breakfast tray.”
“Oh, you can claim whatever you like, Miss Whitewood.” The bustling crowd seemed to perform its ownvanishing act as Tristan whispered into her ear, “But I’m not required to believe you.”
“Excuse me, honey, but our children’s department is on the eighth …”
The clerk’s nasal whine trailed off as Arian freed the velvet skirt she’d been fondling and turned away from the rack.
“Oh,” the woman said. “You ain’t a little girl.” She worked her jaw in tireless rhythm, like a cow chewing its cud, as she eyed Arian up and down, taking in her severe dress, her scuffed pumps, her unbound mass of curls. “Our cosmetics department is on the ground floor if you’re interested in some ashes to go with that sackcloth.”
Arian fingered the amulet, thinking she just might turn the condescending creature into a dormouse, but Tristan rescued her from the temptation by emerging from the other side of the rack and drawing off his sunglasses.
The clerk swallowed whatever she’d been chewing with a gratifying gulp. “Why, Mr. Lennox! I didn’t recognize you!”
He offered her a smile that was scathing in its tenderness. “Obviously.” Arian fought the urge to squirm as he slipped a possessive arm around her waist. “But if you’re too busy to assist me in selecting an extensive new wardrobe for my guest, we’ll just be on our way to Bergdorf Goodman’s.”
The woman almost fell off her pointy heels in her rush to block his path. “Oh, no, Mr. Lennox. We always have time for you at Bloomingdale’s. If you and the lovely young lady will follow me …?” Patting her shellacked helmet of hair with a trembling hand, she ushered them into a private salon.
“What country is she from?” Arian whispered. “I don’t recognize her accent.”
A shadow of a smile touched Tristan’s mouth. “A sprawling kingdom called Queens.”
Arian found the salon’s rose-colored carpet, walls, and settee soothing to her nerves. She still hadn’t recovered from her recent brush with disaster. Given the capricious nature of her magic, she was fortunate she hadn’t turned herself into an apple and been gobbled up by the horse. More than ever before, she must remember to heed Marcus’s sage advice to “be careful what she wished for.” Especially when Tristan Lennox was around.
She stole a glance at his implacable profile. More disturbing than the literal fruits of her error had been the figurative ones. Wariness and suspicion had cast a shadow over the convivial mood they had so briefly shared. ’Twas probably just as well. There had been a fleeting moment, when he had gazed into her eyes and touched her hair, that she had been tempted to confide in him. To spill the entire sordid story of her flight from Gloucester and Linnet’s clutches.
He was presently explaining to the fawning clerk how her entire wardrobe had met with an unfortunate accident. Arian glared at his broad back, having been present when he’d ordered that her one and only dress be tossed into something called an incinerator. It was only after she’d protested that he’d agreed to have it laundered, then removed to the darkest, most inaccessible recesses of his closet.
The clerk soon disappeared through a narrow door, but instead of bringing fabric samples for Arian to peruse, she returned with a single glass of champagne balanced on a silver tray. A fat strawberry floated in its effervescent depths.
“Why, thank you, Louisa. You always remember my strawberry.” Tristan removed his coat and lounged back on the settee, favoring the woman with a genuine smile.
Arian’s stomach did a strange little flip. Even shecould not deny the devastating charm of the man’s smile. It crinkled his eyes and erased the stern furrow from his brow. His long fingers cupped the bowl of the champagne glass with maddening grace as he plucked out the strawberry and brought it to his lips.
“Anything to please, Mr. Lennox. That’s our
“Oh, you can claim whatever you like, Miss Whitewood.” The bustling crowd seemed to perform its ownvanishing act as Tristan whispered into her ear, “But I’m not required to believe you.”
“Excuse me, honey, but our children’s department is on the eighth …”
The clerk’s nasal whine trailed off as Arian freed the velvet skirt she’d been fondling and turned away from the rack.
“Oh,” the woman said. “You ain’t a little girl.” She worked her jaw in tireless rhythm, like a cow chewing its cud, as she eyed Arian up and down, taking in her severe dress, her scuffed pumps, her unbound mass of curls. “Our cosmetics department is on the ground floor if you’re interested in some ashes to go with that sackcloth.”
Arian fingered the amulet, thinking she just might turn the condescending creature into a dormouse, but Tristan rescued her from the temptation by emerging from the other side of the rack and drawing off his sunglasses.
The clerk swallowed whatever she’d been chewing with a gratifying gulp. “Why, Mr. Lennox! I didn’t recognize you!”
He offered her a smile that was scathing in its tenderness. “Obviously.” Arian fought the urge to squirm as he slipped a possessive arm around her waist. “But if you’re too busy to assist me in selecting an extensive new wardrobe for my guest, we’ll just be on our way to Bergdorf Goodman’s.”
The woman almost fell off her pointy heels in her rush to block his path. “Oh, no, Mr. Lennox. We always have time for you at Bloomingdale’s. If you and the lovely young lady will follow me …?” Patting her shellacked helmet of hair with a trembling hand, she ushered them into a private salon.
“What country is she from?” Arian whispered. “I don’t recognize her accent.”
A shadow of a smile touched Tristan’s mouth. “A sprawling kingdom called Queens.”
Arian found the salon’s rose-colored carpet, walls, and settee soothing to her nerves. She still hadn’t recovered from her recent brush with disaster. Given the capricious nature of her magic, she was fortunate she hadn’t turned herself into an apple and been gobbled up by the horse. More than ever before, she must remember to heed Marcus’s sage advice to “be careful what she wished for.” Especially when Tristan Lennox was around.
She stole a glance at his implacable profile. More disturbing than the literal fruits of her error had been the figurative ones. Wariness and suspicion had cast a shadow over the convivial mood they had so briefly shared. ’Twas probably just as well. There had been a fleeting moment, when he had gazed into her eyes and touched her hair, that she had been tempted to confide in him. To spill the entire sordid story of her flight from Gloucester and Linnet’s clutches.
He was presently explaining to the fawning clerk how her entire wardrobe had met with an unfortunate accident. Arian glared at his broad back, having been present when he’d ordered that her one and only dress be tossed into something called an incinerator. It was only after she’d protested that he’d agreed to have it laundered, then removed to the darkest, most inaccessible recesses of his closet.
The clerk soon disappeared through a narrow door, but instead of bringing fabric samples for Arian to peruse, she returned with a single glass of champagne balanced on a silver tray. A fat strawberry floated in its effervescent depths.
“Why, thank you, Louisa. You always remember my strawberry.” Tristan removed his coat and lounged back on the settee, favoring the woman with a genuine smile.
Arian’s stomach did a strange little flip. Even shecould not deny the devastating charm of the man’s smile. It crinkled his eyes and erased the stern furrow from his brow. His long fingers cupped the bowl of the champagne glass with maddening grace as he plucked out the strawberry and brought it to his lips.
“Anything to please, Mr. Lennox. That’s our
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