Beauty Tempts the Beast (Sins for All Seasons #6) - Lorraine Heath Page 0,55

first. But she didn’t want to discuss any of that here, and if he wanted to waste his coins, they were his to waste. So she merely said as graciously as possible, “You’re extremely generous. Thank you.”

“If you’ll give me a few minutes to finish up with Mrs. Welch,” Beth said, “I’ll be available to see to you personally.”

She remembered a time when a seamstress wouldn’t have finished up with anyone. Althea had garnered all the attention once she entered a shop, and she’d gloried in the singular devotion. Looking back on it from where she stood these days made her feel as though she’d been unjustifiably spoiled. Whatever had she done to deserve special treatment, other than having the good fortune of being born into a particular family? A good fortune that had not lasted, as it turned out.

“We’re in no hurry, so take your time,” Benedict said. “I do have some other matters to attend to. Will an hour be sufficient?”

“More than enough,” Beth said before hastening over to assist Mrs. Welch.

“You’re not leaving me,” Althea said, not at all happy with the thought of being abandoned.

“I assumed you’d be comfortable here, would know your way around a dressmaker’s shop.”

Of course she was. She’d had a wardrobe stuffed with satin, silk, and lace. One of her favorite gowns had looked as though the skirt had been created from peacock feathers, the embroidery so exquisite it never failed to snag attention whenever she wore it. “Do you suppose she thinks I’m . . . your paramour?”

“What does it matter how she perceives you? Do you believe once you’ve achieved your objective that you’ll be looked upon favorably anywhere?”

Not favorably perhaps, but she would surround herself with so much haughtiness that no one would dare turn their back on her. She would gain the attention of a prince who was known for enjoying wicked widows, and once she curried his favor, she would have power. “You sound cross.”

“What reason have I to be cross? And Beth doesn’t judge. I’ll return for you when I’ve completed my affairs.”

She watched as he strode out into what had morphed into a downpour that threatened to flood streets. Did he find getting drenched preferable to her company? How was it that everything had changed so drastically from the comfortable visit in the library last night to the awkwardness that seemed to latch on to them with the steadfastness of a harness to a horse? Was it because he’d rethought what she’d revealed about her family and discovered the truth of it left a nasty taste in his mouth? Or was it the kiss he’d found distasteful?

“Miss Stanwick?”

She swung around to face the seamstress whose eyes were filled with understanding, as though she recognized the look of the lovelorn when she saw it. Although Althea wasn’t in love. At the moment she wasn’t even certain she was in like. “Miss Beth.”

“Beth will suffice. For the day dresses, I have some fabrics, the shade of which I think will complement your complexion nicely. Shall we have a look?”

“The gown. I’d like it to be red as well, a bright red that is impossible to miss, with a low neckline that leaves no doubt regarding my endowments.” She was hoping for an evening when she might assess its allure before ever attending a ball by testing it on Benedict Trewlove.

Chapter 13

He was cross. Cross that she thought herself deserving of being a lightskirt. Because of something her dunderhead of a father, her idiot of a betrothed, and a host of unappreciative friends, had done. He’d never suffered a cut direct but knew what it was to be made to feel less—less than deserving of breath or kindness or acceptance. It all came with the circumstances of his birth, something over which he’d had not one iota of control just as she’d had no power over her sire’s decision to become embroiled in a plot to change who sat upon a throne.

But in both cases innocents were made to suffer.

It angered him that he was angry. In his youth he’d fought inner demons to ensure he maintained control of his emotions. He’d always been big but hadn’t grown elegantly into his size. He’d seemed out of proportion with legs too long, arms too short and beefy. Hands three times too big. His torso had been bulky, stout, rotund. Eventually, he’d evened out, grown into a mighty oak that could move without clumsiness. But he’d often struck out at