hanging drops of crystal on a chandelier tinkling together as they met the caress of a housemaid’s feather duster.
Molly’s temperature rose another notch, and she jabbed a pin into the small cushion tied around her wrist.
“Not now, Maria,” she heard Carver exclaim gruffly.
“Why not?” Again she laughed, harder this time, shaking those crystals until they became chipped. “It’s only a servant.”
Whether there was eventually a kiss exchanged or not, Molly didn’t see or hear. She kept her sight trained upon her sewing basket, throwing her seamstress tools back inside it with increasing speed and venom.
Peters soon returned with the tea and set it up on a small table beside the chaise. There was a large silver urn, delicate china cups, and a three-tiered platter full of enticingly pretty cakes. Molly’s stomach rumbled, but she kept her head down. She was not invited to partake of the tea, naturally, and in any case, how could she have enjoyed it in that dreadful woman’s company?
“Madam,” she ventured, when it seemed her presence and her purpose there was forgotten, “if you are occupied with your guest, I will take my leave and return again another day.” How badly she wanted to add that the baroness was not her only customer, and other gowns awaited her work and her time.
“Heavens above, woman, I hardly knew you were still here.” The baroness was perched on the edge of the chaise, since Carver had not moved to make room for her ample buttocks. She stuck a slender, two-pronged fork into one of the little cakes. “Peters, I suppose you’d better tell the footman at the door to summon a hackney cab for the dressmaker. It seems she didn’t think to ask the one that brought her here to wait.”
“I could not ask the coach driver to wait for me, madam, especially not knowing how long the fitting would take.” She could not afford it, was what she meant, but it would not be seemly to mention money.
Not that “seemly” would matter much to a woman who walked about in her underthings in front of a gentleman in her dressing room.
The man on the chaise suddenly leapt to his feet, almost causing the baroness to lose her balance. “I must leave. I have an important engagement elsewhere this afternoon.” Molly saw his boots walk by with that forceful stride. But they stopped at the door of the dressing room and swiveled with their toes toward her. “Miss Robbins, perhaps you would care for a ride across Town, since you are done here?”
The silence that greeted this remark was in danger of stretching into uncomfortable territory, until the baroness exclaimed, “But she came in a hackney. She can leave the same way. I’m sure that’s good enough for a dressmaker.”
Molly snapped the lid of her sewing basket shut and scrambled upright. “Certainly, madam. It is no trouble to go back as I came, your lordship. Thank you for the offer.”
“Nonsense,” he growled. “You’ll come with me.”
Again, silence. She couldn’t even hear her heart beating.
“It looks like rain,” he added crossly, as if the bad weather might be her fault. “So you’d better let me take you home rather than wait for the footman to find you a hackney.”
Even his mistress knew not to argue when he used that tone of voice. Not that it stopped her from pouting.
A few moments later Molly was marched out to his carriage, where she sat very straight, knees together, sewing basket on her lap, the covered, unfinished gown carefully folded beside her. After shouting directions at the coachman, Carver dropped to the opposite seat.
“Here I am, doing you a favor again,” he muttered. “What can I be thinking? It’s surely a fool’s errand to expect gratitude from you.”
“Of course I am grateful, your lordship,” she replied stiffly, her fingers tightly gripping the basket, her knees pressed together so hard they hurt. “I just wish you wouldn’t.” She couldn’t resist adding, “I’m only a
Molly’s temperature rose another notch, and she jabbed a pin into the small cushion tied around her wrist.
“Not now, Maria,” she heard Carver exclaim gruffly.
“Why not?” Again she laughed, harder this time, shaking those crystals until they became chipped. “It’s only a servant.”
Whether there was eventually a kiss exchanged or not, Molly didn’t see or hear. She kept her sight trained upon her sewing basket, throwing her seamstress tools back inside it with increasing speed and venom.
Peters soon returned with the tea and set it up on a small table beside the chaise. There was a large silver urn, delicate china cups, and a three-tiered platter full of enticingly pretty cakes. Molly’s stomach rumbled, but she kept her head down. She was not invited to partake of the tea, naturally, and in any case, how could she have enjoyed it in that dreadful woman’s company?
“Madam,” she ventured, when it seemed her presence and her purpose there was forgotten, “if you are occupied with your guest, I will take my leave and return again another day.” How badly she wanted to add that the baroness was not her only customer, and other gowns awaited her work and her time.
“Heavens above, woman, I hardly knew you were still here.” The baroness was perched on the edge of the chaise, since Carver had not moved to make room for her ample buttocks. She stuck a slender, two-pronged fork into one of the little cakes. “Peters, I suppose you’d better tell the footman at the door to summon a hackney cab for the dressmaker. It seems she didn’t think to ask the one that brought her here to wait.”
“I could not ask the coach driver to wait for me, madam, especially not knowing how long the fitting would take.” She could not afford it, was what she meant, but it would not be seemly to mention money.
Not that “seemly” would matter much to a woman who walked about in her underthings in front of a gentleman in her dressing room.
The man on the chaise suddenly leapt to his feet, almost causing the baroness to lose her balance. “I must leave. I have an important engagement elsewhere this afternoon.” Molly saw his boots walk by with that forceful stride. But they stopped at the door of the dressing room and swiveled with their toes toward her. “Miss Robbins, perhaps you would care for a ride across Town, since you are done here?”
The silence that greeted this remark was in danger of stretching into uncomfortable territory, until the baroness exclaimed, “But she came in a hackney. She can leave the same way. I’m sure that’s good enough for a dressmaker.”
Molly snapped the lid of her sewing basket shut and scrambled upright. “Certainly, madam. It is no trouble to go back as I came, your lordship. Thank you for the offer.”
“Nonsense,” he growled. “You’ll come with me.”
Again, silence. She couldn’t even hear her heart beating.
“It looks like rain,” he added crossly, as if the bad weather might be her fault. “So you’d better let me take you home rather than wait for the footman to find you a hackney.”
Even his mistress knew not to argue when he used that tone of voice. Not that it stopped her from pouting.
A few moments later Molly was marched out to his carriage, where she sat very straight, knees together, sewing basket on her lap, the covered, unfinished gown carefully folded beside her. After shouting directions at the coachman, Carver dropped to the opposite seat.
“Here I am, doing you a favor again,” he muttered. “What can I be thinking? It’s surely a fool’s errand to expect gratitude from you.”
“Of course I am grateful, your lordship,” she replied stiffly, her fingers tightly gripping the basket, her knees pressed together so hard they hurt. “I just wish you wouldn’t.” She couldn’t resist adding, “I’m only a
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