directly ahead, and only when the horses finally pulled away from him did she relax.
Eight
It was not to be the last time she found him in her path. Arriving one afternoon soon after for a fitting at the Baroness Schofield’s house in Grosvenor Square, Molly was horrified to find her client entertaining a guest. Who else but the Earl of Everscham, busily maintaining his reputation.
He sprawled on a chaise lounge in the lady’s dressing room, hands behind his head, one booted foot on the floor, the other carelessly marking the silk cushions. As usual, his was a powerful presence, devouring the frilly room, swamping the light, feminine furnishings and darkening the space with his masculinity. At least he was not still in his evening clothes, Molly thought briskly when she walked in and saw him there. The fresh spring air clung to him as she walked by, so she guessed he had arrived not long before her.
Good. He had not spent the night there then. Although why she should care was anybody’s guess. His life was his, hers was hers . They’d agreed. Molly set her sewing basket down and primly set to the task of ignoring his presence.
The baroness acted very differently on that day, with her lover in attendance. She was twittery and flirtatious, puffing out her bosom as she paraded around in her petticoats and corset, making Molly chase her back and forth with the measuring tape. Her lady’s maid stood nearby, looking bored and weary.
“Peters,” the baroness exclaimed at one point, “don’t just drip there against the wall leaving a stain, go and fetch the tea tray. His lordship must be parched. I know I am with all this dreadful standing about and being still so this woman doesn’t stick me with pins.”
Abruptly reminded of the time she poked Carver in the foot with a pin, Molly glanced up from her work very briefly and caught his eye. Saw a slight smile lift the corners of his mouth, a wicked gleam lighten his gaze. When he pressed two fingers to his lips, she recalled how those same two fingertips had stroked the side of her face. She supposed a cheek was nothing to him. He must be accustomed to touching a great deal more than a lady’s cheek.
Now it was as if she felt his lips travel the same course. Molly hurriedly went back to her pinning.
For all the Baroness Schofield’s complaints about the inconvenience of standing still, she did not trouble herself to do so for very long. Even her girlish, high-pitched laughter caused movement. She could not seem to do anything, even breathe, without exaggeration. Carver, on the other hand, was very still and mostly silent. Molly suspected he wasn’t even listening to his mistress as she chattered about other women of her acquaintance, happily disparaging their hair, their skin, their nails—anything she could. Did the baroness not know how little he was interested in gossip, how thin his patience for spiteful women?
Molly knew. But then she’d known him for twelve years. Had lived in his house all that time and seen him daily avoid the gossiping women who came to visit his sister. She’d heard all his muttered complaints as he stormed by her with his long stride, his coattails flapping like the wings of an angry blackbird.
She chanced another upward glance at the man on the chaise and saw him rub his brow with those fingers now in a quick, irritable manner. He must have a headache, she thought. Keeping up that reputation of his was taking its toll.
“Ouch!” the baroness squealed, jerking away. “Do try to leave my skin unpierced, woman! You render me full of holes!” Before Molly could apologize, the customer walked over to the chaise, trailing the unfinished hem across the dressing-room carpet, careless of Molly’s efforts to follow on her knees. “Darling Carver, how bored you must be waiting for this clumsy girl to be done. Here, I shall give you a kiss to make up for it. I know how impatient you are.” She laughed, and it sounded like the
Eight
It was not to be the last time she found him in her path. Arriving one afternoon soon after for a fitting at the Baroness Schofield’s house in Grosvenor Square, Molly was horrified to find her client entertaining a guest. Who else but the Earl of Everscham, busily maintaining his reputation.
He sprawled on a chaise lounge in the lady’s dressing room, hands behind his head, one booted foot on the floor, the other carelessly marking the silk cushions. As usual, his was a powerful presence, devouring the frilly room, swamping the light, feminine furnishings and darkening the space with his masculinity. At least he was not still in his evening clothes, Molly thought briskly when she walked in and saw him there. The fresh spring air clung to him as she walked by, so she guessed he had arrived not long before her.
Good. He had not spent the night there then. Although why she should care was anybody’s guess. His life was his, hers was hers . They’d agreed. Molly set her sewing basket down and primly set to the task of ignoring his presence.
The baroness acted very differently on that day, with her lover in attendance. She was twittery and flirtatious, puffing out her bosom as she paraded around in her petticoats and corset, making Molly chase her back and forth with the measuring tape. Her lady’s maid stood nearby, looking bored and weary.
“Peters,” the baroness exclaimed at one point, “don’t just drip there against the wall leaving a stain, go and fetch the tea tray. His lordship must be parched. I know I am with all this dreadful standing about and being still so this woman doesn’t stick me with pins.”
Abruptly reminded of the time she poked Carver in the foot with a pin, Molly glanced up from her work very briefly and caught his eye. Saw a slight smile lift the corners of his mouth, a wicked gleam lighten his gaze. When he pressed two fingers to his lips, she recalled how those same two fingertips had stroked the side of her face. She supposed a cheek was nothing to him. He must be accustomed to touching a great deal more than a lady’s cheek.
Now it was as if she felt his lips travel the same course. Molly hurriedly went back to her pinning.
For all the Baroness Schofield’s complaints about the inconvenience of standing still, she did not trouble herself to do so for very long. Even her girlish, high-pitched laughter caused movement. She could not seem to do anything, even breathe, without exaggeration. Carver, on the other hand, was very still and mostly silent. Molly suspected he wasn’t even listening to his mistress as she chattered about other women of her acquaintance, happily disparaging their hair, their skin, their nails—anything she could. Did the baroness not know how little he was interested in gossip, how thin his patience for spiteful women?
Molly knew. But then she’d known him for twelve years. Had lived in his house all that time and seen him daily avoid the gossiping women who came to visit his sister. She’d heard all his muttered complaints as he stormed by her with his long stride, his coattails flapping like the wings of an angry blackbird.
She chanced another upward glance at the man on the chaise and saw him rub his brow with those fingers now in a quick, irritable manner. He must have a headache, she thought. Keeping up that reputation of his was taking its toll.
“Ouch!” the baroness squealed, jerking away. “Do try to leave my skin unpierced, woman! You render me full of holes!” Before Molly could apologize, the customer walked over to the chaise, trailing the unfinished hem across the dressing-room carpet, careless of Molly’s efforts to follow on her knees. “Darling Carver, how bored you must be waiting for this clumsy girl to be done. Here, I shall give you a kiss to make up for it. I know how impatient you are.” She laughed, and it sounded like the
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