depict?
"Wait!" she said, as he lifted his laden brush. His brows rose in inquiry but she couldn't let him do this. "You have to get a sidesaddle. Lady Godiva was a noblewoman. And a real horse wouldn't hurt, either."
"Stickler for accuracy, are we?" Nic's tone was droll. "Don't worry, Duchess. This is just a study. To
see if my concept works. If it does, I'll buy you a sidesaddle. And a horse—though God knows where we'd pose you."
"A white horse," she insisted, her memory of the legend clear.
"Brat," he teased and tossed his beautiful hair back with a laugh.
* * *
Come Monday. Nic took her to a dressmaker on
Princes Street
. To Merry's relief, it was no society haunt, not even a proper shop, but a private home in which the business was conducted. The proprietress was a shrunken old woman with a thick Parisian accent. Her hands were cold as she measured Merry
and clucked. She reminded her so eerily of her mother's dresser she was afraid to open her mouth for
fear the two women might be acquainted.
While this was going on, Nic waited in a tiny parlor by himself. Entirely a gentleman, he did not suggest he watch her being fitted, nor give instructions beyond a vague encouragement to "give her what she needs."
This presented a problem. Though Merry knew, despite her disinterest, precisely what the duke of Monmouth's daughter needed in her wardrobe, she had no idea what a maid turned artist's model might require.
Reduced to hazarding a guess, she ordered three plain warm dresses, an assortment of underthings, and two pairs of silk hose. These were not perhaps necessary, but even Merry could not bring herself to clothe her legs in scratchy wool.
Once she'd made her selections, everything was brought out for Nic's approval. The procedure made Merry feel peculiar, like a mistress instead of an employee. She didn't enjoy the feeling, but she
supposed the old lady's assumption was understandable.
Nic showed no such discomfort. As if he vetted women's dresses every day, he examined the patterns and fabric. Merry tensed as his brows drew together above his nose. She wondered if, in her ignorance, she'd ordered too much, but he simply rubbed his jaw and nodded. Then he lifted his gaze to the bent
old woman's. "Do you remember the royal purple you showed me last month?"
"Of course," she said with a businesswoman's smile. "A lovely silk velvet."
"We'd like something in that for evening. Off the shoulder and not too much bustle. But I leave the
style to you. You know what I like."
"Indeed," agreed the seamstress, "and perhaps a matching cloak?"
Nic turned on his heel to look at Merry, a sharp, elegant motion that took her by surprise. His eyes were considering but soft. "A real coat, I think. Warmly lined. A dark tweed. Chocolate, if you have it. Or Chinese green. And velvet lapels. Black."
"Very good," said the seamstress. From her respectfully inclined head she obviously sensed that he was done.
Merry didn't speak until the assistant showed them out the door. "I need an evening gown?"
"You might," he said, his expression amused but uninfor-mative. She fought a trickle of alarm. She
hoped he wasn't planning to take her out in public. The last thing she wanted was to be spotted before
her ruination was complete.
"And a coat?" she added as he whistled for a cab.
"Now that you need. The one you have is ragged."
He handed her up the steps of the old four-wheeled growler, his manners as impeccable as any son of noble blood. Merry had noticed this poise of his before. Had he been coached to do these things?
Perhaps he'd hired a tutor. Perhaps, as an artist, the extra polish helped him attract a more affluent clientele.
He settled opposite her in the forward seat and stretched his long, lean legs to the other side. "If you
feel awkward about accepting these garments, you could leave them behind when the job is through.
Of
"Wait!" she said, as he lifted his laden brush. His brows rose in inquiry but she couldn't let him do this. "You have to get a sidesaddle. Lady Godiva was a noblewoman. And a real horse wouldn't hurt, either."
"Stickler for accuracy, are we?" Nic's tone was droll. "Don't worry, Duchess. This is just a study. To
see if my concept works. If it does, I'll buy you a sidesaddle. And a horse—though God knows where we'd pose you."
"A white horse," she insisted, her memory of the legend clear.
"Brat," he teased and tossed his beautiful hair back with a laugh.
* * *
Come Monday. Nic took her to a dressmaker on
Princes Street
. To Merry's relief, it was no society haunt, not even a proper shop, but a private home in which the business was conducted. The proprietress was a shrunken old woman with a thick Parisian accent. Her hands were cold as she measured Merry
and clucked. She reminded her so eerily of her mother's dresser she was afraid to open her mouth for
fear the two women might be acquainted.
While this was going on, Nic waited in a tiny parlor by himself. Entirely a gentleman, he did not suggest he watch her being fitted, nor give instructions beyond a vague encouragement to "give her what she needs."
This presented a problem. Though Merry knew, despite her disinterest, precisely what the duke of Monmouth's daughter needed in her wardrobe, she had no idea what a maid turned artist's model might require.
Reduced to hazarding a guess, she ordered three plain warm dresses, an assortment of underthings, and two pairs of silk hose. These were not perhaps necessary, but even Merry could not bring herself to clothe her legs in scratchy wool.
Once she'd made her selections, everything was brought out for Nic's approval. The procedure made Merry feel peculiar, like a mistress instead of an employee. She didn't enjoy the feeling, but she
supposed the old lady's assumption was understandable.
Nic showed no such discomfort. As if he vetted women's dresses every day, he examined the patterns and fabric. Merry tensed as his brows drew together above his nose. She wondered if, in her ignorance, she'd ordered too much, but he simply rubbed his jaw and nodded. Then he lifted his gaze to the bent
old woman's. "Do you remember the royal purple you showed me last month?"
"Of course," she said with a businesswoman's smile. "A lovely silk velvet."
"We'd like something in that for evening. Off the shoulder and not too much bustle. But I leave the
style to you. You know what I like."
"Indeed," agreed the seamstress, "and perhaps a matching cloak?"
Nic turned on his heel to look at Merry, a sharp, elegant motion that took her by surprise. His eyes were considering but soft. "A real coat, I think. Warmly lined. A dark tweed. Chocolate, if you have it. Or Chinese green. And velvet lapels. Black."
"Very good," said the seamstress. From her respectfully inclined head she obviously sensed that he was done.
Merry didn't speak until the assistant showed them out the door. "I need an evening gown?"
"You might," he said, his expression amused but uninfor-mative. She fought a trickle of alarm. She
hoped he wasn't planning to take her out in public. The last thing she wanted was to be spotted before
her ruination was complete.
"And a coat?" she added as he whistled for a cab.
"Now that you need. The one you have is ragged."
He handed her up the steps of the old four-wheeled growler, his manners as impeccable as any son of noble blood. Merry had noticed this poise of his before. Had he been coached to do these things?
Perhaps he'd hired a tutor. Perhaps, as an artist, the extra polish helped him attract a more affluent clientele.
He settled opposite her in the forward seat and stretched his long, lean legs to the other side. "If you
feel awkward about accepting these garments, you could leave them behind when the job is through.
Of
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