Page 16 of The Worst Spy in London (The Luckiest With Love #2)

A nnette stifled a sigh and shoved a bolt of Prussian blue satin silk back on the rack.

Her heart ached and her mind was fuzzy after the evening she’d had.

Last night, she slipped into bed without fanfare.

But this morning, after they’d opened the shop, she dutifully reported a very short version of events to her mother.

Maman took the news with three hard blinks and yanking on a spool of thread.

“Never,” she said, her French accent resurfacing, “ever, put yourself in so much danger again. Especially without my knowledge. What if a grenade had gone off? What if the duke or Bow Street decided you were guilty because you’re related to the imbecile? ”

Annette hung her head, knowing she was right. She hadn’t been a child in a long time, but she certainly felt like it in that moment. “Forgive me. It shan’t happen again.” She watched the late morning sun slip across their floor.

Maman’s face softened. “You did all this because of her? The girl?”

Annette shook her head. “Philippe is my cousin, not hers. But…yes I let myself be carried away by our ideas.”

Her mother put a hand on her shoulder. “Little cabbage, I hope she returns your affections. You deserve it.”

“I hope so, too.” Annette turned away to reorganize the cut pieces into proper piles in the workroom, only to relive her declaration of love over and over, shame making her face hot and her body sweaty. Distraction wasn’t working.

“Psst, Miss Morand.” One of the shopgirls stuck her head through the velvet curtain that separated the workroom from the fitting area. “Someone’s here asking about you.”

Her entire body prickled with alarm. “Who? Is it a man? Men?” Had Bow Street come to arrest her after hearing Philippe’s side of things?

“No.” The young woman gave her a funny look. “A client. Can’t remember her name, but she’s been in here a few times with her mother.”

Annette’s body prickled with an entirely different feeling now.

Could it be Damaris? What if she’d come to tell Annette she never wanted to see her again?

What if she’d come to very nicely thank Annette for introducing her to the wiles of womanly love, then waltz out of her life forever?

Or what if she was going to tell Annette that she enjoyed their friendship and would overlook Annette’s lapse in judgment last night?

Her hands shook as she rubbed them on her skirts. “How does she look?” Annette asked through numb lips.

The shopgirl stared at her. “Like she’s well dressed? Not angry. I don’t think she’s going to complain about any of the pieces she’s bought from us. Are you—are you quite well, miss?”

Annette shook her head, brushing off the question. She shouldn’t have asked the seamstress anyway. It was foolish. She’d just have to find her courage and go see what Damaris wanted.

She hardly noticed the walk through the fitting area. Her eyes were fixed on the parted velvet curtain that led to the front room. Vague murmurs drifted through the opening.

Annette’s mind buzzed. She tried to suck in a breath to brace herself in case of further rejection, but her lungs wouldn’t cooperate. She forced one foot through the doorway, then the other, and suddenly she was behind the white counter.

Damaris Dunham stood near the counter, bonnet framing her face, with the pink shawl folded neatly in her arms. She wore a deep, nearly russet brown frock with cream ribbon that looked quite fetching with her naturally pale features.

She was speaking quietly with Annette’s maman, who stood off to the side with the newest fashion plates in her hand.

“Yes, the war does make it difficult to bring in some fabric,” her maman was saying. “Lace from Brussels, for instance. But Spain has some lovely work of their own, so we’re working with Spanish suppliers this summer.”

Cheerful yellow roses sprouted from a glass vase on the counter, and Annette’s hands immediately went to arrange and rearrange them. “Good morning. How can I assist you?” Her voice sounded even, didn’t it?

Damaris glanced sharply at Annette. “Oh. Good morning.” Her smile wobbled.

There was a long and awkward pause.

Damaris wanted to shrivel in her walking boots, but refused. She had something to tell Annette, and it deserved to be said. She clenched and unclenched one hand, her palms clammy.

“Annette, my darling, Damaris was telling me that her shawl has some frayed edges and she wondered if we could fix the issue.” Madame de Morand’s voice wasn’t encouraging, per se, but a small smile toyed at the corner of her mouth. She knew exactly who Damaris Dunham was, it seemed.

Damaris hoped that was a good sign.

Annette took a breath. “Very well. I sewed the embroidery along the hem.” She opened her palm, keeping her eyes on the material.

Damaris’s breath was audible as Annette carefully unfolded the piece. “Can you fix it? The piece is rather dear to me, you see.” Her tone came fretful, more so than she’d intended.

Annette looked up sharply. “I’ll do my best.”

Damaris loved that shawl, so she hoped Annette truly could repair the damage.

The shawl unfolded on the counter, and Annette looked along the edges to see what had happened. Her eyes immediately snagged on a portion with almost no fringe left.

Damaris held her breath as Annette peered closer. What little fringe remained from nearly a four inch section was not frayed or torn. It looked…cut. With scissors.

Because it had been.

“Umm.” Annette’s brow furrowed as she glanced up to look at Damaris.

Damaris’s face turned hot. “I had to invent a reason to come down here. My mother is next door at the millinery.”

“Why did you need to come?”

Damaris’s heart pounded in her chest. She cleared her throat, then glanced across the room at Madame de Morand. “I, er,” she whispered.

Annette looked at her mother beseechingly.

The aristocratic modiste rolled her eyes and sighed. “Annette, there’s a curtain in the fitting area that has a torn hem. Why don’t you go look at it, and take your friend while you’re at it?”

Annette’s lips twitched. “Yes, Maman.” She sidestepped away from the counter and beckoned Damaris forward with one hand, the other holding onto the soft shawl.

Damaris shuffled forward. This was a good thing, yes? Her skin prickled with nervous energy.

“Come with me,” Annette offered. “It’s quiet back here.”

“Ah.” The vise around Damaris’s chest eased slightly. She didn’t breathe another word until Annette pulled her into a fitting area and tugged the curtain shut.

“What do you need to tell me?” Annette whispered, drawing close to Damaris so they wouldn’t be overheard by any seamstresses walking past. The heavy curtain and the dim alcove created an intimate setting.

Damaris’s breath echoed in her ears. “Well, first,” Damaris told the shawl in Annette’s hands, “I wanted to apologize.” Blast, she should’ve had a better opening.

“For?”

“Butchering your work.” Damaris gestured at the delicate piece, utterly embarrassed. “But I thought perhaps you could work some new fringe on the edge. I was desperate this morning.”

“Why were you desperate?” Annette clutched the shawl, as if it could save her from this emotionally fraught conversation.

“Because I kept repeating our conversation from last night over and over in my mind,” Damaris said. “And I never had a chance to tell you what I wanted. You told me everything in your heart, and then I left you there, unanswered.”

“Your mother was quite insistent,” Annette allowed.

Damaris nodded, feeling sick to her stomach.

“It took me a long time to come up with the words. Because I never really understood this and I never thought I’d want or need to say these things.

But. Annette: I love you.” Damaris’s heart thudded so hard against her ribs it burst. There. It’s out in the open.

“You do?”

Damaris nodded, encouraged by the light in Annette’s eyes.

“I know I probably seem like a silly, naive girl to you. But I’ve fallen for you, Annette.

I think I fell for you a long time ago, and I just didn’t understand my feelings.

I didn’t know all the ways I could express them, until you gave me names and actions for them. ”

Annette grinned. “Truly?”

Damaris had never wanted to kiss someone so badly. “I think…I think I’m declaring myself. If I was a man, I would ask for your hand in marriage.”

Annette laughed, delight flooding her face. “You don’t need to do that. We have time to know one another better before we sneak into a church and speak vows.”

Damaris was startled. “Women do that?” Then she flushed. “Of course some do. I’m just…pardon me, just ignore my foolishness.”

Annette stepped closer, until their bosoms touched.

She slowly untied Damaris’s bonnet, grinning all the while.

“I shan’t,” she promised, tossing the bonnet on the stool beside them.

“I’ll never ignore you or your thoughtfulness or your resourcefulness or your curiosity.

And I’ll certainly never ignore your foolishness.

” She leaned in and kissed Damaris’s pretty mouth.

“That’s one of my favorite parts about you, you know. ”

“Oh,” Damaris gasped, and her arms flew around Annette. She tilted her head down and deepened the kiss. She wrapped Annette tight and showed her exactly how much she loved her.

Several minutes later, when they pulled back to breathe, Annette asked, “What about your parents?”

“They saw an image of myself in one of the broadsheets this morning. My mother plans to pause her mission to find me an eligible husband for now. Until my notoriety dies down.”

Annette giggled.

“That gives us several months,” Damaris pointed out, “to plan our next scheme in delaying her new matrimonial plan for me. And by that time, I might just convince her that I need a beautiful, sophisticated modiste to take me under her wing to show me how to be fashionable.”

Annette kissed Damaris again. “I think I might know someone.”

Damaris’s eyes gleamed. “Do you? How perfect.”