My Unfair Lady (3 page)

   "This is the stealingest dog I ever did know," muttered Maria beneath the lace. "She's got something and won't give it up."

   The duke hadn't moved, his eyes widening with each passing moment. Summer thanked God that she'd paid him to be on her side, 'cause it seemed that a day didn't pass in this house without some kind of shenanigans going on, and if he was going to be a frequent visitor, it was best to get him initiated anyway.

   "Chi-chi," she admonished. "Give it to Maria."

   The dog responded with a muffled growl. Maria leaned back on her bustle and shook her head, black hair flying.

   "Chi-chi…" warned Summer.

   The teacup-sized dog shot out from beneath her petticoats, circled the room a few times, then hopped into Maria's lap and spat out the thing in her mouth. Maria screamed and stood, tumbling dog and a very dead rat onto the carpeted floor.

   "Tarnation, it's only a rat, Maria." Summer picked the thing up by its tail while Chi-chi jumped up and down in excitement. "Here, take it."

   "I'll do no such thing," stammered Maria as she backed out the door. "Don't even know how ya' could touch such a nasty thing." Her pale green eyes flicked from her to the duke, and her face reddened in sudden embarrassment. "I forgot he was—oh, tarna tion! Ya'll never be accepted—I plumb—"

   Summer took the dead animal and wrapped it in a doily from the back of the settee and handed it to Maria. "Here, take this and the dog back downstairs." Maria made a hasty retreat with a whining Chi-chi in her arms. When Summer turned back to the duke and saw the exas peration written on his face, she couldn't help giggling.

   "I have shocked you, sir."

   "Any other woman would have been screaming right along with Maria."

   "Oh, she's just squeamish. There's no reason to be excited about a dead rat."

   He stood frozen, as if his feet were rooted to the floor. "It makes me wonder what you've seen—that a dead rat pales in comparison."

   Summer gave him back a perfect imitation of his own shrug.

   "And," he continued, "it seems that you have more activity beneath your skirts than all the whores in the East End."

   Summer suppressed a grin. Wouldn't he be surprised if he knew the hours that she and Maria had spent in the company of "light skirts" back in Tombstone, Arizona. That Maria's own mother had worked in Hafford's Saloon, and after she'd died, the other women had all pitched in to care for Maria. Summer knew that most of the ladies had been forced into the business in order to eat, and had found them to have kinder hearts and more honor than many of the society people she'd met since.

   Besides, if Maria's tales were true, once a woman became married and provided an heir and a spare, she was free to pursue any number of dalliances. What was the difference between them and the ladies at the saloon? She couldn't take offense at his remark; rather, she thought it a very witty joke.

   His face fell when he observed her reaction, obviously downcast that he hadn't shocked her with his witticism. For some reason he was keeping score on who shocked whom, and he kept losing. Summer found the duke quite easy to read and wondered why he had a reputation that frightened so many people. Perhaps the prince took his comments seriously and that's what worried others.

   The Duke of Monchester sighed and took her hand, making a slight bow and murmuring that it was time he took his leave. But when he turned to walk out the door, he didn't let go of her, and Summer was forced to walk along with him, for a moment feeling that it was the most natural thing in the world for her to be alongside this man hand in hand. As soon as she recognized that feeling, however, she quickly twisted her fingers the way Chatto had taught her, and planted her feet, dismayed that for a brief moment she'd actu ally forgotten about Monte.

   It was just that this stuffy lord made her laugh like she hadn't in ages, that was all.

   He looked down at his suddenly empty hand and turned toward her, his mouth parted in astonishment, as if he hadn't realized that he'd been holding on to her, until she was no longer there. Then his lips quirked, and those brilliant blue eyes clouded in confusion. "It seems that I'm actually looking forward to our next meeting."

   "I predict," said Summer, "that we shall become great friends."

   He shook his head. "As your companion so eloquently pointed out, madam, I have no friends."

   He strode out of the room, and the feeble sunlight through the parted draperies seemed suddenly dimmer, the air less buoyant, the very atmosphere lacking the crackle of electricity. Summer sighed and went to find Maria and Chi-chi.

   The Duke of Monchester closed the door of her home behind him and shook his head, feeling as if he'd

SUMMER, MARIA, AND A BORED-LOOKING DUKE STRODE along the walk in front of the building at 7 Rue De La Paix in Paris, gazing through the windows at the elegantly displayed manikins arranged as if they were frozen into tableaus of dressing, having tea, preparing for a ball. Maria trembled in suppressed excitement, but Summer frowned. "Are you sure this is necessary?"

   The duke rolled his eyes. "Madam. Any man, woman, or child will tell you that in order not only to look your best but be in the height of fashion, a wardrobe designed by Charles Worth is essential. It remains to be seen, however, if you'll actually warrant the attention of the great man himself. Most women deal only with the vendeuse and a fitter."

   Summer couldn't have cared less, but Maria gave an audible sigh as they entered into the carpeted salon, seized by the elegance of draped silk and gilded mirrors and the undeniable feel of haute couture that permeated the room. Within moments Summer found herself in a fitting room, silently tolerating the poking and prodding and standing still for prolonged periods. She endured by imagining the pride that would soon be on Monte's face when she returned to New York in her new gowns. Surely his relative, Mrs. Astor, could not disapprove of a Worth gown.

   When the fitter removed Summer's shoes to measure her feet, her knife popped out of its sheath. The woman threw quite an unnecessary fit, her French loud and fast as she ran from the room. Summer followed, knife in hand, trying to reassure the woman that she had no intention of hurting her with it, forgetting that she'd been stripped to her chemise and drawers.

   The duke turned with a grin on his face. He'd expected some kind of commotion and felt proud of himself for being prepared for it. But when he saw the elfin woman in nothing but her lacy drawers, the elegant curve of her figure and the length of her legs revealed beneath the thin material, his face froze. He'd never seen anyone so perfectly exquisite in his life.

   He continued to stare until he heard Maria groan with grief. She tried to cover up her friend with one of the draperies adorning the archways, managing to pull the entire sweep of fabric down over their heads.

   "What is it, what is it?" demanded a tallish man with a remarkably prominent forehead emerging suddenly from behind another set of silk draperies. "Gisette, calm down. Is this the way to behave in front of the customer?"

   A string of agitated French followed his question, so that by the time the duke had managed to unveil Summer's and Maria's heads from the fall of fabric, the tall man raised an inquiring brow at the group of them. "You bring weapons into my establishment?"

   Summer's admiration for the duke—rather, His Grace—soared to new heights as he drew himself up and with great dignity stepped over the tangle of cloth and bowed before the taller man. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am the Duke of Monchester, and the woman with the knife is Miss Summer Lee"—and his voice dropped—"an American."

   "Aah," answered the man, as if that explained everything. "Gisette, stop your weeping. She is an American, and they are eccentric, no?" He bowed toward the duke and Summer. "Forgive my employee's theatrics, Your Grace, and allow me to introduce myself as well. Charles Worth, the owner of this humble establishment, and an artiste who appreciates the American woman."

   
And her money
, thought Summer, tucking her knife back into the sheath around her calf. But it seemed that wasn't the only reason for his appreciation, for as soon as she returned to finish her fitting and was decently clothed, the man made her walk around the room, studying her with such intensity that Summer felt her skin crawl.

   "Astonishing," muttered Worth. "Such grace I have never seen before, as if you walk on air. American women have true appreciation for my genius, you know. They know that the dresses I design for them are to bring out their own individual beauty, not to display their wealth. But you, Miss Lee"—he paused and spun her artfully in a slow circle—"will do true justice to my designs. You will walk in them for me,
oui
?"

   Summer nodded in agreement, and then a whirlwind of fabrics and laces and ribbons were held against her skin, beneath her brown curls, and next to her golden brown eyes. It didn't stop at Worth's, for His Grace then took them to smaller shops where she purchased parasols with walking-stick handles; pleated, ostrich, and gauze fans; gloves of fine kid and lace; jeweled ornaments for her hair; jet enameled brooches; and teardrop and hoop earrings.

   Summer blinked. She'd have to wire Pa for more money.

   Toward the end of the day, the duke packed them all into their hired carriage without complaint. "Most women," he observed, "are difficult to shop with, taking hours to decide on just the right fan. You, however, picked items up almost at random, as long as I approved of them. I am astonished to say that today has been a pleasure."

   Summer closed weary eyes, letting her head bounce against the cushioned seat as they hit every rut in the road. She didn't know why he should be so surprised; she'd hired him for just this purpose. Surely he didn't think she would be fool enough to ignore advice she'd paid for?

   "I'm plumb sad it's all over with," sighed Maria. "I could shop the rest of my life and never tire of it."

   His Grace ignored her friend. Summer felt his gaze focus exclusively on herself. No
doubt mentally
criticizing how fatigue made her look a hundred years old
, she thought. She cracked open her eyes a bit and wondered at the ghost of a smile she saw on his lips. "What?"

   "I was just remembering," he said, "when you flew out of that room behind that poor girl with your knife in hand. I thought the fitter had done something to offend you, and that—"

   "Tarnation!" interrupted Maria, her voice rising as she shouted out the window. "Leave it, ya' hear? Leave it alone right now, ya' mangy pack of children!"

   Summer scooted forward and peered out the window; then she met Maria's eyes, remembering the day they'd first become friends in a dusty alley behind Hafford's Saloon. They had both come to the rescue of a little dog being tormented by a pack of mongrels. Their mutual love of stray animals created a bond that made Summer feel as if she finally had a sibling.

   They both banged on the carriage wall at the same time. "Driver, stop the carriage!"

   The duke's brow rose, but he made no effort either to inquire as to the view out the window, or to prevent the girls from bolting out of the carriage even before it came to a full stop. Summer thought he showed remarkable intelligence. After only a few days in her company, he'd already realized that he'd be better off letting things develop rather than trying to figure them out.

   Maria had reached the pack of street urchins first and shoved her way between the group of them to reach a smoldering pile of fur that hung by a rope from a wooden beam. She screeched and hollered with such vehemence that she scared most of the little ones away.

   But a teenage boy who already had the body of a man and the beefiness of a tavern brawler didn't seem to be intimidated. His other two partners in devilry weren't much smaller, and after their initial shock at the interruption wore off, they eyed the black-haired screamer with lustful interest. Not about to be outdone, the largest boy reached around behind Maria and ran his hands across her bosom, giving his cohorts a leering grin before prying her arms away from the bundle of fur and locking them behind her back.

   Summer crouched and drew her knife. "Let her go."

   She felt the duke back her up, noting from the corner of her eye that he reflexively positioned one foot forward and flattened his hands parallel with his chest, one also in front of the other. Strange that he didn't curl his hands into fists.

   The boys spoke in French. Summer couldn't be sure if they understood her words, but knew they compre hended the weapon in her hand and the tone of her voice. She saw the big one's eyes flicker in indecision, his gaze traveling from her to the duke and then back to Maria—who just waited with supreme confidence, the look on her friend's face saying that they didn't have a chance, no matter how big they were.