Page 3 of The Worst Spy in London (The Luckiest With Love #2)

D amaris wiggled her bare toes on the stool, feeling restless. Miss Morand—Annette, as the young woman told her a few months ago—bent over and carefully pinned excess fabric in place. She’d do the hemming last.

She always had mixed feelings about this shop.

On one hand, she enjoyed seeing Annette.

They didn’t talk much, but Damaris was certain that they’d be excellent friends if given the chance.

On the other hand, this was just another place for Mother to make decisions for Damaris and stick her in uncomfortable clothing just like she stuck her into an uncomfortable betrothal in the spring.

She always felt odd when it was Annette who helped her.

She grew restless and itchy, even though Annette’s hands were cool, comforting, and professional.

Her mind wouldn’t stop racing, though, even as Annette folded the cuffs and stuck pins into the fabric.

She glanced down to see the curve of Annette’s profile, her forehead and nose down to her cheeks and chin.

Below was a very impressive bosom. It would be a lovely thing to sketch.

“Have you read the latest about the war?” Damaris picked the first topic that came to mind. It was distracting how pretty Annette was.

Annette hummed, pins pressed between full, pink lips.

“They say Napoleon’s alliance with Russia is strong. But I heard my father say that Napoleon will likely one day invade Russia just like everyone else, even if he does get along with the czar.”

Annette made another noise.

Damaris sighed. “We’ve been at war or expecting to go to war with Napoleon since I was fourt—no, fifteen years old. 1803, yes?”

Annette nodded as she moved, gesturing to Damaris extend her other arm.

“I suppose we’ll see what happens.” The war was mostly abstract for Damaris, except for when soldiers came to her father’s office to have legal documents drawn up or widows dropped by to request help receiving benefits. Those were heartbreaking cases, and Damaris prayed the war would end soon.

The rest of the fitting continued in the same fashion.

Damaris shifted her weight from one foot to the other, wishing the awkwardness would end.

She didn’t quite know why it was so awkward.

She liked Annette, and she thought Annette liked her, too.

Perhaps because Damaris felt this draw to be friends with her, even though she was a client.

When Annette was done basting a quick hem, she stood and carefully took the gown off Damaris, moving slowly due to the sharp pins.

She helped Damaris off the stool. Her hand was strong and capable beneath Damaris’s, and Damaris wondered what else Annette did when she wasn’t sewing. How else she used her hand.

Damaris flushed while she put her petticoats back on, though she wasn’t quite sure why.

“I think we can get this done tonight.” The plump young woman of medium height smiled, revealing a tiny little gap between her front teeth.

She had sparkling brown eyes, wavy black hair that always tried to escape her bun, and one perfect dimple on the right side of her mouth.

Damaris envied her smooth complexion, overflowing bosom, and graceful walk.

It’s because she’s French, Damaris consoled herself, wiggling back into her walking dress.

One really couldn’t compare a person to a Frenchwoman.

They weren’t fully human, it seemed, but something more.

Then she gasped, putting a hand to her mouth.

“Miss Morand, I went on and on about the war and forgot that you’re from France. ”

Annette shook her head. “I’m from France, yes,” she agreed in a perfectly British accent. “But I was five when we left. I don’t have ties to my homeland.”

Damaris had overheard gossip that Madame Morand was the widow of a baron or a chevalier who had fled, like many other aristocrats, to London and suddenly had to find work. She’d found success in being authentically French in a business that prized French fashion.

“So…I didn’t offend you by speaking ill of Napoleon?” she asked with a nervous smile.

Annette gave a delicate, Gallic snort. “I support the British Crown, same as you. Besides, it was Napoleon’s ilk who took away my family home and fortune, as my mother says.”

Damaris smiled with relief this time. “Oh, good.” She would’ve hated ruining this tenuous relationship.

Annette’s eyes darkened for a heartbeat, then she cleared her throat and stepped back. “This will be delivered to your home tomorrow. Is that acceptable?”

Damaris nodded. “I believe so. You’ll have to check with my mother, however. She tends to be rather picky.”

Annette grinned, displaying her white teeth and that little gap again. Damaris wondered what it felt like, to have a gap in her smile. “Yes, she has been rather demanding in the past.”

Damaris sighed, putting a hand to her temple. “She wasn’t too dreadful when we cancelled the trousseau, was she?”

Annette shrugged, not really answering. Which was an answer in and of itself. Her eyes turned serious. “I hope you’re recovering from the heartbreak. I’d hate to see you in pain.”

“Oh, well,” Damaris fumbled, glancing down and smoothing her skirt. “I wasn’t exactly in love. The betrothal was primarily my father’s idea, I think. I didn’t know him well, and apparently he preferred someone else.” She sighed and pasted on a smile. “Last I heard, they eloped to Gretna Green.”

Annette’s jaw dropped. “How on earth could he pick someone else? When you were right there?”

Damaris laughed, flattered. “That’s kind of you to say, but, well…” She gestured to herself.

Annette squinted. “What does that signify?”

Damaris gave a little one-shouldered shrug. “You’re a modiste. You see many women. You know that I’m no great beauty.” And she’d never done a single exciting thing, she’d never voiced her opinion loudly or had a big, bold personality.

Annette’s eyes narrowed and her mouth turned downward. “You’re marvelous, Miss Dunham. Willowy with silky hair and large, expressive eyes. He would’ve been lucky to have you.”

Damaris laughed again, her cheeks heating. “You’re saying that because I’m your customer. Thank you,” she added when Annette opened her mouth to protest.

Annette pursed her lips. “Your mother puts you in the worst colors for your complexion. I think you’d be shocked at how lovely you’d look when you wear something that fits your body.”

A spark of interest flared in Damaris’s chest. She tamped it down. “Maybe one day, when I’m married and the mistress of my own home.”

Annette’s eyes went flat, but she nodded. “The pale tones,” she said, fingering the peach gown, “do you no good. You need jewel tones, something dark and brilliant and bold.”

Damaris couldn’t even imagine wearing something dark and bold, but she liked the way Annette seemed to think so. “One day,” she said with a closed-lip smile.

“Damaris?” Her mother’s shrill voice cut through the velvet curtain somehow. “Where are you? Are you finished yet?”

Damaris sighed and glanced at Annette, who seemed to be smiling with her eyes. “Coming, Mother.” She reached for the edge of the curtain, pulling it back just as Annette reached at the same time. Their fingers tangled. Damaris’s heart skipped a beat and her hand tingled.

Annette blushed. “Forgive me.” She whipped her hand away.

“Oh, no, do not apologize.” Damaris stepped out into the short corridor, Annette on her heels.

Mother stood at the curtain separating the fitting rooms from the front room, bonnet tied tightly under her chin. She clutched her reticule tightly to her skirts. “Come, now. We have much to do. We’re running out of time before the ball.”

Damaris waved goodbye to Annette, wishing she could stay just a little longer.

She always enjoyed spending time at the modiste’s shop.

It had surprised her at first, because she expected to be confronted with her flaws every time she entered a shop catered to enhancing feminine beauty.

But Annette never made her feel that way.

She was an excellent modiste. Damaris bet all Annette’s clients felt that way.

Once inside the coach, Mother leaned back into the squab and sighed. “Madame Morand certainly knows her way around lace and silk. How did your dress look?”

Damaris stumbled for words. “Ah, it’s lovely.

The champagne is fashionable for young women.

” The yellow also made her look like she was dying, but she didn’t say that.

Her mother had strict opinions on Damaris’s wardrobe.

Light pastels whenever at society events, so they could emphasize Damaris’s youth—she was twenty-two, nearly four years older than true ton debutantes—and plain browns and grays for casual walking frocks and dresses for home.

“Good.” Mother nodded firmly. “We need to find you a husband. Even if that Littleton lad didn’t work out, your father has plenty of clients with younger sons.

We can’t aim as high as a duke’s son, of course, since your father is in trade, but another baronet, perhaps.

Maybe even an industrialist, though I’d prefer gentry for you. ”

Damaris sighed as her mother prattled on about the future.

She rested her elbow on the edge of the coach window and set her chin in her hand, watching as the streets of London moved past. She’d rather not think of her future: an advantageous match with a young man, plenty of babies, raising her family’s social class, and whatever else her mother had in mind.

Damaris wasn’t quite sure what she wanted, but she knew it wasn’t that.