Scandal Wears Satin by Loretta Chase Page B

Dutch windmill arrangement of lace and feathers at the back of the hat when she bent to talk to a scruffy little boy. She gave him something, and he dashed across the street, dodging riders and vehicles.
    Then she looked up, straight at the bow window and straight at Longmore.
    And smiled.
    Then all the men at the bow window looked at him.
    And smiled.
    And he smiled right back.
    L ongmore took his time. He finished his glass of wine, reread the advertisement, then called for his things.
    He donned his hat and gloves, grasped his walking stick, and went out. The drizzle had dwindled to a fine mist and the wind had died down somewhat.
    She had walked a little way up the street. She was watching the passing scene on Piccadilly. Every passing male was watching her.
    He coolly descended the steps and strolled across the street to her.
    “I should have thought you’d find an urchin nearer the shop to carry the message that my sister was ready to go home,” he said. “Or why not send a servant or a seamstress? You had to come yourself? In the rain?”
    “Yes,” she said.
    “I collect you had something particular to say to me, then,” he said.
    “I daresay I could have said it elsewhere,” she said. “But this was a fine opportunity to show off my hat, which is my own design. I’m not a genius with dresses, like Marcelline, but my hats are quite good.”
    He eyed the hat, with its lace and windmill and whatnot. “It strikes me as demented,” he said. “But fetching.”
    She dimpled, and his heart gave a lurch that astonished him.
    “I sincerely hope it’s fetching enough to weaken your resistance,” she said.
    “What resistance?” he said.
    “To my scheme.”
    “Oh, that. Taking you to Dowdy’s.”
    “I need to find out what they’re up to.”
    “I should think that was obvious,” he said. “They’re out to crush the competition, as any self-respecting rival would do.”
    He started walking down St. James’s Street, wondering what devious means she’d contrived to persuade him to do what he was going to do anyway.
    She walked alongside him. “I know that,” she said. “But I need to see exactly what we’re up against: the old Dowdy’s or something new, something we hadn’t reckoned on. I need to see whether the place is the same and the clothes are the same.”
    “I suppose you’ll be shocked if I say that all women’s clothes look the same to me,” he said.
    “I wouldn’t be shocked at all,” she said. “You’re a man. And that’s the point of my asking you. I need a big, strong man in case I’m discovered, and run into difficulties with Dowdy’s bullies.” She paused briefly. “While we were fitting your sister, she happened to mention Lady Gladys Fairfax, and what a pity it was that we couldn’t take her in hand,” she said.
    “Cousin Gladys,” he said. “Don’t tell me she’s coming to the wedding.”
    “I don’t know who’ll be invited,” she said. “But when Lady Clara spoke of her, I got the idea for a way to manage this.”
    They’d reached the corner of Bennet Street. He paused to check for carriages and riders turning off St. James’s Street.
    When the way seemed clear, he took her elbow and hurried her across. As soon as they reached the pavement on the opposite side, he let go of her. He still felt the warmth of her arm under his palm, and the warmth raced straight to his groin so suddenly that it made him dizzy.
    The rear entrance to the shop was through a narrow court off Bennet Street. She waited until they’d turned into the court. Then she said, “Lady Clara says your mother will go to Dowdy’s early in the week to order a dress for the wedding. Leonie can spare me from the shop most easily on Friday morning. Would you take me then?”
    After the bustle of St. James’s Street, the tiny court seemed eerily quiet. He was aware of a scent, vaguely familiar, drifting about him. He drew a fraction closer and stared at the discreet door, pretending to