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Authors: Alexandra Hawkins

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BOOK: Sunrise with a Notorious Lord
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His question gave her pause. It was fortunate since Bridget was eyeing the chair with enthusiasm. Her lower lip trembled. “Then, this new wardrobe is not my congé?”

Vane hesitated, feeling like he was about to walk into a trap of his own making. He never enjoyed breaking with a mistress. The final encounters tended to be emotional and occasionally violent. His friend Frost was aptly named, since he was never troubled by a messy parting. Saint could also be rather cold-blooded when it came to dismissing lovers. Vane wished he weren’t so damn tenderhearted. It always got him in trouble.

“Bridget,” he began, suddenly feeling older than his eight-and-twenty years. If he told her the true reason why he was giving her up, the woman before him would likely want to spill his blood.

As the realization that she was indeed being discarded sank in, her lovely blue eyes hardened. “Very well.” While Vane was not the first protector to abandon her, she still had her pride to assuage. It was rather petty of her, but she was prepared to make Vane suffer. “You may wait beyond the curtain while Mrs. Gilbert attends me.”

Vane practically jumped out of his skin when he became aware that the seamstress was standing behind him. “Mrs. Gilbert, I do beg your pardon.” He wondered how much of their discussion had been overheard.

“My pardon isn’t the one you’ll be needing, milord,” the older woman muttered, stepping around him. “I think you will find these colors more to your liking, miss.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Gilbert,” Bridget said, greeting the unfinished dresses with false enthusiasm. Without glancing at Vane, she said, “You may leave us, Lord Vanewright.”

Although this had been his intention all along, Vane felt like a cowardly worm. “Bridget, be reasonable.”

“The only thing I require is your assurance that you will pay the dressmaker’s bill,” Bridget said coldly, her tone implying that she expected him to ignore it.

“Careful, Miss Corsar,” Vane said, his countenance darkening with indignation. “Lest others might think you are impugning my honor.”

“I’ll leave that to you, Lord Vanewright.” Bridget’s hand shook with fury and her daring as she caressed the green cloth folded over the seamstress’s arm. A few malicious rumors about her poor health or lack of inventiveness in the bedchamber, and Vane could potentially ruin her chances of securing a new protector. Still, she could not seem to control her tongue. “Pray leave us, my lord. Find your amusements elsewhere.”

Bridget’s parting insult might have been well deserved, but it still pricked his temper. “I shall, indeed, Miss Corsar. Amiable companions are as plentiful as pins in a dressmaker’s shop. I wager I will not have to wander far to find one.”

 

 

Chapter Four

 

Vane’s parting words to Bridget had been spoken in anger.

Vane had no intention of securing another mistress this season.

With his mother continuously harping that he should cease his frivolous dalliances and find a genteel lady to take as his wife, it might bode well to give up females while his family resided in London.

Vane could almost hear his friends’ snorts of disbelief and unabashed laughter at such a ridiculous notion. Each season, there was always a pretty lady or two who caught his eye. His liaisons were casual, flirtatious, and blessedly short-lived. When one of his lovers began hinting about marriage or arrangements that required solicitors and annual annuities, the back of his neck began to itch, an irksome sign that it was time to break with the lady.

Absently Vane slid his hand to the nape of his neck and scratched just below his hairline, convinced the unpleasant parting with the vivacious Bridget Corsar had been inevitable.

“No, not that one,” a crisp authoritative feminine voice instructed, distracting Vane from his gloomy thoughts. “Let us take a closer look at the blue.”

Vane grinned. How fortuitous that attractive females were indeed as plentiful as pins in a dressmaker’s shop!

Intrigued, he abandoned his post near the curtain and strolled to one of the tables. To his right, two beautiful golden-haired Venuses were admiring the evening dress a female shop clerk had displayed on a bare wooden table.

“Too staid,” the taller of the twosome declared. “The bodice is clearly designed for a mature lady. Isabel, perhaps you might want to consider this dress for yourself?”

Turning away, Vane masked his soft laugh by coughing into his hand. The younger one, and most likely the other woman’s sister, had unsheathed her sharp claws. He circled around the table piled with bolts of colorful cloth so he could discreetly observe the battle of wills.

“Delia, since this is our first visit to London, I recommend prudence for our introduction into polite society. After all, do you want to be mistaken for a demirep?”

As Vane caressed the satin cloth on the table, he was unable to conceal his amusement. Even if she had been dressed provocatively, no one would have mistaken Isabel for a courtesan. Oh, she certainly caught a man’s eye with a stature that rivaled her taller younger sister. Such long limbs were meant to be wrapped around a man’s hips. Preferably his. Vane shook his head at the unbidden thought. It was a damn pity he was giving up his wild ways this season.

From his limited view, only Isabel’s profile was visible, with most of her golden hair tucked under her simple bonnet. Her face seemed pleasing enough. It was not the lack of adornment that dispelled the suggestion that she could be in the market for a new protector. No, it was her mannerisms and speech, which marked her as a lady. Her no-nonsense approach with her sister reminded Vane of his older sister, Susan.

The younger woman, he mused silently, had the look and temperament of a courtesan. Unlike her older sister, Delia dressed to catch a man’s gaze and wanted him to admire her sleek body. Her hair, a lighter hue than her sister’s, had been curled into dozens of ringlets. Vane suspected if he approached the ladies and invited them to join him for pastries at Gunter’s, Delia would accept without thinking of the risks to her reputation while Isabel might slap his face for his boldness.

For a gentleman who was too accustomed to willing females, getting slapped by the intriguing Isabel held more appeal. Unwittingly, she was presenting him with a challenge.

As Vane silently mulled over his tactical approach, the shop clerk offered another unfinished dress for the ladies’ inspection.

“Oh, Isabel.” Delia cooed as the vibrant poppy-colored evening dress was laid over the insipid blue both ladies had rejected. “I adore the lace and wadded hem,” she said, stroking the stomacher made up of double rows of gold lace. “We
must
purchase it.”

Vane watched as Isabel nibbled her lower lip. Unlike her sister, she did not reach out to touch the elegant evening dress, but he saw the flicker of yearning in her expression.

“How much?” Isabel murmured, glancing about to make certain no one had heard her vulgar question.

“Really, Isabel,” Delia huffed. “Mama would be disappointed to hear you speak like a tradesman.”

Isabel held up her hand and silenced her sister’s tirade.

Quite unexpectedly, she looked away from the table and her gaze locked with his. Although he did not visibly react, he felt the impact of the connection as if the lady had indeed slapped him. There was no coyness or surprise in Isabel’s frank perusal. It was as if she had been aware of his presence all along.

Before he could collect his thoughts, she severed the invisible current of energy between them by abruptly shifting her attention to the shop clerk as the woman quietly responded to Isabel’s query.

“May I have a private word with my sister?”

The woman nodded and quickly withdrew. She was probably relieved that she would not be drawn into the simmering argument between the two ladies.

Delia touched the poppy-colored skirt in a possessive fashion. “We should purchase the dress.”

“Delia.” Isabel sighed. “We could purchase two evening dresses for the price of this one.”

“Do not try to tell me that you do not covet it,” her sister said, seizing Isabel by the wrist and encouraging her to feel the quality of the cloth. “Does it not feel glorious? A lady would look like a queen in such a dress.”

Isabel’s frown softened into something akin to wistfulness as her fingers traced the gold lace patterns at the bottom of the skirt. In that moment, Vane decided that he was going to buy her the dress. Her sister was correct. Isabel would look as regal as any queen if she entered a ballroom wearing the poppy-and-gold evening dress.

The regret in her eyes did not prevent Isabel from shaking her head. “To own such a dress … it is a grand dream, but it isn’t practical. Not when we have other expenses.”

Vane had heard enough. He had entered the dressmaker’s shop with the intention of purchasing a new wardrobe for his former mistress to ease his guilt over his unwarranted dismissal. One more dress would not beggar him. As the Earl of Vanewright, he had plenty of wealth at his disposal. He was also the Marquess of Netherley’s heir. To gain their favor, he would have happily purchased Isabel and her sister a dozen dresses.

Although he was still pondering the many virtues of abstaining from the pleasures of the flesh this season, there was no harm in a casual flirtation with the pretty sisters. A smile from the too serious Isabel would be worth the cost of the dress. He moved away from the table and took a step toward the quietly quarreling women.

From his left, a lanky youth bumped into him.

Vane grunted softly as the corner of the table dug into his hip. To balance himself, he caught the lad by the arm.

“Begging yer pardon, milord,” the youth mumbled, and tugged on his cap. He stepped out of reach and gave Vane a self-deprecating grin. “Clumsy as a three-legged lamb, I am.”

The young man had taken three steps when Vane realized the snuffbox he kept in the inner pocket of his waistcoat was missing. He groaned, annoyed at himself for being so careless. “You!” He pointed an accusing finger at the retreating youth. “Give me back my property!”

His accusation caught the attention of everyone in the shop, including the young pickpocket who had halted at Vane’s booming command. The thought of being transported or hanged for his theft prompted the lad into action. He jumped over the table in his path, shoving bolts of cloth and frippery to the floor.

Several ladies cried in surprise and dismay as Vane dashed after his nimble quarry. Though he rarely used snuff, the jewel-encrusted box was valuable—and he refused to be bested by a petty criminal.

The pickpocket ran a reckless course to the door, shoving aside anything and anyone that got in his way. Glancing over his shoulder at Vane, he did not see that a new obstacle had presented itself.

Isabel.

The young woman had stepped into the pathway of the fleeing youth. Delia cried out her sister’s name as the pickpocket collided with Isabel and the pair fell to the floor in a tangle of limbs and fabric.

Isabel appeared momentarily dazed by the impact. It was not until the lad tried to crawl away that she seized him by the ankle. Her other hand clamped onto his arm.

Of all the mad things to do!

Fortunately, Isabel was no match for the desperate pickpocket. He freed himself with a forceful kick and staggered to his feet. He was out the door before anyone could stop him. Vane pursued the lad through the open doorway, prepared to chase him to the outskirts of town. His head snapped right and then left as he searched the crowded walkway and street for his quarry. The youth had simply vanished.

Damn … damn … damn!

Vane stomped back into the dressmaker’s shop, furious. The sight of Isabel sitting on the floor surrounded by her sister and several well-meaning albeit useless bystanders made him want to snarl at someone.

With her straw bonnet askew and her hands clasped together, Isabel gave him a hesitant smile. “Good sir, the pickpocket might have escaped you, but he was denied his prize.”

Her clasped hands parted, revealing his jeweled snuffbox.

The people around them cheered and applauded Isabel for her heroics as Vane scowled down at the snuffbox cupped in her gloved hands. Even though he had been denied the pleasure of throttling the clever pickpocket, the foolishly brave lady sitting on the floor would not escape his fury.

 

 

Chapter Five

 

“Never have I witnessed such a daft spectacle in my life!”

Isabel’s smile faded at the furious declaration. If she had expected to be praised for her courage, the enraged gentleman towering over her was about to amend her expectations. Granted, she had never done anything so brazen in her young life, but she had come to London for new opportunities and a little adventure, had she not?

“You should be commending Isabel for her bravery, sir!” Delia rose from her crouched position to full height. “After all, she did manage to retrieve your expensive trinket from the pickpocket.”

“Isabel,” the gentleman said, enunciating each syllable of her name as if he were uttering a curse, “has less sense than an addled child rushing toward danger instead of away from it.” He jammed his fists into his hips and glared at her. “I would have caught the lad if you had not stumbled into his path and ruined everything!”

Isabel did not care if she was being chastised by the king himself. No one spoke to her in such an insulting manner. “
I
ruined everything?
I
did?”

His smile was humorless and full of masculine smugness. “Yes!”

With a growl of outrage, Isabel flung the snuffbox at the condescending man’s head.

His hand shot up and he effortlessly snatched the box from the air. He did not seem particularly surprised that he had driven her to violence. Perhaps this was a common occurrence for him. It was the unintelligible murmurs of appreciation regarding his quick reflexes that provoked her ire.

“Of all the insufferable, erroneous accusations—I was not rescuing your blasted snuffbox, you stupid man! I was attempting to protect my sister, who was dashing for the door.”

BOOK: Sunrise with a Notorious Lord
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