shoulders shook and when his eyes met hers in the mirror she saw he was laughing. He didn’t do it enough. “Don’t make me laugh!” he said, picking the pins up, wiping them on his breeches, and putting them back in his mouth. “Besides, everybody knows that ‘almost nothing’ is more expensive than a lot where clothes are concerned.”
Serena glanced down at the top of his head with a mixture of exasperation and something else she didn’t want to examinetoo closely—and fortunately for her peace of mind was instantly distracted. From this angle it became very clear that there
was
something wrong with the gown.
“While we’re on the subject of almost nothing, don’t you think this is a trifle décolleté for my present line of work?” Of course she had had to speak up—she couldn’t go into the dining room like this—but she almost wished she hadn’t when his brief glance at her bodice had her nipples all but standing up on their hind legs and begging.
He raised his eyebrows. Damnation, that was
her
supercilious facial expression and it wasn’t fair of him to do it so well. “Don’t you trust me?” he asked. “The chemisette has to be fitted, too.”
Turning to the bandbox in which the gown had been packed, he pulled out two triangular pieces of fine linen, piped with the same white-and-gold ribbon as the sleeves. When sewn into the dress, they would transform the extremely revealing square neckline into a modest V, and hide the birthmark on the slope of her left breast.
He stood and reached for her neckline, but that was going too far. She held out her hand imperiously. “I’ll do it.”
He looked at her in exasperation. “You don’t know how to do it, and anyway you can’t see it. Are you this missish with your modiste?”
“My modiste is—”
not you.
“A woman.”
His mouth set in a hard line. “Serena, have I been in any way unprofessional?”
“I’m afraid I don’t see—” she began in her most calmly patronizing tone.
“Have I?”
“No, Solomon, you’ve been quite the gentleman, but—”
“Then quit acting as if the only thought in my thimble-sized brain is to get my hands on you. I’m not Lord Smollett!”
Thank God. He was completely unaware of her actual motive. (Also thank God he wasn’t Lord Smollett.) She didn’t knowwhat to say; she was half-afraid that if she said anything further, he would point out that he’d been a lot closer to her and seen a lot more, six years ago. If she weren’t a ruined woman, she thought, he wouldn’t have dared to suggest fitting the dress himself at all.
But that was only half the story, wasn’t it? He’d suggested it—and she had agreed. She’d wanted his hands on her and now she had them, and she had better pretend it wasn’t affecting her in the slightest. “Go ahead,” she muttered.
“
Thank
you.”
She set her jaw and hoped he couldn’t feel the absurdly fast beating of her heart as she imagined his hands moving lower, cupping her breasts and roaming over her belly, her hips, her—
“There,” he said. He stepped back and nodded with satisfaction. “You look like Lucretia Borgia.”
Serena would have sighed with relief if her breathing hadn’t already been nearly out of her control. “Lucretia Borgia was blond.” But she didn’t dare essay a superior smile.
Besides, she saw what he meant. The gown made her look mysterious and alluring, and at the same time commanding and even a little dangerous—all the things she had striven to be. All the things she had made herself. It was perfect.
And Solomon had designed it for her. He had given her a spangled domino to match her mask—when no one else had ever suspected she was wearing one. It frightened her, made her feel naked and cold. She drew herself up. “Charming, nevertheless. Your talents are wasted on waistcoats.” But light irony had deserted her. Her words sounded sarcastic and ill-humored.
He sighed. “You don’t like it.”
Her twinge
Serena glanced down at the top of his head with a mixture of exasperation and something else she didn’t want to examinetoo closely—and fortunately for her peace of mind was instantly distracted. From this angle it became very clear that there
was
something wrong with the gown.
“While we’re on the subject of almost nothing, don’t you think this is a trifle décolleté for my present line of work?” Of course she had had to speak up—she couldn’t go into the dining room like this—but she almost wished she hadn’t when his brief glance at her bodice had her nipples all but standing up on their hind legs and begging.
He raised his eyebrows. Damnation, that was
her
supercilious facial expression and it wasn’t fair of him to do it so well. “Don’t you trust me?” he asked. “The chemisette has to be fitted, too.”
Turning to the bandbox in which the gown had been packed, he pulled out two triangular pieces of fine linen, piped with the same white-and-gold ribbon as the sleeves. When sewn into the dress, they would transform the extremely revealing square neckline into a modest V, and hide the birthmark on the slope of her left breast.
He stood and reached for her neckline, but that was going too far. She held out her hand imperiously. “I’ll do it.”
He looked at her in exasperation. “You don’t know how to do it, and anyway you can’t see it. Are you this missish with your modiste?”
“My modiste is—”
not you.
“A woman.”
His mouth set in a hard line. “Serena, have I been in any way unprofessional?”
“I’m afraid I don’t see—” she began in her most calmly patronizing tone.
“Have I?”
“No, Solomon, you’ve been quite the gentleman, but—”
“Then quit acting as if the only thought in my thimble-sized brain is to get my hands on you. I’m not Lord Smollett!”
Thank God. He was completely unaware of her actual motive. (Also thank God he wasn’t Lord Smollett.) She didn’t knowwhat to say; she was half-afraid that if she said anything further, he would point out that he’d been a lot closer to her and seen a lot more, six years ago. If she weren’t a ruined woman, she thought, he wouldn’t have dared to suggest fitting the dress himself at all.
But that was only half the story, wasn’t it? He’d suggested it—and she had agreed. She’d wanted his hands on her and now she had them, and she had better pretend it wasn’t affecting her in the slightest. “Go ahead,” she muttered.
“
Thank
you.”
She set her jaw and hoped he couldn’t feel the absurdly fast beating of her heart as she imagined his hands moving lower, cupping her breasts and roaming over her belly, her hips, her—
“There,” he said. He stepped back and nodded with satisfaction. “You look like Lucretia Borgia.”
Serena would have sighed with relief if her breathing hadn’t already been nearly out of her control. “Lucretia Borgia was blond.” But she didn’t dare essay a superior smile.
Besides, she saw what he meant. The gown made her look mysterious and alluring, and at the same time commanding and even a little dangerous—all the things she had striven to be. All the things she had made herself. It was perfect.
And Solomon had designed it for her. He had given her a spangled domino to match her mask—when no one else had ever suspected she was wearing one. It frightened her, made her feel naked and cold. She drew herself up. “Charming, nevertheless. Your talents are wasted on waistcoats.” But light irony had deserted her. Her words sounded sarcastic and ill-humored.
He sighed. “You don’t like it.”
Her twinge
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