Chapter Seven
“ T urn.” Madame Violette tapped the tip of her scissors to the table. “Now the other way.” A pause. “Lift your arms.”
Stripped to her shift, Valencia felt like a filly on sale at Tattersall’s famous horse market. “Ouch,” she muttered, as the team of seamstresses continued their poking and prodding into every inch of her flesh.
How did highborn ladies put up with such embarrassing indignities? she wondered. Perhaps because they had been trained since birth to accept their role as brood mares for the blooded stallions of the ton . Demure and docile. She gave an inward wince. That was likely the sort of female Lynsley would eventually marry. Duty would demand that he sire an heir. And the marquess was not a man to ignore his responsibilities.
Indeed, Valencia found it strange that he had put off breeding. By now, most men of his age and title would have bowed to tradition and set up a nursery. As a peer of the realm, he would be expected to make a match based on bloodlines, land and money. Privilege begat privilege .
For her, it was a world far more foreign than France.
“That is enough, madame.” With a wave of her pattern card, the modiste signaled that she had finished putting Valencia through her paces. “You may relax for a moment.”
Valencia flexed her shoulders. Why her thoughts kept spurring to intimate musing on the marquess was puzzling. And provoking.
“With a bit of lift here, and here . . .“ Madame Violette’s measuring stick touched under Valencia’s breasts. “We will have every lady in Paris green with envy.” The modiste pursed her lips. “Speaking of which, you must promise me to burn that puce gown. From now on, you are to wear only shades of emerald, seafoam or indigo blue.”
Staring down at her chest, Valencia made a face. “I’m afraid I’m not giving you much to work with.”
“You don’t need melons to make a man’s mouth water,” said Madame Violette with an earthy laugh. “Trust me, when I am done with you, cherie , the opposite sex will be begging to taste your fruit.”
The seamstresses tittered.
“Pardon, may I feel your peaches?” whispered one of them.
“Oooh, I should like to suck the juice from your oranges.”
Valencia blushed at the ribald chatter. Though why she should be embarrassed by the frank mention of sex was puzzling. It must be the thoughts of Lynsley that had her in such a strange mood.
After all, she had come to Paris fully intending to wield her body as a weapon. Seduction was a standard part of the Academy’s arsenal, and she had been trained by an expert on how manipulate male lust. A former courtesan to the King of Spain had taught the class on all the little tricks of the trade. And according to her it was child’s play to gain the upper hand in the battle of the sexes as most men could be coaxed into thinking with a different part of their anatomy instead of their brains.
But not Lynsley. If ever a man were in control of his mind and his body it was the marquess.
“That’s enough, girls.” The snap of the tapemeasure cut through the laughter. “Let us get down to work.”
Arms folded, Lynsley leaned against the doorway and watched the modiste adjust the last bit of pattern cloth.
“Alors, that will do, Madame Daggett,” said the woman through a mouthful of pins. “If only all my clients were so easy to work with. Your form is magnifique .”
He was in complete agreement. The scanty scraps of muslin displayed Valencia’s leggy height and sleek curves in exquisite detail.
“Am I dismissed?” she asked plaintively.
“ Oui , you may get dressed now.” A sniff expressed the dressmaker’s opinion of the offending garments. “But remember, you must promise me to burn that hideous gown once your new wardrobe is delivered.”
Valencia stepped down from the block, as if seeking to escape the guillotine blade, and hurried to the dressing room.
“Your wife possesses a unique beauty.” Spotting Lynsley in the doorway, Madame Violette sketched a quick curtsey. “Normally I would have said ‘ non’ to such a rush job, but it is not often that I have such a mannequin with which to work.”
“Thank you for making the exception.” Lynsley repressed a smile. His purse had most likely been as persuasive as Valencia’s beauty. The woman was the most sought-after modiste in Paris and knew her worth.
“No need to thank me, sir,” replied Madame Violette with a crafty grin. “When your wife appears in public in my new designs, my workshop will be busy for weeks filling the new orders.”
Valencia appeared from behind the curtain. “I think I would rather face the sabers of Marshall Soult’s cavalry than any more of your pins,” she announced, smoothing at the tie of her sash.
Madame Violette contrived to look injured. “A few little pricks here and there are a small price to pay for the sake of artistic perfection. And your husband agrees with me.”
She turned sharply, noticing his presence for the first time. “Oh, I did not see you come in.”
Lynsley nodded a greeting. “I finished early at the tailor and thought I would stop by to escort you home.”
“How thoughtful.” Valencia smiled, but hesitated a fraction before accepting his arm.
Would she ever be comfortable in his presence? Or would she always see him as a forbidding figure of authority, he wondered. Aloof. Untouchable. He had only himself to blame, he supposed. He had always taken great pains to keep a formal distance between himself and the students. But even in those first years, his relationship with Valencia had been . . . different.
“Sir?”
Roused from his momentary reveries, Lynsley looked up from the display of fashionable accessories to find her eying him with a quizzical look.
“If you can’t tear yourself away from the painted fans, I can wait for you outside.” She waved a hand in front of her cheeks. “All these silks and satins have made my head spin. I’m afraid I need a breath of fresh air.”
He took a moment to choose a lovely double vellum leaf with carved ivory sticks. The gouache painting depicted a classical scene from Greek mythology. Diana the Huntress.
“Please add that to our purchases,” he said, handing it one of the shop girls.
Valencia’s expression turned even more odd as they exited the atelier.
“What?” he murmured.
“Nothing. It’s just that . . .” She pulled a face. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a man pick out something so frivolous as a fan for me.”
“Surely you’ve received gifts from the opposite sex.”
“Flowers. The occasional box of sweetmeats.” Her lips twitched in amusement. “And Jeb Gervin gives me a jugged hare every Christmas.”
Dead rabbits? Lynsley reversed direction in mid-step. “Come, let us stroll down the street a bit before returning to the carriage. The shops along the rue de Rivoli are said to be quite chic.”
“Bosh,” she huffed under her breath. “I’ve seen quite enough fancy fripperies.”
But despite her reluctance, Valencia was soon perusing the various windows displays with undisguised enjoyment. “Look at the exquisite workmanship,” she exclaimed, leaning in to study a toy troop of mounted Hussars. “Every detail is authentic, right down to the red braid and forest green color of their coats.”
Most ladies of his acquaintance would not be waxing enthusiastic over painted lead soldiers. But instead of smiling, Lynsley suddenly felt as if his chest were circled in steel. Because of his Academy, war was a way of life for the Merlins. Valencia had been allowed precious little chance to enjoy the softer side of being a woman.
Before she could object, Lynsley turned abruptly and marched her through the door of the adjoining jewelry shop. A bell tinkled discreetly, its muted tone echoed by the rich black velvet lining the glass cases. In contrast, the sparkling gemstones and polished gold gleamed with a hard-edged brilliance.
He heard Valencia suck in her breath.
“We must keep up appearances,” he murmured. “As the wife of a distinguished diplomat, you will be expected to display a suitable reflection of his wealth and prestige.”
“But—”
He pointed to a double strand necklace of pearls highlighted by a teardrop emerald pendant. “We will see that,” he announced in a loud voice to the sales clerk who was hovering close by.
“With pleasure, monsieur.” The man presented the piece with a low bow.
Removing his gloves, the marquess unfastened the clasp. “Bend your head, my dear.” The gold was cool and smooth against his fingers, yet heat prickled through him as he touched the downy wisps of hair at the nape of her neck.
She shivered.
“Now turn around. Ah, as I thought—it matches your eyes to perfection.” Lynsley held up a looking glass. “Do you like it?”
“I—I . . .” Valencia fingered her throat.
“We will take it.” He indicated a pair of matching pearl and emerald ear bobs. “Those as well.”
“Don’t be absurd!” she hissed in his ear. “Good Lord, they are far too expensive!”
“I can afford it.” He paid for the purchases and tucked the beribboned package into his pocket.
“Don’t worry, I shall return them to you as soon as we return home,” she muttered they returned to the street. “You may then give them to a cher amie , so that your blunt won’t have been entirely wasted.”
The hell he would.
A sigh trailed after her words. “Surely we are finished for the day.”
“Not quite.” A small sign, handpainted in pastel colors, marked the tiny shop next door as a parfumerie . As Lynsley led the way inside, he was enveloped in a heady swirl of scents, ranging from light florals to lush spices. The effect was enticing, intoxicating.
Sheer silk draperies filtered the sunlight, giving the vast assortment of vials and bottles a hazy, painterly cast. Pale golds blended into topaz yellows, lavenders deepened to amethyst purples.
“ Bonjour .” The proprietress emerged from a tiny store room. With her chestnut hair, brick red gown and olive skin, she reminded the marquess of a marron glace —a sugared sweetmeat. The impression was heightened by the woman’s Mediterranean accent. Her words had the syrupy softness of the south of France. “I am Mademoiselle Aix, owner of this establishment. Are you looking for something special?”
“Yes,” replied Lynsley. “Something unique for the lady.” Ignoring Valencia’s soft snort, he went on. “Something individual—something that is made for her and her alone.”
“Ah, oui . A fragrance so distinct that even in utter darkness a man would recognize her by scent alone.”
He nodded. The woman had grasped the essence of his meaning.
“You have come to the right place, monsieur.” Mademoiselle Aix fixed them with an appraising stare. “I must say, I don’t see many English customers these days.”
“We are American,” answered Lynsley casually.
The woman’s brow lifted a fraction. “ Pardon . I am not often wrong in my assessment of people.” Her eyes lingered on him a touch longer before shifting to Valencia. “Does madame have a favorite scent to begin with?”
“I haven’t given it much thought,” muttered Valencia. “Verbena, I suppose.”
“ Non , it is far too light for you.” The proprietress beckoned them to follow her to the back of the shop. “A soupcon of lemon is all very well for a top note, but for a lady of your sultry looks, we must layer it with something more complex.”
Valencia hung back. “Is this really necessary?” she asked him in a low voice. “Perfume is surely an extravagance?—”
“You are meant to be a sensuous creature, remember?” he replied. His thigh grazed hers as he pressed her forward. “Men like Rochambert respond sexually to the primal senses of touch, sight, and smell.”
Her eyes widened a fraction.
“Come, madame, we shall start by sampling some Oriental scents.” Mademoiselle Aix assembled a handful of tiny bottles from her cedarwood shelves. “Ylang ylang, ginger, lotus, patchouli.” The clink of glass stirred up a hint of sweetness in the air. “Hold out your hand.”
Valencia slowly turned back her cuff.
The proprietress dabbed one of the crystal stoppers to the inside of her wrist.
She lifted it slowly to her face and inhaled. “Mmmm.”
Mademoiselle Aix caught her cuff. “Oh, we have just begun, madame.” She added several more touches, then rubbed them into the skin. “Pepper, cinnamon, and just a hint of vanilla. Now try again.”
As Lynsley watched her nostrils flare, his breath stilled.
Another sniff and Valencia’s wariness slowly melted into a liquid smile. “I never knew perfume could be so nuanced.” Smoothing back the lace from her skin, she turned and held her wrist close to his nose. “You have far more experience in this than I do. What do you think?”
“I think it . . .”
A perfume to drive a man mad with longing. Closing his eyes, he envisoned her naked, with pearlescent drops of the scent trickling between her bare breasts.
“I think it suits you,” he finished gruffly.
“Really?” Was there a whiff of mischief in her manner? She gave another breezy wave, her fingers nearly touching his cheek. “You don’t find it too strong?”
“My perfumes are never overpowering,” said Mademoiselle Aix. She flicked a few droplets over Valencia’s silky topcurls. “They should be subtle, yet seductive, drawing a man’s attention without him quite knowing why.”
Lynsley had to quell the urge to bury his face in her hair.
“Mix up a bottle—a large bottle—and send it to our residence,” he said after willing his jaw to unclench.
“With pleasure.” The proprietress began to collect her samples. “I will make up something for you too, monsieur. Something clean and manly.”
“And mysterious,” added Valencia as she met the other woman’s gaze. The fringe of her lashes shadowed her eyes.
Dark and inscrutable as midnight sin. For one delirious instant, Lynsley imagined allowing his self-control to shatter, along with all the crystal bottles, as he lay her across the counter and covered her body with his.
“So, the gentleman hides something beneath those very sober shades of charcoal grey?” The proprietress cocked her head. “Yes, I think you are right, madame.”
Years of practice allowed him to resume a mask of bland formality. “Like many women, my wife has a vivid imagination.”
“Your wife does not appear to be a woman with a weakness for fantasy.” Mademoiselle Aix tapped a painted nail to his lapel. “I would guess that she possesses a strength of character that is quite rare. But then, I think you know that, eh?”
“Why do you think I married her?” Lynsley handed over a wad of banknotes and murmured an address. “Can you have it delivered it by the end of the day?”
“But of course.” The proprietress tucked the francs into her bodice. “Anything else? Bath salts, perhaps, or my special massage oil for invigorating tired muscles?”
“Maybe another time.” Already unsettled by the strange lapse in self-control, he thought it best to escape before Mademoiselle Aix could embellish on the idea of limbs glistening with a satin sheen. “Come, my dear. The hour is growing late and we must not be late for our evening engagement.”
“Enjoy your stay in Paris,” called Madame Aix. “It is a city to stir all the senses.”