? She shuffled on her knees until she was standing in front of him, then uttered a squeak.
She was eye height to his crotch and the prominent tent in his trousers.