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Her heart beat painfully.
The gentleman stepped inside, and stopped and looked about. He did it exactly in the way all gentleman did when entering a shop for the first time: gazing coolly about them, evaluating what they saw, deciding whether it was worth their notice, and taking no notice of the lowly shopkeeper behind the counter.
But this wasn’t the first time he’d been here and this wasn’t any gentleman.
This was Clevedon, tall and arrogant, his hat tipped precisely so, his black hair curling under the brim. He carried a gold-tipped walking stick, and as he paused to examine the shop, he set both hands on it. His tan gloves fit like skin. She could see the outlines of his knuckles.
His hands, his hands.
She remembered his hand stroking down her back. Cupping her face. Sliding over her breast. Gliding between her legs.
Had this been any other gentleman, any shopkeeper would have stepped out from behind the counter, prepared to give him personal and exclusive attention.
She stayed where she was, bracing her hands on the counter. “Good afternoon, your grace,” she said.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Noirot.” He took off his hat and bowed.
She dipped a quick curtsey.
He set his hat on a chair, then walked to the mannequin and inspected her dress.
It was a dark grey tulle, a color called “London Smoke,” which the lavish pink satin bodice trim set off beautifully. Richly embroidered roses and twining leaves adorned the skirt.
“That looks very ... French,” he said.
“I always dress the mannequin more dashingly and flamboyantly than I would dress my customers,” she said. “After seeing what the mannequin is wearing, they’re less likely to become hysterical when I propose something rather more exciting than they’re accustomed to.”
He smiled a little and came to the counter. “How fitting,” he said. “You are something rather more exciting than some of us are accustomed to.”
“Not some,” she said. “All of you. Maison Noirot is not the usual thing.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” he said. “I was glad to see that Miss Sophia turned last night’s debacle to good account. But of course, I should have expected no less.”
“I expected a good deal more from you,” Marcelline said. “You bungled it.”
“Yes,” he said. “What else could I do? I was asking the wrong woman to marry me.”
Her heart seemed to stop beating altogether. She felt dizzy.
He moved to the door and turned the sign to Closed.
“We are not closed,” she said. Her voice seemed to come from miles away.
“You’ve had enough business for one day,” he said.
“You do not determine how much business is enough,” she said.
He came back to the counter. “Come out from behind there,” he said.
“Absolutely not.”
He smiled. That was all he did. But to say smile conveyed nothing. Anybody could smile. What he did—only Sophy could have words for it.
His beautiful mouth turned up, a little crookedly, and his green eyes regarded her with an amused affection that went straight to her pounding heart, and left her disarmed and weak and wanting.
“I need all the customers I can get,” she said. “I’m not at all sure that Lady Clara will return—”
“You know she will. For more dresses to give her the strength to contend with stupid men.”
