Page 83 of One Night with a Rake

“Have no fear, my lady,” Mme. Reynard said, flying to the trunk in which she’d packed the pink gown. She tore through its contents. “I have also a red gown for Lady Georgette as well. No need to thank me. I value your custom much, you see, so if the pink will not suit, we shall use this one.”

She pulled out a vibrant red gown, festooned with flounces and sleeves so puffy, Georgette suspected they’d touch her earlobes.

“Oh, it’s wonderful,” Lady Yorkingham enthused as she crossed to run the silk through her fingers. “The color is so eye-catching, and the style! This ruching reminds me of a gown I used to wear. It’s exactly what I envisioned.”

Obviously, Mme. Reynard knew who paid her bill.

“I know your mind, my lady,” the modiste said with a grateful curtsy. “I’m happy to have pleased you.”

Georgette screwed her courage to the sticking point. She had no choice but to attend the ball. She didn’t have to appear in that garish red monstrosity. “No, Mother, I won’t wear that gown.”

“What?” Her mother rounded on her like a man-o’-war with all guns loaded for a broadside. “I cannot believe my ears. How can you prefer this”—she waved a bejeweled hand toward Georgette—“this simple thing. Honestly, do you think it fitting for the daughter of a marquis?”

“Is someone taking my name in vain?” her father called from the other side of the closed chamber door.

“Come in, Papa,” Georgette said, grateful for the interruption. “We’d appreciate a masculine opinion.”

The marquis opened the door a bit and peered around it, evidently skittish about invading Georgette’s room when such a delicate operation as a gown fitting was in progress. A smile lit up his face as he swept his gaze over her.

“That’s lovely, my dear,” he said with approval.

“But it’s so plain,” her mother complained.

“The better to complement her beauty,” her father countered. “Georgette doesn’t need anything more.”

Lady Yorkingham took the red gown from the modiste’s hands and held it up before herself. “But I want Georgette to wear this one.”

“Very nice,” her father said diplomatically. Then he cocked his head. “Seems to me I remember another young lady in that very shade of red. Someone who could carry off that bright hue because her own coloring was—and still is—so very striking.”

Georgette’s mother blushed to the tips of her ears. “You remember.”

“Of course I do. I’ll never forget it. You were beautiful in your wedding gown, but when you donned that red traveling ensemble, all I could think was what a very lucky fellow I was.” He checked the time on his filigreed watch and then returned it to his pocket. “I also remembered that you love the opera, my dear. We have a box reserved for tonight, so if you don’t wish to miss the overture, I suggest you leave Georgette to her fitting and prepare yourself for an evening with me.”

Lady Yorkingham’s mouth gaped in surprise for the space of several heartbeats.

“Of course, my lord,” she said, collecting herself swiftly. “Georgette, I’ll trust you to work with Mme. Reynard on the red gown as well.”

“Yes, Mother.” Slightly bewildered, she cast her father a look of pure gratitude as he escorted her mother out.

What on earth had possessed the marquis? Her father never surprised her mother like that. And she knew full well he loathed the opera. Why was the marquis suddenly behaving like an anxious-to-please suitor instead of a man who’d been married for nearly thirty years?

Georgette disappeared behind the dressing screen and let Mercy help her out of the delectable pink confection. In the interests of peace, she’d let the modiste fit her for the red gown as well.

But if her mother insisted she wear it for the ball, Georgette fully intended to spill a cup of chocolate on it while the string quartet was tuning up.

Thirty-one

It was well after midnight before Lord and Lady Yorkingham returned home. The performance of Don Giovanni was acclaimed a triumph and the applause at the last curtain call had lasted a full quarter of an hour.

Nathaniel knew this because he overheard Lord Yorkingham grumbling about the way his hands went numb over all that clapping as he escorted his wife to their door. Lady Yorkingham nagged him for lack of appreciation of the arts. The marquis finally pulled her close and kissed her soundly to hush her scolding. After that, they hurried in, giggling like a pair of newlyweds.

Nate snorted and settled back in between the bare bushes in the Yorkingham’s small front garden. Anyone trying to enter the town house from the rear would encounter the footmen and bootblack boy who made out their pallets in the kitchen. Nathaniel had made a nest for himself with his garrick so he could keep an eye on things in the front. Since the lord and lady of the house hadn’t noticed him there in the darkness, he felt certain his hiding place was secure.

No one with evil intent would spy him there either.

He’d been expected to return to Yorkingham House hours ago, but he couldn’t muster the courage to cross the threshold. If he slept under the same roof as Georgette, he didn’t trust himself not to slip into her chamber and shag her silly.

If he was willing to cheerfully murder Mr. Alcock in a duel for trying to ruin her with his agent’s smarmy report of their afternoon tryst, the least Nate could do was keep from being caught actually accomplishing the deed.