Heiress in Red Silk (Duke's Heiress #2) - Madeline Hunter Page 0,14

a few snippets of conversation. “Oh, you must, Rosamund.”

“Isn’t it too daring?”

Lots of laughter then.

“Not at all,” Madame Tissot said. “The dress will be very modest, and the color will be fashionable this year.”

“I’m not sure . . .”

It sounded like a decision was required in that room. He might not know about fashion, but he knew when a woman dressed to enhance her beauty, and also the difference between acceptably daring and scandalously daring.

It was better than sitting out here for Zeus knew how long. Besides, she was, in a manner of speaking, spending his money. With that thought, he walked to the door and opened it.

Three women turned shocked expressions on him. Madame Tissot patted her chest above her heart. Minerva’s astonishment turned to amusement. Miss Jameson—Miss Jameson made his breath catch.

She had been swathed in fabric from breast to toes. A deep red fabric, with a light sheen to it. Her creamy shoulders showed, and from the way she held the cloth he guessed her back did as well. She just stared at him, clutching the red closer.

He wondered if she was naked beneath that red silk. She looked it. Possibly not, though. Maybe the straps of her chemise had merely been lowered—

The modiste clucked her tongue. “Sir, it is not customary to have men here while I drape.”

“Really, Kevin.” Minerva sighed dramatically. “I said we might need you, but I would have told you if we did.”

What nonsense. One would think he had never seen a half-naked woman before. “It was clear that Miss Jameson was undecided, so I concluded you did need a man’s opinion, in order to speed up the decision.” He gestured to the red fabric. “It is lovely and you should use it.” He turned to Madame Tissot. “You must be careful with the dress. Nothing vulgar. Red can be risky.”

Madame Tissot looked at Minerva. Minerva at Miss Jameson. Miss Jameson shrugged and nodded.

“The red silk it will be,” Madame Tissot said.

Kevin paced to the table where Minerva sat with fashion plates lined up in front of her. He examined each one, then paused. “What are these plain ones for? Even in a shop, women wear better than this.”

“Those are for my sister, to wear at her school,” Miss Jameson said.

He looked over at her. Madame Tissot had draped her further, in a bulky muslin mantle that covered her so thoroughly that only her pretty head showed now.

“Your sister?”

He had no idea she had a sister. Actually, for all he knew she had four of them, and three brothers, and two aunts. She might even have parents in the country somewhere. She might have a very good reason to let a large house.

He knew nothing of her family because he had never asked her about that. Or anything about herself. He could picture Nicholas and Chase shaking their heads at him. Clucking their tongues. Badly done, Kevin. Badly done.

“Perhaps if you leave us, Rosamund can get dressed and we can depart soon,” Minerva said.

“Certainly.” He opened the door. “Carry on.”

* * *

“After two hours in those warehouses, no doubt you could use some air.” Kevin broached the idea while the coach rolled back into Mayfair. “Why don’t we ride in the park a while?”

Minerva plucked a tiny watch from her reticule. “I cannot. I must meet with one of our agents regarding an inquiry. Just have the coachman leave me off.”

“Perhaps a short ride,” Rosamund said. The warehouses had been very dusty, but then, they usually were. She had examined the new products for milliners and bought a straw form for a hat, as well as some notions, all of which would be delivered in the morning. More importantly, she had ingratiated herself with the owners and some of the men who served customers.

The day had cooled, but she opened the coach window anyway. The crisp breeze felt good against her skin. She looked out but could see Kevin Radnor out of the corner of her eye.

For a man born to the ton, he was not especially observant about etiquette. His sudden appearance in the fitting room had stunned them all. He must have noticed, yet he’d treated his intrusion as perfectly normal, even when Madame Tissot specifically said it wasn’t.

She’d had nothing more than loose silk covering her undergarments. He had definitely looked, but he had not ogled. He’d reacted as if he walked in on women in dishabille all the time. Perhaps he did. Not lovers, though. Not mistresses. He