Wedded in Scandal

“Now, some will say that your neckline is too low, that it should be square, and all sorts of other nonsense. Look here, my dear, the men will see this”—she outlined the dark crevasse of her cleavage—“and they will think lustful thoughts.”

“Mrs. Mortimer!” the girl gasped, but it was mock outrage. Helaine could see that she was thrilled at the idea. Likely she had never thought of herself as someone who could inspire carnality in any man.

“And here is the best part of all,” Helaine said. “Walk a bit. See how the light blue slippers peek out as you move? Men shall be looking to see your dainty ankles, and you do have divine ankles, my dear.”

“I do?”

“Well, of course you do! Just look.”

Francine did, and it was all Helaine could do not to laugh. The girl lifted her skirt enough to see her ankles in the mirror, and then she released a giggle. Twisting her foot left and right, she inspected her ankles from all different angles, her expression shifting to a happiness that seemed to suffuse her entire body. It flushed her cheeks, straightened her spine, and generally brought life to all of her.

“I do! I do!”

From beside the mirror, Wendy had folded her arms across her chest but was looking on with a grin. “Told you a good dresser was all you needed.” She said the words to Francine, but her eyes were on Helaine. And in the sparkle of delight, Helaine read a satisfaction that could only come from work well done. The design, the sewing, and even the slippers and necklace all combined to create a reflection that was not perfect so much as alive with joy. And joy was so much better than perfect.

“Look at yourself, Francine,” Helaine said. “Look at your face and your eyes. You are happy. You are beautiful. And that, my dear, will attract men like moths to a flame.”

Francine turned, her eyes shimmering with hope. “Do you think so?”

“Of course I do! And if you don’t believe me, then there is a man just on the other side of this curtain. I heard him come in just a few minutes ago. He is our bookkeeper and he has been sitting there most patiently. His name is Anthony and he is a man used to numbers. You know the type, I believe. Your father is such a man.”

Francine wrinkled her nose. “Yes. He’d never lie about anything even when he should.”

“Exactly. That is Anthony through and through. He will tell you exactly what he thinks.” Then she stepped forward to whisper into Francine’s ear, “And mind you watch his eyes. See where they go. I wager they will drop right here.” She gestured to the girl’s ample cleavage. “And if he blushes, then you shall know that there are lustful thoughts in his mind. Even in one so prosaic as Anthony.”

Francine giggled, but she was more than excited by the idea. Helaine waited a moment to be sure all was ready. Then she called through the curtain to the workroom behind.

“Anthony, would you mind terribly? I have something I need to ask you.”

She heard a rustle of a chair scraping backward. Her desk was there and she knew that, as their bookkeeper, he had no doubt been going over the accounts.

“Anthony?” she called again when there was no answer. Then, with a wink to Francine, she hauled open the curtain.

There, sitting in the center of her workroom, was not Anthony. It was Lord Redhill.

Chapter 4

Robert hadn’t known what to expect when the curtain parted between workroom and showroom. Of course he’d heard the women’s voices, even knew that the enterprising Mrs. Mortimer was one of them. But he had not expected to come eye to bosom with a young girl of a decidedly lush figure.

He leaped to his feet, as did Anthony beside him, at the very same moment that Mrs. Mortimer squeaked in alarm.

“Lord Redhill!” she gasped. “What are you doing here?”

Robert forcibly dragged his eyes away from the girl turned nymph. And not an anemic nymph as drawn in children’s books, but the kind pictured on Greek vases. “My God, woman, what have you done to the girl?”

“I’m terribly sorry,” Mrs. Mortimer said stiffly, obviously not sorry at all. “But you do not belong here.”

“I don’t belong here? No decent woman belongs here! Is that what you intend to do to my sister?”

The woman arched a brow at him, but he did not miss the way her clenched fists had landed on her hips. She was trying to control herself, but there was raw fury inside her.

“Lord Redhill, you forget yourself!”

“I most certainly do not!” he roared. “I won’t have you doing that to my sister!”

Mrs. Mortimer was about to object. She drew in her breath, but she never got the chance to speak her mind. The girl grabbed her arm and pulled her out of the way. And then she stepped right up to Lord Redhill, her face flushed and fearful.

“What has she done to me?” she asked.

He looked down at her and, as God was his witness, he could not prevent his eyes from dropping farther. He didn’t intend to, but they were right there. And he was a man after all.

Then the girl stomped her foot, making her bosom jiggle in the most delightfully terrible way. “Tell me! What has she done?”

He dragged his gaze up to the girl’s face. He tried to modulate his voice, but his throat was choked off. “You seem like a nice young woman,” he said gently, “but this…woman…has dressed you as a…a…”

“A tart?” the girl asked, her voice shaking slightly.

He shook his head even as he said, “Yes. Well, not exactly a tart. Much higher class than the usual flyer. But I’m afraid no man can look at you like that and think of anything but…but…” He felt his face heat in a blush. In desperation, he looked back at Anthony, hoping for help in explaining the situation. Sadly, the poor bookkeeper had flushed a bright crimson and his gaze was locked exactly where it ought not to be. “Oh, bloody hell,” he murmured, only to belatedly realize he shouldn’t be saying such words in front of ladies. “Well, you can see exactly what happens when you are dressed like that.”

With a soft curse, he walked directly in front of the bookkeeper, blocking his view. “Anthony, I believe I should like that tea now,” he said by way of distraction. It didn’t work. The boy was clearly still dazed. So Robert had to snap his fingers. “Anthony! Tea!”

The young man blinked. “Oh. Yes, my lord. Of course. Yes. Tea. Right away…”

Except the man didn’t leave. He took a meandering route to the workroom kitchen that allowed for him to see the girl the whole way. He didn’t even bother to hide his intentions, but stared slack-jawed the entire way. Fortunately, Mrs. Mortimer wasn’t completely lost to propriety. She released a heavy sigh.

“Perhaps you could have my mother assist, Anthony. In the kitchen upstairs, if you would.”

Anthony nodded, and finally disappeared up a staircase to the upper rooms. Only then did Robert turn back to the girl.

“You see,” he said gently. “Dressing in such a way is not at all appropriate. What would your mother say?”

That was the wrong question to ask. He knew it the moment the words were out of his mouth. The girl’s eyes widened. At first he thought it was in horror, but it quickly became something more like glee.

“Mama will hate this!” the girl gasped. “Hate it with a passion!” Then she leaped forward to engulf Mrs. Mortimer in a hug. The lady stumbled slightly, but quickly regained her footing, returning the hug threefold.

“Oh, Francine, you are most welcome!” she said with a laugh.

“I want three more dresses like this!” the girl said when she stepped backward. “No, ten more! I shall have my entire wardrobe redone just as you think best!”

Robert groaned. He couldn’t help it. “That is not at all what you should do.”

Then the girl turned to him. Her back was straight and her eyes glittered with happiness. “My lord,” she said loftily, “I believe you and my mother would get along quite famously. Her dresser is down on Bond Street with all