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“I should hope so,” he said, “considering you invited me.”
“Was it an invitation?” she said. “I thought it was a broad hint.”
“I wonder if you hinted the same to everyone at the Italian Opera. They all seem to be here.”
“Oh, no,” she said. “I only wanted you. They’re here because it’s the place to be seen. Longchamp. Passion Week. Everyone comes on holy pilgrimage to see and be seen. And here am I, on display.”
“A pretty display it is,” he said. “And exceedingly modish it must be, judging by the envious expressions on the women’s faces. The men are dazzled, naturally—but they’re no use to you, I daresay.”
“It’s a delicate balance,” she said. “I must be agreeable to the men, who pay the bills. But it’s the ladies who wear my clothes. They won’t be eager to patronize my shop if they see me as a rival for the attentions of their beaux.”
“Yet you dropped me a broad hint to come today and seek you out in this mob,” he said.
“So I did,” she said. “I want you to pay some bills.”
It was, yet again, the last thing he expected. This time he was not amused. His body tensed, and his temperature climbed and it had nothing to do with desire. “Whose bills?”
“The ladies of your family,” she said.
He could hardly believe his ears. He said, his jaw taut, “My aunts owe you money, and you came to Paris to dun me?”
“Their ladyships your aunts have never set foot in my shop,” she said. “That’s the problem. Well, one of the problems. But they’re not the main issue. The main issue is your wife.”
“I don’t have a wife,” he said.
“But you will,” she said. “And I ought to be the one to dress her. I hope that’s obvious to you by now.”
He needed a moment to take this in. Then he needed another moment to tamp down his outrage. “Are you telling me you came all the way to Paris to persuade me to let you dress the future Duchess of Clevedon?”
“Certainly not. I come to Paris twice a year, for two reasons.” She held up one gloved index finger. “One, to attract the attention of the correspondents who supply the ladies’ magazines with the latest fashion news from Paris. It was an admiring description of a promenade dress I wore last spring that drew Mrs. Sharp to Maison Noirot. She in turn recommended us to her dear friend Lady Renfrew. By degrees, their friends will soon join our illustrious clientele.”
“And the second reason?” he said impatiently. “You needn’t put up your fingers. I am perfectly able to count.”
“The second reason is inspiration,” she said. “Fashion’s heart beats in Paris. I go where the fashionable people go, and they give me ideas.”
“I see,” he said, though he didn’t, really. But this was his payment, he told himself, for consorting with a shopkeeper, a vulgar, money-grubbing person. He could have bedded Madame St. Pierre last night—and he was running out of time for bedding anybody—but he’d spoiled his chance by chasing this—this creature. “I am merely incidental.”
“I’d hoped you’d be intelligent enough not to take it that way,” she said. “My great desire is to be of service to you.”
He narrowed his eyes. She thought she could play him for a fool. Because she’d lured him across an opera house and into the Longchamp mob, she imagined she’d enslaved him.
She wouldn’t be the first or the last woman to let her imagination run away with her in that way.
“I only ask you to consider,” she said. “Do you want your lady wife to be the best-dressed woman in London? Do you want her to be a leader of fashion? Do you want her to stop wearing those unfortunate dresses? Of course you do.”
“I don’t give a damn what Clara wears,” he said tautly. “I like her for herself.”
“That’s sweet,” she said, “but you fail to consider her position. People ought to look up to and admire the Duchess of Clevedon, and people, generally, judge the book by the cover. If that were not the case, we’d all go about in tunics and blankets and animal hides, as our ancestors did. And it’s silly for you of all men to make out that clothes are not important. Only look at you.”
He was all but dancing with rage. How dare she speak of Clara in that way? How dare she patronize him? He wanted to pick her up and—and—
Devil confound her. He couldn’t remember when last he’d let a woman—a shopkeeper, no less—ignite his temper.
He said, “Look about you. I’m in Paris. Where fashion’s heart beats, as you said.”
“And do you wear any old thing in London?” she said.
He was so busy trying not to strangle her that he couldn’t think of a proper retort. All he could do was glare at her.
“It’s no use scowling at me,” she said. “If I were easily intimidated, I should never have got into this business in the first place.”
“Madame Noirot,” he said, “you seem to have mistaken me for someone else. A fool, I believe. Good day.” He started to turn away.
“Yes, yes.” She gave a lazy wave of her hand. “You’re going to storm off. Go ahead. I’ll see you at Frascati’s, I daresay.”
