The Girl is Not For Christmas - Emma V Leech Page 0,41
her bed where the few decent items of clothing she owned were kept. Carefully, she drew out her best gown. It was a good five years out of date, with a deep, square neckline and in her favourite shade of blue. She remembered feeling quite pretty on the few occasions she’d worn it. Holding it up now for King’s perusal felt a little like holding up an offering for a pagan god, and judging from the look in his eyes, being found wanting.
“The colour is well enough, I suppose,” he said grudgingly. “Though it looks like something for some chit just out of the schoolroom, which won’t do at all.”
Livvy gave the dress a critical once over.
“Yes, I see what you mean,” she said with a regretful sigh. “I’m too old for it.”
There was a tsk of annoyance. “I never said that, grandmother dear. The dress is too childish for you. It does not suit the purpose. You will never snare a fellow who’s looking for some silly simpering girl he can impress with gifts and bend to his will. No, you need to appeal to a man with a brain in his head looking for an intelligent companion. Preferably a companion who also gives the impression they’d be fun to bed.”
Livvy stared at him, heart thudding with the prospect that she might have just heard another compliment. She desperately wanted to say something witty and amusing to underline her appeal to said man with a brain in his head. Sadly, after a few seconds of frantic thinking, the most she could come up with was, “Oh.”
King nodded, as if she had said something halfway sensible. “Yes. If you combine those two ingredients successfully, you’ll have a good chance of victory.”
“Do you really think so?” Livvy asked, more than a little surprised. She had assumed he would do what he must—begrudgingly—all the time telling her she was being an idiot and doomed to failure.
He shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”
It was not exactly a ringing endorsement, but it was much more positive than she’d expected, so she could not help but smile at him.
“Thank you, King.”
“Whatever for? I’ve just told you the dress is no good. Bodices are much narrower this season, though frankly I don’t see how you’ll get everything in. A bit like fitting a quart into a pint pot.”
Once again, he gave her bosom a thorough perusal. As he was trying to be helpful—and she was giving him the benefit of the doubt on this—Livvy took her own advice and treated him as she would a friend, not a man. She ignored the weight of his gaze without comment.
“Er… King?”
He started at the sound of his name, and the slightly glazed look in his eyes was gone in a blink. “Ah. Yes. Next.”
“Oh, well... this was my favourite one, once upon a time,” she said, holding up a lemon yellow confection with a delicate frill of lace and a lot of ribbons.
“Good grief. In which century? Does it come with a stomacher and panniers?”
“How old do you think I am?” she demanded, wounded by his sarcasm.
“I think you’re barely the right side of twenty. That ridiculous item, however, has enough fabric for a marquee. You’re going to a ball, not hosting a garden party. I can’t see anyone wearing it with no panniers to hoist all that fabric aloft, certainly not a little slip of a thing like you. You’d disappear.”
Livvy opened and closed her mouth, torn between defending her favourite frock and… little slip of a thing. Dignity won out. “There are no circumstances under which you could describe me as a ‘little slip of a thing.’”
“I beg to differ. There’s nothing of you.”
“There’s plenty of me,” she retorted.
King got to his feet, and strangely enough, she did feel rather smaller and slip-like as he did so. The room seemed to shrink a vast amount too, notably the space between her and the bed. Her idiotic heart thudded hopefully.
“May I illustrate?” he asked.
Illustrate? Her likeness to a slip, she supposed. What was a slip, anyway? Any further thoughts on the subject were suspended as he put his hands to her waist. She must have nodded her agreement. Yes, she had a vague recollection of moving her head in a jerky up and down motion. Now his large hands were at her waist, the heat of them burning through the worn material of her gown, and there was that odd quivering sensation again.