Jade Lee (16 page)

“Fire?”

“Yes, but more delicate.” She met his gaze in the mirror. “It’s beautiful.”

“It was made for you,” he said, meaning every word.

Dance
with
her,
his madness prompted. And for once, he obeyed, touching her elegant fingers with his own.

“I can see you at a ball, Mrs. Knopp. The men have been watching you, but someone has claimed the waltz. He bows before you and takes your hand.”

“Really, I don’t think—”

“It’s harmless, Mrs. Knopp. Let yourself pretend, if only for a moment.” He didn’t give her the chance to object. Lifting her hand to his lips, he kissed her flesh before bowing. Once he had been counted a good dancer, and he drew on that memory now. She was wrapped in fabric, so he did what he could, draping the tail end over his shoulder. Then he began to hum.

“That’s a pretty tune.”

“Really? Trust me, I’m accounted a much better dancer than a musician. And now, if you will, Mrs. Knopp?”

He resumed humming and then swept her into a waltz. There was very little room, but he had danced on crowded floors before. In truth, it made it all the more thrilling as he spun her around and around.

Her mouth opened on a gasp, but he was focused on her eyes. They sparkled. It was the candle flames reflected, but it was also the way her skin crinkled at the corners. Her cheeks flushed, and her mouth curved. She had not spent much time dancing. Neither had he, in truth, and none at all for the last five years.

So while he hummed his tune, he let himself go as well. He whirled them both around, and he gloried in the feel of a flesh and blood woman in his arms. One who meshed with his steps, even though there were layers upon layers of clothing between them. One who delighted in the play and smiled as if it were Christmas morning.

They danced for as long as he could manage, but eventually, their steps slowed. In time, they came to a stop, breathless, and still he could not look away from her eyes.

Kiss
her!

He swallowed, the desire nearly overwhelming. But he had a task here, and so he forced his words to something equally lustful, just not as inappropriate.

“You must make a dress from this fabric,” he said. “I designed it for you. I didn’t know it at the time, but I do now. It was meant for you.”

Her eyes widened, and she looked at the embroidery. “You made this design?”

Damnation, he hadn’t meant to confess that. As a rule, ladies preferred women artists for their clothing. He stepped back, but he was held in place by the fabric he’d tossed over his shoulder. “O-of course not,” he stammered. “We have ladies who—”

“Poppycock,” she interrupted. “It was you.” She grabbed his arm. “I think it’s a wonderful design.”

“I—” Now
his
face was heating. And when was the last time
he’d
blushed? “Thank you, Mrs. Knopp. You are very kind.”

“And you are very talented.”

He all but rolled his eyes. “Pray don’t say that. I cannot let it be known—”

“That a man has created such a beautiful thing? I shall make a bargain with you. If you do not tell the other factories that Mr. Knopp is a woman, then I shall not share that the Wakefield Design Factory is run by a man.”

He felt his lips quirk in a smile. “Oh, you can tell everyone a man
runs
the place. You just cannot share that I take a hand in the more artistic aspects of the work.”

“And you do all the artistic designs?” she asked as she gently lifted the fabric off his shoulders.

“Of course not,” he said immediately. “I have some talented women who do the work for me. I only dabble every now and then. And really, it is the ladies—”

“If you continue to lie, I shall become cross and refuse to buy a single yard.”

He bit his lip and stepped back. “Did you not begin our conversation by saying that a woman knows a woman’s fashions best?”

She grimaced. “I did, I suppose. So perhaps we should agree that gender means absolutely nothing if one is clever or talented. And I believe, Mr. Grant, that you are both.”

“And you, Mrs. Knopp, are full of surprises.”

She smiled as she began folding the bolt of fabric. Her hands lingered on the exquisite material, stroking the soft angora. He watched her closely, seeing the wistful expression, and he knew a moment of alarm. She did not intend to buy! She had the look of a woman putting a treat away.

“But you must buy it,” he said. “It was made for you!”

“No, Mr. Grant. It was made for a woman who goes to balls and dances with handsome young men.”

“Surely you attend parties. And you will not always be in black. How long before your mourning ends?”

“I—” She smiled, but it was a sad smile. “Soon, I suppose. But—”

He abruptly stepped forward, pressing it into her arms. “A gift then. Make it into the most beautiful gown, and dance in it.”

“A gift!” she gasped. “I can’t!”

Neither could he, if he were honest with himself. After all, his family’s future depended on the money he needed today. But the urge to see her in this gown was overwhelming. And so he did something he rarely did: he dispensed with games and became brutally honest.

“I need a sale today, Mrs. Knopp. Five hundred pounds.”

“Five hundred! Surely you do not expect that to come from my dress shop!”

“Surely, I do, Mrs. Knopp. You are the most exciting new dressmaker in London. Thanks to the new Lady Redhill, you are flooded with orders and cannot possibly have purchased all you need for the coming season.”

“You sell wools, Mr. Grant. Not ballroom silks.”

“Angora wool, Mrs. Knopp. For the older ladies or the ones not so plump in the pocket. For wraps against the cold and for dresses when the autumn leaves have fallen.”

She smiled, but shook her head. “Five hundred is too much.”

“For all this,” he said in an expansive gesture. “It is a bargain, and you know it.”

She blinked, looking about the room. “You would give me all of it?”

He nodded. “I would. For five hundred pounds cash. Today.”

“Today! I don’t carry that much money. Anyone who does is daft!”

True enough. “Banker’s check then. Surely you have that.”

She bit her lip, looking at the piles of bolts. Five hundred pounds was a bargain for all this. In truth, his conscience would be pricking him on the morrow for selling everything he had at such a low price. But he needed the money today, and she was his only hope.

“Are they damaged in any way?”

He stiffened. “Absolutely not!”

She looked about her slowly. Her good sense was telling her to say no. After all, five hundred pounds was a fortune. But the way she stroked the angora told a different story. She was tempted.

So he crossed to her side, stepping as close as they had been during their waltz. And he looked at her, saw the desire in her eyes, and remembered the feel of her body swaying in his.

Seduce
her,
his madness whispered.

He refused to do that. And yet her gaze shot to his and held. In it, he saw thoughts upon thoughts. Calculations, most likely—the rolling scroll of numbers in the brain that made one’s head ache. He knew the feeling well. And he knew if he let it continue, good sense would prevail, and he would be lost.

So he distracted her. He touched her cheek as a man might stroke his lover. He hadn’t intended it to be so intimate, but once his fingers met her cheek, his touch became a caress. His gaze slid to her lips. Her mouth was parted, an unconscious invitation. How he wanted to kiss her. How he wanted something a great deal more from her.

But he couldn’t. Not now. Probably not ever. So with a silent curse, he pulled back on his lust. Eventually, all he managed to do was moderate his words to a hoarse rasp.

“It is a good bargain,” he said. “For us both.”

You’re a fool,
his madness said.

“Yes,” she whispered. For a moment, he thought she was agreeing to something else entirely. But then she elaborated—because she was a smart businesswoman—making her wishes very clear.

“Yes, Mr. Grant, I will buy everything you have for five hundred pounds.”

Idiot! You’re worth more than that!

“Sold.”

USA
Today
bestselling author Jade Lee has been scripting love stories since she first picked up a set of paper dolls. Ball gowns and rakish lords caught her attention early (thank you, Georgette Heyer), and her fascination with the Regency began. An author of more than forty romance novels and winner of dozens of industry awards, she finally gets to play in the best girl-heaven place of all: a bridal salon! In her new series, four women find love as they dress the most beautiful brides in England. Lee lives in Champaign, Illinois.