“For hats, lass.”
“You’re going to buy me a hat?”
“Among other things.”
“Oh, fun.” And sexy, she thought, unable to identify the hooded look that clouded his features.
The shop was dim and cool, with a bustling shopkeeper straight out of a BBC movie.
As his gaze alighted on Felicity, though, a look of such comical distaste puckered his features, she had to bite back a giggle.
She forgot the old grump at once, though, when she spotted the tables topped with pile after pile of cloth. She gasped. There were lush swaths of jewel- toned velvet, delicate fabrics in pale colors, and bolts bearing thick stripes of colors in alternating shiny and matte textures.
“This is so—” She felt Rollo’s hand wrap firmly around her upper arm. Her heart gave a kick, even though the stern look on his face told her to quiet. “This is so exciting,” she finished in a stage whisper.
She surreptitiously ran her fingers over a luxurious pile of satin, cascading like a royal blue spill of water across a table near the front of the shop.
She heard a clipped hiss, and looked up to see the clothier eyeing her suspiciously.
Grabbing Rollo’s arm, she hastily spun to eye another table. She wasn’t sure how she was supposed to act. “I worked retail for years,” she whispered, “and this guy would’ve been so fired.”
“Easy, woman.” Momentarily switching his cane to his left hand, Rollo loosened the death grip she had on his upper arm.
“Can you get me something in that blue?” she asked him, pointing to the bright blue satin. “That is just totally—”
“Yes?” the shopkeeper asked at their backs.
“I’d like—” she began, but Rollo cut her off at once.
“The lady requires a dress.” The sharp edge to Rollo’s voice challenged the peevish old shopkeeper to just try and disagree.
Lady. Felicity beamed. The lady.
Looking as though he was holding his breath, the man eyed her dingy clothes and pulled a long looped stretch of twine from his coat.
“Measurements won’t be necessary,” Rollo said. “We’re in a hurry and require something ready-made.”
This time, the man didn’t even try to disguise his contempt. “I am a clothier, sir, and an expert tailor. I do not cater to a . . . ready-made clientele.”
“What is that, then?” Rollo pointed to a display in the window.
“Oh,” Felicity gasped. It was a frothy rose-colored confection on a dress form.
Total BBC movie.
There was thick gold stitching along the sleeves. Real gold, she realized. Fancy.
“That, sir, is not for sale.”
“Everything has a price.” His voice was steel, drawing Felicity’s gaze to him, and she saw the edge reflected in his eyes, cold and flat.
So intense.
It struck her that, though he might be talking about a dress, Rollo could be speaking to much more.
And deep too.
“How can you be certain it will even fit this . . . lady?”