******************
And when Mrs. Moore came into the room a short time later, she was so gracious, Serena wondered whether she'd imagined the insults. Personally serving them from a tea tray carried in by a serving girl, the dressmaker kept up a charming chatter apropos of the sights in Lisbon after discovering Serena was interested in viewing the town.
"You must in all certainty see the old quarter. The very best of the medieval architecture remains there. It's the only surviving portion of the city after the earthquake of seventeen fifty-five. Do you like cathedrals?" she asked, her expression lively.
"I certainly do."
"Then you'll marvel at the Se Patriarchal, won't she, Lord
R
ochefort? It's the most lovely Romanesque design."
"I'm sure she will," Beau blandly said, content with the outcome of his talk with Mrs. Moore. When he'd gone out, ostensibly to check on the driver, he'd coolly pointed out to the dressmaker that if she dared offend Miss Blythe, he would, see that no one in the English colony ever bought another garment from her. He'd further mentioned that she was under no circumstances to use the word "cousin" in Miss Blythe's presence. "She's a very good friend of mine, Mrs. Moore," he'd pleasantly said. "You understand I don't wish her unhappy."
So Serena was treated like royalty, fawned over with quite the same sycophantic delight Mrs. Moore showed her most exalted customers.
Beau watched carefully as Serena went through the stacks of fashion drawings, taking note of the various gowns she liked, agreeing with her when she finally settled on a round gown in gold silk gauze with an overgown of silk muslin.
"Although it's so impractical," she said with a sig
h
"Maybe I shouldn't."
"You can wear it to any evening occasion," Beau noted. "It's practical in the extreme. Although you might like a cashmere shawl for cool evenings. Could you show us some, Mrs. Moore?"
"Oh, no," Serena objected. "They're much too expensive."
"Let me buy you one."
"No," she flatly said.
"Just try one on. Should one of your investments do well, Miss Blythe," he pleasantly said, referrin
g
obliquely to her competence at cards, "you'd know what you like."
"I can't afford a cashmere shawl regardless how successful my business ventures, Lord Rochef
o
rt," she plainly said, intent on holding him to their bargain. "I'll have a pelisse made instead. They're so much more practical."
"One shouldn't be practical for evening parties. Ask Mrs. Moore," Beau suggested, undeterred by her refusal.
After being warned by Lord Rochefort that he didn't wish Miss Blythe to be unhappy, yet aware that
he
wished his paramour to have a cashmere shawl, the dressmaker cautiously said, "In general, a certain degree of luxury is, ah, common to evening wear, although if Miss Blythe would prefer a pelisse, perhaps we could have one made in velvet or swansdown-trimmed wool."
"Now there's a possibility," Beau cordially declared. "Why not see some of those fabrics as well as the shawls."
"Beau, no. I'd rather not." Her voice was cool.
"Consider, my dear, you won't always be on a limited budget," he replied. "In any event," he went on, taking note of the sudden tick in her jaw, "tell Mrs. Moore what sort of petticoat you have in mind."
"Now
that
I need," Serena agreed, turning away from Beau to address the dressmaker, who was thoroughly contused by this time. Was the lady paying for her own purchases? With Lord Rochefort as wealthy as Croesus. Had she misunderstood the word "friend" when Rochefort had pronounced it with such delicacy?
"Do you have any petticoats trimmed in broderie anglaise?" Serena asked.
"Certainly, Miss Blythe," she answered, sure of her inventory at least in this treacherous field of problematical relationships. "I'll have some brought in."
"And we'll need slippers made to match the gown," Beau interposed. "Would you like colored leather or silk?" he asked his companion.
"Leather. They'll last longer."
"Very good, miss," Mrs. Moore said, wondering why a paramour of Rochefort's was concerning herself with such practicalities. "When I have the petticoats brought in, we'll take your measurements for the gown and a pattern of your foot as well."
When the dressmaker returned, two seamstresses carrying armsful of petticoats accompanied her and after Serena decided on a filmy muslin trimmed in elegant brode
ri
e anglaise, Mrs. Moore delicately said, "It would be best to measure you without your wool gown on, Miss Blythe. If you don't mind."
"No, of course not."
"Would Lord Rochefort, er . . . that i
s
—
w
ould you prefe
r
—"
"I'd prefer some more ginja if you don't mind," Beau said, his voice temperate.
"Yes, certainly, my feelings exactly ... I could see that you wer
e
quite ready for more," Mrs. Moore strategically replied. Lord Rochefort's cool-eyed look caused her extreme discomfort; indeed, the difficulty in reading the nuances of this "friendship" had brought an unladylike sweat to her brow. Casting a steely-eyed look of her own at one of her assistants, she said in sugary tones, "Another decanter of ginja for Lord Rochefort, Madelina."
"Really, Rochefort, you can wait," Serena chided. "Don't make the poor girl run off for more when we're almost f
i
nished."
"Never mind, Mrs. Moore," Beau graciously replied, submitting to Serena's wishes without cavil.
Silently praying she survive this unusual encounter with Lord Rochefort and his newest companion, the dressmaker signaled her seamstresses to help Miss Blythe out of her gown. How unusual it was to see Rochefort so out of characte
r
—
a
ccommodating, conciliatory, without insolence or audacity. She gave Miss Blythe high marks for an audacity of her own. Apparently her cool dissent appealed to this man who'd dressed more than his share of beautiful Lisbon women.
And ostensibly she was paying for her purchases herself.
Surely a first for the ambassador's nephew.
But the lady was less composed under the watchful eye of Lord Rochefort when she stood half undressed before him, her bare feet peeking from under the hem of her plain linen petticoat, her fine skin blush pink, her gaze avoiding his.
Taking in the well-made but worn garments, Mrs. Moore decided Miss Blythe
'
s appeal had much to do with her fallen circumstances. Unlike the playthings Rochefort normally amused himself with, this young lady was no flitting amorous butterfly. She was oddly genuine, a word the dressmaker found curious even as it struck her consciousnes
s
—
a
s if the other ladies he knew were female marionettes. And less conspicuous at first glance but hovering beneath Miss Blythe's cool resolve was a tremulous sexual need. How tantalizing that must be for Lord Rochefort. Women had been throwing themselves at him for years, and now to encounter this small, intrinsic resistance from the ......
"Turn around," he softly said, his deep voice so hushed the vibration hummed in the small room. "So we can see your hair."
Serena hesitated a small interval, which Mrs. Moore anticipated now that she better understood their attraction. Serena's gaze met Beau's briefly. He smiled. Then her eyes took on a carnal warmth and she slowly swung around.
"We'll need a hairdresser for tonight," Beau remarked.
"Maybe I'll have my hair cropped a la Titus," Serena murmured, lifting her hands up to balance the heavy coils of her pale hair atop her head, gazing at Beau over her shoulder.
"Absolutely not."
"It's
my
hair," she smoothly returned. "Think how easy it would be to wash."
"We'll find someone to wash it for you if that's a problem." His voice was suddenly blunt, devoid of pleasantry.
"Now who would that be?" she softly queried, responding to his audacious authority and to mor
e
—
t
o the irrepressible passion warming her body.
"How cheeky you are, Miss Blythe." He spoke as though they were alone in the room, with the sensual undertones flagrant.
"No more than you, my lord. If I wish to cut my hair I shall."
His gaze held hers for a long moment and then it flicked to Mrs. Moore. "I'm sure you can get measurements from Miss Blythe's dress and shoes. Take them and get out."
"There's no need. Stay," Serena asserted, rescinding his order.
"Take them," Beau said, his tone so soft it was no more than a whisper.
But Mrs. Moore understood the voice of command when she heard it, and whisking up the two items, she shooed her assistants out and followed them, firmly shutting the door.
"Now then," Beau murmured, "we can discuss this in private
"
.
"Couldn't this have waited, you damned autocrat?" She gazed at him with hot-eyed insolence.
"Don't be impossible." His voice was mild, his lounging pose unaltered.
"You can't keep me from cutting my hair." It gave her pleasure to say it.
"You don't even want to cut your hair."
"Maybe I do."
"And maybe I want to fuck you where you're standing."
"You can't."
His brows arose. "I can fuck you anywhere I want."
"Not if I don't want to."
"But you always do. Like now," he whispered, his gaze on her nipples, which were rising against the sheer linen of her chemise
.
"Tell me you don't want
to
feel me inside you."
His words insinuated themselves into her senses like small heated explosions, trembling up her spine and down her arms and deep inside her as though they were gently probing fingers. "I don't," she whispered, clenching her fists against the flaring sensations.
"That's what you said last night too," he murmured, his eyes half-lidded, impudent.
"But this isn't ou
r
bedroom." She had no intention of making love in so public a place, no matter the heated stirrings of her body. "So stay where you are," she added when it looked as though he might rise.
"I'm not going anywhere," he calmly said, recrossing his legs. "Why don't you come here."
"No. Good god, Rochefort
,
have some discretion."
"Like you," he impertinently said, "the lady who left England in a stranger's yacht."
"You weren't a
complete
stranger."
"At least not for long." His voice was amused.
"And now that I know you so
well,"
she sardonically noted, "I'm keeping my distance. Someone could walk in, all of them could return. You smile. You'd like that, I suppos
e
—
b
ut I'm not so decadent yet. I'll wait here safely out of your reach until they bring my dress back."
"I'm afraid Mrs. Moore won't return until she's called for."
"So she's familiar with your amusements," Serena oppressively murmured. "Like an accommodating brothel keeper. I wondered at all the divans in here. How many ladies have you entertained in this silken room? Ten ... a dozen . . . more?" The pitch of her voice rose as the room suddenly became haunted with beautiful, willing females. "First you dress them and then you
undress
them. Mrs. Moore must prosper when you're in town."
"They'll hear you outside." Beau hadn't moved but the minute flare of his nostrils gave indication of his irritation.
"Will they think you're losing your touch?"
"They'll think I've found a tantrumish little bitch to
f
uck," he softly said.
"Then they'll be wrong on both counts."
His brows rose marginally. "I'm not so sure," he murmured, noting the flush on her pale skin, the agitated rise and fall of her plump breasts half revealed above the neckline of her chemise.
She took a deep breath and, meeting his half-lidded gaze, said,
"I'm
sure."
"You can be persuaded, though. . . ." he repudiated, beginning to rise.
"Damn you, sit down," she warned, moving backward, a tremor not solely of anger vibrating in her voice.
"I'd rather stand," he said, coming to his feet.
"If you move another step, I'll cut off my hair," she precipitously threatened, scooping up a pair of scissors from a nearby worktable, holding them poised over her ruffled curls.
Dropping back in his chair, Beau half smiled. "You remind me of my little sister in a pet."
"You must provoke her as well."
"You'll be sorry if you cut your hair."
"Maybe I won't; maybe I'll enjoy looking fashionably shorn." Pulling her hair back, she twisted it into a queue at the nape of her neck and glanced at her reflection in one of the numerous mirrors.