He threw the box of lace to the side, ran around the table, grasped her wrist, and jerked her out of the way as the boxes collapsed where she had been a moment ago. The lids gave way, spilling out their contents of multicolored metal buttons, hatpins, and several pairs of wickedly sharp shears that plunged into the floor like thrown spears.
Kitty trembled in his arms. The top of her head came to his throat, and the bitter scent of fear rose from her skin and wafted into his nose. Her slight but sturdy frame fit perfectly against his leaner body, and her hands were clenched so tightly into the fabric of his suit that prying her away would have caused significant damage.
Not that he wanted her to separate from him. This was a chance to further his goal of completing the newest item on his list. Perhaps it was the shock, or the anger she had been displaying a moment ago, transformed into something else. Whatever it was, she seemed ready to burst into tears.
He had never been good at comforting others. He preferred to bury emotions deep, as life was too short to spend any of it in misery. But she seemed in need of comforting, so he wrapped his arms about her and pressed her face against his shoulder.
After several long moments, in which he became accustomed to the feeling of the dressmaker clinging to him, she pushed away with a sniffle, her eyes downcast.
“I-I apologize,” she said.
Her fingers remained clenched in his jacket, so he did not release her, but rather dropped his arms to loop around her hips.
“No apology is necessary,” he said. “You had quite a fright.”
“I should clean up the mess,” she whispered. She uncurled her fingers from his jacket, then dropped her arms to her side but did not exit his embrace.
“I would take this burden from you, if I could,” he said.
Her laugh was muffled by his shirt. “I’m not used to accepting help. Usually, I am the one doing the saving. I feel… lost.”
It was as if she were describing him. Nearly a third of his existence had been focused on a singular purpose: finding his fated mate. When he’d abandoned that goal, he’d also felt lost. Which made him uniquely situated to give her the advice he wished someone would have given him then.
“Stop worrying about what might happen,” he said. “It will only make it worse.”
She sniffed. “I don’t know how.”
He tugged her closer and kissed the top of her head. “Let me show you.”
Chapter Thirteen
Kitty almost changedher mind about the masquerade several times. First, when Baroness Ferron raised a fuss about an imperceptible tear in the lining of her evening gown and demanded Kitty fix it immediately. Second, when Cordon’s carriage rattled up in front of her shop and a footman opened the door for her, as if she were the lady her mother had always wanted her to become. Third, when she entered the carriage that had rattled up to her shop and beheld Cordon in all his glory, wearing the garment she’d finished that evening—a task that had only been possible because she’d used a costume that had been in her trunk for several years as a starting point.
“Well?” he asked, crossing legs clad in billowing trousers sewn with tufts of unspun wool in the seams, creating an illusion of fur. A matching chesterfield coat and a silver dog-eared mask completed the ensemble.
If she’d thought him handsome before, now he was resplendent.
Her own costume was terribly plain in comparison, a basic black wool gown with long sleeves, matching tufts, and a feline mask. He’d asked for a sheep, but she’d run out of time.
“I see you chose an alternative costume,” he said.
She lifted her chin. “My temperament is much closer to that of a cat.”
“No matter. I’ll still devour you.”
“Miss?” a soft voice asked.
The footman was waiting for her to enter. She stepped inside the carriage, carefully maneuvered her skirts into position, then tugged her mask. Already, her face was sweating. She was supposed to wear it forhours? She would be drenched by the end of the night.
The carriage lurched forward, and it was too late to turn back. She leaned back and tried not to think about how she’d consumed nothing but brandy all day.
Cordon leaned forward and grasped her hands. “You have nothing to fear.”
Her throat squeezed. “If anyone discovers who I am—”
“This night is not about status. It’s about excitement.” His lips curved beneath his mask. “If you are discovered, simply run away. That is the expected behavior.”
His words, probably intended to ease her nerves, had the opposite effect. She could already imagine how the other guests would laugh when they discovered her milling among them. It would be mortifying. Of course she would flee, if she could even run in her restrictive gown. It was equally likely she’d fall on her face.
