Page 67

He rounded the corner on the fabric department. A group of ladies clustered around the counter in a moving mass of light, frilly pastels, but she stood out among their number—because of course she did. The one still, sure thing.

He had known she’d be there. She should not take his breath away like some token surprise.

Her head turned. A dark, satin curl swept her cheek, and she smiled. The effect was like sunlight, a ray of warmth born worlds away, traveling to just this place, just this time. “Mr. Balfour.”

He stopped. “Miss St. Quinton.”

A tinge of color lifted in her cheeks. She cleared her throat.

The ladies around her were staring. Bonneted heads swiveled his way; the unsmiling faces beneath them were probably meant to be familiar, ladies of import he might have encountered at some dinner or other, but they meant nothing to him. They all looked the damn same.

“We were hoping you might show us some of your finest silks, sir.” Miss St. Quinton’s shoulders rolled back, and she turned toward the counter. Rafe hastened behind it.

“Do tell us,” she whispered loudly enough for all to hear, “what Queen Charlotte’s picks have been as of late.”

There was unmistakable mischief in her upturned gaze. He didn’t give a whit what she said, she was a schemer, through and through.

“Certainly, miss.” He turned and contemplated the wall. Shimmering bolts eyed him back, their shades ranging from winter’s dusk to blood red. He removed a sample of pale blue silk, shade name Maria Louisa. He knew this one because even though it was new this year, he’d had to order it repeatedly. It was a particular favorite for lining bonnets—something he assumed these beribboned wasps would care about. He placed it on the counter with a plunk. Miss St. Quinton made a choked sound.

“How lovely,” she said, tugging on the fabric to unroll it. “And you said this one is the so-called ‘Queen’s silk,’ yes?”

He opened his mouth to say No, it’s Louisa Maria’s or Maria Louisa’s, whoever on God’s earth she may be, but he caught her gaze. Wide eyes and a tense, pleading mouth that he desperately wanted to taste again.

“Ah, yes,” he said, helping fan out the silk as Sophie was doing. It draped and puckered in just the right places, catching light from the nearby windowpanes. The ladies gasped and whispered to each other, one and all of them reaching out to test it between their gloved fingers.

The sight would have swelled Thomas Balfour’s chest. Noblewomen never crossed the threshold of the store during normal working hours, and they certainly didn’t fawn over its offerings and smile pleasantly at the man behind the counter. This was Sophie’s doing. One of those favors in return. Funny, how the only thing of consequence to Rafe now was the orchestrator herself, smirking at him.

“This one is rather nice, as well.” He shot Sophie a tentative gaze and reached beneath the counter to produce a buttery yellow silk brocade. A beautiful textile, hand woven with rich blue flowers. “This was woven here in London, in Spitalfields. The folks there do upstanding work—”

The proffered craftsmanship was promptly buried under the plainer blue silk, which was still being assaulted by the shoppers.

“I’ll need at least seven yards if I’m to have a matching reticule,” one grumbled.

“But I’m taller than you!”

“Nothing to fear, ladies,” Miss St. Quinton declared at a pitch higher than their ruckus. “I feel sure Mr. Balfour has more of this particular silk in back.” She looked pointedly at him. “Could I first borrow your expertise concerning gloves?”

A smile pinched the corners of his eyes. “Certainly, miss.”

She beat him to the largest of the glove tables, which conveniently happened to be the farthest from the silk brawl. Rafe was at her side a moment later, watching raptly as she peeled the kid leather gloves from her hands. He remembered performing that service for her, here, in this shop, not twenty paces distant from where they stood now. The memory warmed him in some deep, insatiable place.

“I see why they keep you in back,” she said, smiling briefly up at him.

He had been staring at the underside of her wrist and wrestled to gain control of his thoughts. “Oh?”

She picked up a sturdy pair of York tan riding gloves and tried one on. “That silk brocade might’ve been pleasing oh … twenty-five years ago? Perhaps thirty?”

He grinned. “Not those.” He picked up a pair of white lace gloves, a delicate creation that would leave just a hint of her skin visible, and handed them over.

She arched a brow, but set the York tan aside. “Why?”

“That color doesn’t agree with your complexion. Your skin, it’s already warm. Things like yellows and reds allow your beauty to best shine. If you ever have a portrait made, those are the colors you ought to wear.” His hand had started to reach for her. He saw it and snatched it back to his side.

She smiled. Even with her chin bent he could tell it, in the way her cheeks lifted to cradle her under-eyes. She waggled her fingers in the lace. “Perhaps you do have some fashion discernment, after all.”

“No. Just an eye for you.”

She yanked the fabric from her fingertips, as though it had turned somehow offensive. “Unfortunately, I’ve not come to make any purchases. I wanted to introduce some fashionable clientele to help smooth your path in the social scene, and ask if you’ve made any arrangements for a return to Greenwich.”