Page 23 of One Night with a Rake

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The trouble with women’s fashions, Nate decided, was that there were too many choices. A man’s suit of clothing was simplicity itself. And Nathaniel didn’t have to spend half a day in his tailor’s shop to order one. Instead of requiring him to visit a shop, the artisan came to him, bearing swatches of wool and superfine along with embellishment samples. It was a small matter of choosing the right fabric and a few elegantly understated buttons, and the ensemble was half-done.

For Georgette, there were myriad decisions to make. Long sleeves or short. Flounces or ruffles. How low to make the neckline in order to best display her décolletage. Which ribbons to lace at her empire waist. Should the hem trail a bit in the back or merely dust the ground?

“But we are getting ahead of ourselves,” the harried modiste said, her affectation of a French accent slipping in her frenzy. Nate was willing to lay odds she came from North Hampton, not Normandy. “First, the fabric. I wish we had time to order something special, considering that I have less than a fortnight to create a ball gown that will dazzle the royal duke. But c’est la vie! We shall have to be content with what I have in the shop.”

“Surely there’s a length of silk here that will suit,” Nathaniel said, eyeing the stacks of muslins and bombazines wearily. The modiste’s shop boasted enough bolts of cloth to sink a frigate.

“Mother said I needed to choose a red.” Georgette fingered a vermillion bolt that was shot with gold threads. “What about this one?”

“An excellent choice,” Mme. Reynard said, scooting around the shop collecting pins, shears, and looping her dressmakers’ measuring tape around her neck.

“It belongs in a harem,” Nate pronounced solemnly.

The modiste glared at him.

“I meant no insult. Merely an observation. I have nothing against harems, I assure you. Capital idea. It has the distinction of being both civilized and generous all around.” Georgette stuck out her tongue at him from behind Mme. Reynard. He gave both women a wry bow. “But I rather think Lady Georgette would not wish to be mistaken for an odalisque.”

Georgette stared down at the silk. She was still running it through her fingers as if she were contemplating what it might be like to perform the Dance of the Seven Veils.

The thought of Georgette decked out in filmy fabric, wearing bangles, and clinking finger cymbals made Nathaniel feel pleasantly male.

Then she took up a bit of muslin whose red shade leaned toward orange. “How about this?”

The modiste cast a hopeful smile. “A vibrant choice, my lady.”

“If you wish to impersonate a pumpkin,” Nate said under his breath.

It must have been loud enough for both women to hear him because Georgette released the offending cloth as if it were on fire. The modiste glowered at him as if she’d like to consign him to the flames.

Georgette wandered along the stacks, touching a few more bolts of scarlet, carnelian, and maroon. Exasperation rolled off her in irritated waves. “Which do you think I should choose, then?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think since I’m not the man you’re trying to impress,” Nate said. “But forget about red for a moment. What color do you like?”

Georgette cocked her head to one side. Nate would have bet good money she didn’t realize how appealing it made her look. Then she took a slow turn around the room. She finally came to a stop before a bolt of pale pink silk moiré, the color so faint it was a mere suggestion. When Georgette unrolled a yard or two of the fabric, the subtle pattern made it shimmer like a living being.

Nathaniel could imagine her in the finished gown. Light colors were difficult to keep clean and therefore were very dear. It subtly trumpeted her family’s wealth—an important consideration when trying to catch the eye of a heavily indebted royal duke.

But even more importantly, the soft hue suited her delicate coloring. Her alabaster skin glowed next to the glistening silk. In the right light, the blush-colored fabric would be all but transparent, showing the shadow of her legs in an unwitting maidenly display. She’d be impossible to resist.

It was perfect.

“But, my lady, your mother wished for you to wear red,” the modiste reminded her. The woman was obviously aware of who ultimately paid her bill.

Georgette lifted a corner of the pink fabric, draped it over one shoulder, and turned to face him. “What do you think, Lord Nathaniel?”

For a blink, he visualized her in nothing but that shimmering mantle, draped like Diana the Huntress, bow arm and one breast bared. He couldn’t decide if her nipple would be cherry blossom pink or ripe plum. Either way, the vision had him crowding his trousers.

He was certain the Duke of Cambridge had seen a miniature of her. Even courtships of such expediency as this one wouldn’t proceed without a passing knowledge of the lady’s appearance. But His Highness would no doubt discount her appeal in a small portrait, allowing for artistic flattery in the hope of future commissions. As soon as Cambridge got a look at Georgette in that pale pink, he’d be hot for the match to proceed at breakneck pace.

She was the goddess personified.

Then his goddess blushed as Diana never did. Desire must have shown too plainly on his features. Nathaniel feigned a sudden interest in an eggplant-colored bolt of tweed.

For an unworthy moment, he was tempted to side with the modiste and push for one of the more ghastly reds. The color might be eye-catching, but it would also wash Georgette’s delicate beauty out and make her seem pale and sickly. She wouldn’t do for the duke at all in that case, since his primary interest was in seeing an heir as soon as possible.

In the “Hymen Race Terrific,” only the healthy and fertile need apply.