Alex's Angel by Natasha Blackthorne

seemed to fit the description of a public spectacle. The thought of Grandmother’s face nearly proved her undoing and she shook with suppressed laughter. It probably wasn’t kind to laugh about such things so soon after Grandmother’s death but she couldn’t help it. At that moment, she wanted to forget about sickness and sadness and death. In the presence of this man, she felt so young and alive—and free.
    “It’s safe, there’s no one around,” Alex whispered in a conspiratorial tone as he flipped her hood back.
    Reflective tin sconces and brass candlesticks glittered and light reflected off the elegant crown mouldings and lofty ceiling. She tried not to gape but she’d never been in such a pretty place.
    “Good evening, Mr Dalton.”
    Startled that the man knew Alex by name, Emily dragged her gaze down to meet the openly curious appraisal of a short, thin young man.
    “Is a private room available?” Alex asked.
    “Aye, sir,” the man said, and he led them upstairs to a chamber containing several small tables spread with fine, white Holland linen and paired with cabriole-legged chairs of glossy mahogany. After the man had taken their wraps and hung them up, they sat at one of the tables.
    “It’s very cosy in here,” Emily remarked lamely. Goodness, how much did a room like this cost for just the two of them?
    “You would have felt conspicuous in the common room.”
    “People would have thought I was your kept lady, just like those two gentlemen on the steps did.”
    “Aye, they would think something close to that.” His golden brows drew together slightly. “Emily, would you do something for me?”
    “What?”
    “Would you remove whatever it is that you have stuffed your bodice with?”
    “What?” Surely she’d heard him wrong.
    “I am not fond of repeating myself.” His frown deepened.
    Her face flamed. “I don’t think you have any right to ask such a thing.”
    “Look at yourself.” He gestured to her chest. “You’re all…out of balance.”
    She glanced down. Oh dear. One of her false breasts was pointing up and looking rather lumpy. The other was still nice and round and pointing correctly, straight out. She slowly returned her eyes to his. He was openly grinning now, his eyes dancing with laughter.
    “Please, just do it.”
    She waited for him to give her some privacy, but he kept staring at her chest with that near-comical frown on his face.
    “Must you stare at me whilst I do so?”
    “Pardon me.” He turned away from her.
      Breathing quickly now with mortification, she reached into her bodice and plucked the stockings out, then threw them to the floor beneath the table. She adjusted her bodice and winced at how flat she looked. Before the fever she’d possessed somewhat respectable curves, but they’d been slow to return. Then again, she hadn’t exactly been able to afford any grand feasts.
    “All right, it’s done,” she said.
    He turned back to face her. He moved his eyes slowly over her, giving her the same sensation as earlier at the Blue Duck, as if he were picking her apart bone by bone. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling.
    She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Do I meet with your approval now?”
    A small smile lifted his lips. “You’ll do.”
    “What a relief,” she said with deliberate sarcasm.
    His smile broadened and his eyes warmed. “What do you want to eat?”
    “Duck,” she said without hesitation. It had been so long since she’d eaten duck. Blood pudding and day-old bread made for an affordable yet tedious daily menu.
    He poured her a glass of wine—claret this time. She took a hesitant sip and let it burn her all the way down. Then she took another, deeper drink. She was certainly fast getting used to the taste of expensive wine.

      * * * *

    Alex refilled Emily’s glass with more claret. She brought the glass to her lips, tipped it and took a deep drink. Her eyes glazed, then half-closed, an expression of such pure pleasure