Pleasure For Pleasure (10 page)

“Well,” he said finally. “Josephine Essex, that was your first kiss.”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She just stared at him, arms around his neck, her mind a dark, muddled place of desire—aye, she was not so stupid as to not recognize it. Then she took her arms down, and fought to regain her mind as well.

There was something odd in his eyes. “Was it acceptable?” That growling purr was gone from his voice now.

“Absolutely,” she said, her hands trembling as they tightened the knot of his dressing gown at her waist. “Will”—she cleared her throat—“Will I be able to walk correctly now?”

“I hope so, Josie.” He said it almost as if it were a prayer. “I-I believe so.”

She managed a little smile at that. “You have a lot of faith in your powers of seduction, Lord Mayne. I suppose it comes from years of practice.”

“One is always capable of being surprised,” he said, rather obscurely. And then backed away. “Let's see if I've made an ass of myself, shall we?”

So she turned away from him and walked to the opposite wall. He hadn't made an ass of himself. She could feel it in every movement of her legs, in the brush of her breasts against his dressing gown. When she turned around to walk to him, she was ready.

She stopped for a moment, in the pleasure of performance. Smiled at him, at the beauty of his eyes, and the way his hair, even now, looked as if it had come from the hands of a master. He looked a bit pole-axed, so she smiled again.

These smiles were a world away from the grimaces she'd used as masks in the last weeks of the season. She could feel the plumpness of her bottom lip, the smile in her eyes, as if she were seeing herself from the outside.

And then she started to walk toward him. Plump full hips curved naturally, beautifully, to a waist marked by a man's silk sash. Her breasts swelled above, and for the first time in her life she knew that they were right for her body: balancing her hips, carrying themselves proudly, beautiful in their generosity.

“Not quite,” he said. “Watch me again.”

She thought she saw what he meant this time. Even in the absurdity of that muscled body, and the frail pink gown, she could see that he was slightly rolling from the hips. Rather than walking the way she normally did, by putting one leg briskly in front of the other, Mayne was swaying forward. There was a swing in his gait, a promise, a ridiculous promise given the bursting fabric—but she saw what he meant.

He was on the other side of the little turret room. “Again,” he commanded.

She walked toward him slowly, listening to her body, walking almost on tiptoes because it felt right and because her legs were still trembling a little from the kiss. She walked to just before him, and paused.

“Garret,” she said. And raised an eyebrow.

“I think—you have mastered the art,” he said. His voice was strangled, dark, and she loved that.

So she tightened the cord around her waist even tighter, and sure enough, his eyes dropped to her breasts.

“Josie!” he said sharply.

She grinned at him. “You
did
say that men would slaver at my feet, didn't you?”

“Not old men like myself,” he said, with a reluctant bark of laughter.

“I believe I shall stop being doctrinaire about age. Look how much I have learned from you.”

“Nothing that you couldn't have seen in the eyes of men of any age,” he said. His voice had that low rumble again.

She smiled at him, a little crooked smile. “We'll see whether I'm able to bamboozle these men with my new walk.”

“And no corset.”

“No corset,” she said, sighing.

“None of which has anything to do with the beauty of your face,” he said, turning up her chin with his hand.

“It's too full,” she whispered.

He rubbed a slow thumb down her cheek. “Not all women were designed to be angular. Your cheek has the slightly sulky, round beauty of a Madonna.”

“Annabel said that too,” she said, feeling a little breathless.

“Your eyelashes are sinfully thick,” he went on. “And your mouth—” He stopped. “I'll leave your mouth to the tremulous twenty-year-olds whom you desire so much.”

Josie digested this while looking at him. Of course he'd swept through the
ton
like fire through straw. Thinking of the discontented, skittish faces of most of the matrons whom she'd met in the endless round of debutante balls comprising the season, she would have been surprised if there was one among them who didn't fall on her back at his approach. It gave her a peculiar sinking feeling, as if she were in danger of committing some sort of folly that she hadn't thought possible.

“Garret,” she whispered.

His straight black brows snapped together and he dropped her chin. “Better not call me that in public, little witch,” he said, turning away. She watched him quickly pulling the pink dress forward. His skin was brown and the curved
muscled shape of it made her feel queer. In danger. So she flashed back: “I hope you're not afraid that people will think I'm hankering after you?”

He pulled on his shirt, and to her faint—but quite obvious—pulse of disappointment, a flutter of elegant white linen fell to his waist.

“God no,” he said, turning and giving her a wry smile. “I'm afraid they'll think I'm hankering after
you.
”

Josie's heart beat loudly in her ears. “Well, that would never happen.” His jawline was just faintly shadowed with beard. He looked like a black-browed pirate, although even as she watched, he tamed the shirt, cramming it into the waist of his trousers.

“Don't watch me,” he muttered to her, pushing the shirt down so it didn't leave a bulge in his knit pantaloons.

I'd like to do that, Josie thought to herself. But she was sure the thought didn't show in her eyes. “It's interesting,” she told him. “Who knew that it was so hard to control a shirt?” He wrenched on a jacket. It sat perfectly across his shoulders, turning him in an instant from a bold, derisive pirate to a sleek earl whose midnight blue jacket echoed his insolent blue eyes. Suddenly, instead of radiating a dangerous sensuality, he looked like an assured member of the world's greatest aristocracy.

Josie sighed. It was a painful transition to watch, the more so because of her vivid knowledge of all the women who had seen Mayne turn from private to public, from hers to no one's, and that in the turn of a coat.

“Well,” he said, “I'd better sneak you back into your house. Shouldn't be too difficult.”

Not for someone with his experience sneaking in and out of houses, Josie thought. But she kept it to herself.

Her hair was down her shoulders and tumbling down her neck. She bent to pick up the corset, but he laughed and snatched it away, tossing it against the wall. “You're not
wearing that again. You go out tomorrow and buy yourself gowns that celebrate the body God gave you, rather than shaping you into a different one, do you hear?”

Even pale with exhaustion and champagne, hair tousled, jaw shadowed, he was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen. “I will,” she said, filing the memory away. She walked past him.

“Go to that
modiste
Griselda uses,” he said, catching her hand.

She looked up at him inquiringly. “Don't call you Garret. Don't use my corset. Do use Griselda's
modiste.
Do walk as if I were a man in skirts. Do consider men over thirty, but allow the younger ones to slaver at will.”

Mayne stood looking at her, feeling as if he'd been knocked off balance. Josie was so beautiful, with that cloud of witchy hair around her shoulders, her beautiful curved, laughing mouth and her intelligent eyes. “Christ, you're breathtaking,” he said.

He could see in her eyes that she didn't believe him. There was no question, though, that a decent gown would take care of that. If she would only prance into a ballroom wearing his dressing gown, the male part of the room would fall to their knees. He kept having to make himself stop looking at the way her breasts swelled seductively under the heavy silk.

“Will you be coming to the Mucklowe ball at the end of the week?” she asked him.

What was there about Josie that made a lump rise in his throat every time she looked anxious? “Mucking around with the Mucklowes,” he said, putting a hand on her back to lead her down the stairs. “I suppose I'll be there, if Sylvie wishes to go. She has eclectic tastes when it comes to the
ton.
”

Josie reached the bottom of the stairs and waited for him. “It would be wonderful if you could be there.”

“If you want me to, I'll be there.”

Her face eased into a smile. Those crimson lips of hers were dangerous. And he was a man in love with another woman.

“Sylvie and I wouldn't miss it,” he assured her. And then took her back to her house. It was amazing how easy it was to return her to her room without being seen.

All those
affaires
of his had taught him something, he thought as he wandered back down the street toward his house, having sent his carriage trundling off before him. There was a thick fog settling as dawn came up, and he felt like walking. The trees looked blurred and furry, as the fog drifted in, until he found himself moving along in a small room walled by cloud.

It was a remarkably lonely feeling, as if he carried a small patch of ground with him, and all the rest of the world was unpeopled.

G
riselda took the news that Josie intended to visit her
modiste
that very morning and order an entirely new suite of clothing extremely cheerfully, although she had to miss a promise to ride in Hyde Park. Josie noticed that she was extremely vague about who she had promised to meet.

“I'd much rather come with you,” she said. “You know I've loathed that corset contraption that Madame Badeau fashioned for you. Yes, the corset forced you into gowns that were approximately the same measurements as Imogen. But neither one of us, darling, has Imogen's body. And frankly, although I have never said so quite so openly, I believe that the two of us are blessed.”

“How can you say that?” Josie asked, more amused than anything else. This morning she seemed to have a new
acceptance of her figure. It wasn't perfect, but it no longer felt repulsive.

Griselda was wearing a fetching morning gown of light lawn scattered with posies. It came a little short, in the French style, and showed an enticing pair of slippers. She looked beautiful.

But of course, Josie reminded herself, Griselda's figure wasn't as plumpy as her own. There was nothing stout about Griselda. She was—

“You and I have precisely the same figure,” Griselda was saying. “And Josie, as I have told you from the moment you entered this house, our figure is one adored by men.”

“So much so that they've called me everything from a piglet to a sausage,” Josie pointed out.

“Crogan was an unpleasant fool, forced into courting you by his brother. And I do believe that Darlington was responding more to your corset than to your figure. You
had
no figure with that corset.”

Josie was starting to think the same herself. “Do you think it's too late?” she said, her voice growing rather thin as she said it.

“Absolutely not.”

“Wait a moment!” Josie said. “What happened with you and Darlington? Last night?”

A smug little smile danced on Griselda's lips.

“You did it,” Josie breathed. “You seduced him!”

“Well, not in the strictest meaning of the word,” Griselda said, a frown creasing her brow. “I certainly hope that you didn't form the opinion that I am in any way
easy
, Josie. That was a most improper conversation. I'm afraid that Sylvie is French, you know.”

“I know that.”

“The French like nothing better than to talk of naughty subjects,” and that was obviously all Griselda was going to say of it, because she was gathering her reticule and her
shawl. “We must go now. Madame Rocque grows more sought after every season. We shall have to pay her at least double to give you a gown on the spot. But I ordered an evening gown from her three weeks ago. If she has it ready, she can simply adjust it for you.”

“I'll never fit into your gown,” Josie protested.

“Of course you will. Oh, you're a little slimmer in the waist,” Griselda said, “though who could tell when you were all sewed up in that corset?”

“I'm not—” Josie said, but found herself talking to the wind.

Madame Rocque's establishment was at number 112, Bond Street. Josie had never seen anything quite like it. The antechamber was made up with all the intimacy of a lady's boudoir. Everything, from the silk-covered walls to the delicate chairs, was buttercup yellow. A dressing table hung with yellow silk stood to one side, and laid reverently over a chair was an exquisite gown, the kind Josie would never dare to wear. It had no seams, and Madame Badeau had said that seams were essential for someone like her.

She wandered over to gaze at the gown. It was just a swath of ruby-colored net, sewn with the smallest glittering beads that Josie had ever seen. It looked outrageously expensive, and supremely comfortable. Why shouldn't it be? The bodice was nothing more than a wide vee that appeared to plunge to the waist.

“You would be splendid in that gown,” Griselda said, appearing at her shoulder. “Isn't it wonderful the way Madame has a few gowns made up so that one can actually see them? I personally find looking at a costume far more inspiring than choosing one from an illustration.”

“Do you mean that she had the gown made up solely so that we could see it?” Josie asked.

“Likely she has a regular customer to whom she offers a lower price if they allow their garment to be viewed for a
time before delivery,” Griselda said. “I do believe that I shall try on that costume. Unfortunately, it is not appropriate for a debutante.”

“
You
will?” Josie asked, fascinated. Griselda wore gowns that enhanced her lush figure. But in the years she'd known her, Josie had never seen Griselda put on a gown that was transparently seductive.

Madame Rocque swept into the room like an admiral's ship leading a small flotilla of clucking attendants. “Ah, my dearest Lady Griselda,” she cried, dropping into a deep curtsy.

“Madame Rocque,” Griselda said, returning the courtesy.

Seeing that, Josie sank into a curtsy worthy of a queen. Madame Rocque's sharp black eyes darted around her body. “Ah!” she said with a sharp intake of breath.

Josie braced herself. Now Madame Rocque would start talking of seams and corsets.

“Finally, I have a young lady whom I can make look more like a woman and less like an insipid fairy,” Madame Rocque crooned. “Although, she is a very young lady.”

“Her first season,” Griselda said. “And I'm afraid it has not started on a salutary note, Madame. Thus, we turn to you.”

“You should have come to me immediately,” Madame said severely. She clapped her hands and sent several of her attendants running off in all directions.

Then she led Griselda and Josie into a smaller room that had the same sense of being a gentlewoman's private boudoir. “May I bring you a glass of champagne?” she asked. “Sometimes, to make a change of this nature, some Dutch courage is helpful.”

Josie was wearing one of her gowns from last year, since none of Madame Badeau's seamed constructions fit without the corset. And she had left the corset in Mayne's turret. Suddenly she realized that both women were looking in
quiringly at her, and Madame Rocque was holding out a glass of something that looked like champagne. “Oh no,” she said hastily. “I couldn't possibly. I would be most grateful for a cup of tea, Madame, if it wouldn't be too much trouble.”

Madame nodded to one of the girls who trotted away. Then she began prowling around Josie, around and around, running a line down the center of her back, touching her shoulders, her neck. “Miss Essex,” she said after a moment, “I must see you in your chemise, if you please. No gown.”

Josie was resigned. Madame Badeau had also examined her figure in a chemise only. Whatever Madame Rocquet said, it couldn't be worse than the clucks and cries of the distressed Madame Badeau on seeing her uncorseted. A moment later she stood before Madame Rocquet, clothed only in a chemise of the finest lawn. Every line of her body was visible, Josie knew, although with practiced ease she avoided glancing into the three-way glass to one side of the room.

Madame Rocquet prowled around and around, not saying a word. Then suddenly she started speaking to Griselda. “Deep colors would be best, of course, but in the first year…no.”

“I thought the same thing,” Griselda said, sipping a glass of champagne while she sat in one of the comfortable chairs to the side. “That crimson gown in the antechamber would be lovely.”

“Too bold, too sophisticated,” Madame Rocquet muttered, touching Josie again on both shoulders. She seemed to be measuring her without a tape, rattling numbers to a girl who stood ready to jot them down. “Now for you, Lady Griselda, that dress would be exquisite. But I have made no fortune selling you sophisticated clothing either. For you, the costume of a chaperone, albeit, since I make them, one of the most exquisitely gowned chaperones in London.”

“I have been a chaperone for the past few years,” Griselda said, “but as it happens, I did think that gown might suit me, Madame.”

Madame looked over and met Griselda's eyes. A small, knowing smile curled her mouth. “Indeed?” she said, returning to those quick, brief touches by which she was measuring Josie. “I am most happy to hear that. Now this young lady cannot wear crimson, but I think we might choose violet. Violet and periwinkle. No pink, no white.”

“White makes me look like a bleached elephant,” Josie said. Of course, she had bought a number of white gowns from Madame Badeau, but they were for wearing with the corset.

“Nothing I design will make you appear to be a circus animal,” Madame said. “I do not think white for you, because your skin is of a lovely sort, the cream of the dairy, this. We accent it, we do not kill it. Now…” and she fired out a rapid list of instructions to one of the girls. “I have a gown that we might try. When would you like to appear as your new self?”

“The Mucklowe ball,” Josie said before Griselda could open her mouth. “Would that be possible, Madame? It's the end of this week.”

“I shall manage, I shall manage,” Madame muttered. “I shall create something exquisite.”

“I want to look slender,” Josie said, feeling a wave of bravery.

“Poor Josephine has had a difficult time this season,” Griselda said to Madame.

Madame stopped in her flutter of measurements. “Not—the Scottish Sausage?”

Josie swallowed. It seemed that everyone in the world knew.

“There was a mention of it in a gossip column,” Madame said, “but no description. I promise you that once you appear in one of my creations, no one will ever think
of sausages again in your presence. You do not wish to appear slender, Miss Essex. No indeed.”

Josie chewed her lip. This was just what Annabel, and Griselda, and finally, Mayne, had told her.

“You want,” Madame said, pausing impressively, “to appear
seductive,
not like a dried-up little stick from a tree!”

Griselda was nodding and clapping.

Then Madame's attendant came in with a gown and she snatched it up. “For you,” she said to Josie, “I would make this up in a deep blue-violet. Just young enough, the color, to pass for debutante, and yet not so insipid.”

Josie stared at the gown. It was made of soft gathered swaths of silk, so slight they looked almost like net. They came across both shoulders and then crossed under the breasts. “You see,” Madame said, whipping the gown around, “in the back this darker color becomes long sashes that fall almost to your feet.”

“I can imagine it in a tawny yellow color,” Griselda said.

“Perhaps,” Madame said. She threw the gown over Josie's head. “This is only a sample that I made up for my own satisfaction. I prefer to work with cloth rather than on paper, if you understand.”

The gown seemed to fit. It felt sinuously comfortable, luxurious and sensual.

“You must look,” Griselda said, smiling at her from the side of the room.

Josie swallowed, turned, and looked in the large glass to the side of the room.

“Yellow is not what I would choose,” Madame was saying. Clearly there was no going against her opinion, even in the smallest details. “As I said before, I—”

But Josie wasn't listening. The glass showed a young woman whose rounded body breathed sensuality, whose hips and breasts were in perfect proportion—and both looked as if they were made to be fondled.

“They'll be at your feet,” Griselda observed.

“You were right,” Josie said in a stifled voice. “You were right all along, and I didn't listen to you.”

“You were infatuated by that corset,” Griselda said rather smugly. “Now, Madame, we need at least four evening gowns, and of course an assortment of morning and promenade gowns. Have you other gowns to show us, or perhaps sketches of those that aren't made up?”