LITMIR.BIZ

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shot him a baleful glance, he continued, “Actually, Mama intended to collect the bonnet herself, but I wouldn’t hear of it. She’s not yet fully recovered from that putrid cold. There’s no need for you to come, though. Why not hie on to White’s, and order us wine? Charge it to my account.” Evan directed a look at Brent’s ankle. “’Twill ease the pain.”

      Brent’s frown smoothed. “Feel better already. Mind you hurry. I should hate to drink all your wine before you arrive.” Tipping his hat, Blakesly set off.

      “I’ll not be long,” Evan called after him. “Madame Emilie’s shop is just off Bond Street.”

      Brent halted in midstep. “Madame Emilie?”

      When Evan nodded, his friend strode back. “On second thought, I’ll accompany you. Let’s be off, shall we?”

      Evan raised his eyebrows. “What possible reason could you have for visiting a bonnet shop?”

      “Let’s just say I might find it…interesting.”

      As they strolled, Evan pressed him again, but Brent would vouchsafe nothing further, only shaking his head and saying Evan must see for himself.

      After a few minutes, they reached the neat shop front. Entering to the tinkle of a warning bell, Evan murmured to Brent, “Shall I now discover what great myster—”

      A tall woman in the shop’s shadowed interior turned toward them. As Evan’s eyes adjusted to the relative darkness, the rest of his sentence dissolved on his lips.

      Shapes and colours blurred; the mutter of voices faded to a distant hum. He saw only Her: a slender figure in lilac, her pale oval face framed by dusky curls above full, petal-pink lips. When she raised inquiring violet eyes to meet his mesmerized gaze, a frisson of pure energy flashed between them, rocking him to his toes and riveting him, speechless, to the spot.

      A faint scent of lavender teased his nose. His heartbeat stopped, then stampeded.

      “Damme, Ev, she’s as enchanting as Willoughby claimed!”

      At his friend’s awed undertone, Evan shook his gaze free. Aftershocks darted to every nerve. “She’s perfection,” he agreed, his voice unsteady.

      “Fortunate sod, to have a perfectly unexceptional reason to speak with her,” Brent murmured. “Well, get on with it!” He gave the earl a shove.

      In truth, Evan could not have stayed away. As if compelled, he walked toward her, only dimly aware of shouldering aside a heavyset matron who appeared to be conversing with the Vision. “Lord Cheverley, Madame Emilie.” Seizing her hand, he brought it to his lips.

      He felt it again, that…current, passing between them. By the faint pinking of her porcelain cheeks, Evan knew Madame must have felt it as well.

      Amazingly, she gave no other sign, her pansy eyes expressionless now as she fixed a cool gaze upon him. After a moment, she frowned and tugged at her gloved hand, which he continued to retain in rather too tight a grip.

      With a mumbled apology, he released it.

      “Lord Cheverley?” she repeated in cultured tones. Then her forehead smoothed. “Ah, yes. I received the note from your lady mother, and her bonnet is ready. A moment only, my lord.”

      With a nod to him, she turned to the stout woman beside her, who was regarding Evan with a frosty air of outrage. “Lady Stanhope, I’m honored the bonnet pleases you, and grateful for your patronage. Now, if you will excuse me?” She made a deep curtsey. With a disdainful sniff in Evan’s direction, the client stalked off.

      “This way, my lord.”

      He followed Madame closely toward a small office, his eyes glued on her graceful sway of hip. When she halted inside the door, he nearly ran into her.

      She turned to him with a quizzical look, her long, alabaster fingers holding out something. “Is the bonnet acceptable, my lord? Shall I box it?”

      The fullness of her moving lips, the tantalizing glimpse of tongue fascinated him. Her subtle lavender scent, stronger now, clouded his brain. A nearly overpowering urge filled him to touch that ivory cheek, to feel those lips yielding under his own. He would pursue her elusive tongue into its warm wet haven, trace his fingers toward that swell of bosom…. His body hardened and moisture broke out on his brow.

      “Yes, well. Mama…I’m sure,” he murmured from within a suddenly too tight neckcloth, trying to yank his thoughts back to conversational channels. “’Tis fine—exquisite. The, ah, bonnet.”

      Madame arched a dark eyebrow and studied him. Evan gazed back, thinking he could stare forever into the depths of those wood-violet eyes. No, more like sweet violets, or the pure blue-tinted petals of an unfolding Dutch iris.

      Then the tempting lips curved into a half smile, and he realized with a jolt what a perfect idiot he must appear. Before he could try to make a recovery, Madame Emilie handed him a hatbox. “Please convey to Lady Cheverley my gratitude for the great honor of her patronage. Good day, my lord.”

      She curtseyed, then nudged him toward the door. The touch of her gloved hand seemed to sizzle through the layers of cloth, leaving him once again speechless.

      When coherency returned, he found himself standing beside Brent on the street outside the shop. An elaborately painted iron hat with the words Madame Emilie swung gently from its bracket above him.

      “Bouleversé, were you?” Blakesly looked him up and down and chuckled. “Can’t recall seeing you so thrown off your stride by a woman since that ballet dancer years ago, when we first came down from Oxford.”

      Evan shook his head, not sure himself what had just transpired. His hands and feet tingled, as if he’d been in the proximity of lightning. “The dancer couldn’t hold a candle.”

      “No, indeed.” Brent gave a wistful sigh. “But come. To recover, I recommend a strong liquid restorative.”

      Though his feet moved in the direction of St. James, Evan’s glance kept straying back to the shop. “What does Willoughby know of her? Tell me!”

      “Aye, your lordship!” Brent snapped a mock salute. “But ’tis little enough. She’s a fairly recent widow, to judge by the half-mourning she wears.”

      “Half-mourning?”

      “You didn’t notice?” Brent laughed. “I expect you were too busy envisioning her undressed. Though I must warn you, based on the bit Willoughby knew, if you’ve seduction in mind, you’re likely to be disappointed. Seems St. Clair discovered her first, and his whole set of bucks started dropping by her shop on the slenderest of pretexts.”

      “St. Clair?” Evan sniffed derisively.

      “Indeed. Knowing St. Clair, the hints were probably none too subtle, but she apparently turned down every invitation to tea or dinner or the theater. In fact, Willoughby says, no one got more from her than civil words about ordering bonnets for their womenfolk. He concluded she must be middle-class and hopelessly virtuous.”

      Evan gave him a sharp glance. “You seem to have listened closely. Rather unusual for you to display so much interest in a woman.”

      Brent returned a hard stare. “And you? Surely you’re not considering setting up a new flirt, after just ridding yourself of La Tempestina. Besides, I thought when Richard left to rejoin Wellington you promised to drag Andrea to town. Didn’t you two have some sort of…understanding?”

      “Nothing formal. You know how shy she’s grown since her accident. I just assured her that if she didn’t find anyone else to her fancy by the end of the Season, she could always marry me. But—” he waved a hand dismissively “—that’s a long way off. Have you an interest in Madame?”

      “I’d hardly have much of a chance.” Brent twisted his lips into a wry smile. “If she wouldn’t consider St. Clair and all his blunt, she’s not likely to grant her favors to an untitled younger son

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