Kisses and Scandal (Survivors) Page 21

  But Raeni had been born dark as the night. Her mother said she looked like her grandmother, who had been considered one of the most beautiful women on the island. But Raeni’s father had questioned whether she was his daughter from the moment he saw her. Even as she grew and it became clear she shared some of his facial features, he looked at her with contempt. Perhaps that was why he’d chosen to sell her rather than marry her to one of the free Negroes or send her to finishing school when her brothers traveled to study.

  Raeni’s thoughts were interrupted by a tap on the door, and she frowned before crossing the room to open it. She wasn’t expecting anyone and usually only Mr. Miller came to the office to speak with her. But Mr. Gaines and Mr. Miller had gone to Wapping early this morning to look in on his business interests there. She did not expect them back yet.

  She opened the door to a Negro woman with her hands on her hips. She wore a gorgeous yellow dress of silk with a fine shawl over it, and her sharp eyes slid over Raeni with obvious distaste. “It ees worse than I thought.” She snapped her fingers and the two women accompanying her, one white with pale blond hair and one black with her hair in a chignon, rushed forward.

  “Yes, madam?”

  “Do you see this?” The woman gestured to Raeni, who looked down at her blue serge dress. “Thees is what you English call ‘a lost cause.’”

  “Excuse me, who are you?” Raeni asked.

  The woman sucked in a breath and squared her shoulders with indignation. “Who am I? Who are you?”

  “I—”

  But the woman would not allow her to finish. Instead, she swept past her in a cloud of rose-scented yellow silk and perused the office. She snapped her fingers. “The box here, I think.” She indicated an open area of the room. “And move the screen forward.” She continued to give instructions as her assistants rushed about like mice. It soon became clear to Raeni she was a seamstress, a French one if Raeni’s limited knowledge of the language was correct.

  “Madam, I am sorry to inform you that Mr. Gaines is not here today. You must be mistaken about your appointment.”

  The woman looked down her nose. “I am not here for Mr. Gaines. I am no tailor. I am a modiste; Madame Renauld, one of the finest modistes in Paris and the finest in London. Why would I deign to make men’s clothing? There ees no art in a coat or pantaloon.” She waved a hand dismissively.

  “Then who are you here to see?”

  The modiste snapped her fingers at one of her assistants and the woman looked up from the stack of fabrics she was trying to arrange. “Mees Sawyer.”

  Raeni started. “But that’s me.”

  The modiste narrowed her eyes. “I was afraid of that.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Look in a mirror and you will understand. Phaedra, take that wrap off her head and burn it and the dress.”

  Raeni clutched her turban. “You will not!”

  “Mees Sawyer, do you know how much my services cost?” Madame Renauld asked.

  Raeni shook her head. The modiste gave a number, and Raeni balked.

  “That ees per hour. So I suggest you cease wasting time because each minute you stand in that awful garment, you cost Mr. Gaines money.”

  As though she were walking in a dream, she allowed the assistants to help her disrobe. While they sniffed over her shabby underclothes, Raeni recalled that Mr. Gaines had said that as his clerk, she must look acceptable. But if Madame Renauld was not lying about her fee, why would he pay so much for a few conservative dresses his clerk would wear?

  Madame Renauld came around the screen, took one look at Raeni’s chemise and stays and said that none of her creations would touch such shoddy linen. Raeni was provided with new undergarments, which she donned quickly, embarrassed to be unclothed in front of these strangers. The new chemise was light and soft and the stays fit her well, lifting her bosom. They laced in the back, though, and Raeni wondered how she would manage to put them on or remove them by herself. She supposed the finest modiste in London did not worry about such mundane matters.

  Then Raeni was clothed in a dress of brown wool, which was surprisingly pretty, though too short for her. Still, she was led to a fabric-covered box in the middle of the floor and told to stand on it. A mirror had been placed across the room so while Raeni could see how short the dress was, she had to admit the cut and style of it was lovely and would be perfect for a clerk.

  “Not thees color,” Madame Renauld said between measurements she called out and which one of her assistants wrote down. “We will make it in cream. That will set off her skin.”

  Raeni shook her head, and Madame Renauld raised a brow. “You doubt me?”

  “No. It’s just—”

  The modiste’s hands went to her hips again. “Yes?”

  “My skin is so dark. Perhaps it is better not to set it off.”

  Madame Renauld looked at her as though she were mad. “Ma fille, have you looked at yourself in the mirror? Your skin ees lustrous and rich. We will show it off, not hide it. Now your arms—they are too thin. Those we will hide.”

  And just like that Raeni, who had suddenly felt beautiful, was put back in her place. And yet she could not stop looking in the mirror. Was her skin beautiful? Was she beautiful?

  “Now for the gown,” Madame Renauld said. She snapped her fingers and one of her assistants rushed behind the screen, returning with an armful of sumptuous silks and satins in every hue. The second assistant lifted some of the garments trailing on the ground and then stood before the modiste, presenting the choices.

  Madame Renauld flicked a finger at the blond seamstress, seemingly allowing her to choose. The blond extracted the red and draped it over Raeni’s body.

  Raeni shook her head. “I have no need for this.”

  “You are correct,” Madame agreed. “That color does not suit. Betsy, take it off.” The seamstress removed the fabric, and as the soft material slid over her skin, Raeni felt her heart sink. Even though she would never have any occasion to wear a dress made of such lustrous fabric, she had loved the feel of it against her skin. In Jamaica she had fashionable dresses but none made of any fabric so beautiful.

  “Phaedra, what do you think?”

  Phaedra tapped the side of her chignon, studying Raeni. After a moment, Raeni had the urge to look down at herself to try and see what made Phaedra stare so long. But then Phaedra handed the fabric she held to Betsy, keeping hold of a pale blue silk. Madame Renauld’s eyes narrowed as Phaedra arranged the material over Raeni’s shoulder.

  “You don’t think the sapphire blue would suit her better?” Madame asked, arching a thin brow.

  “This one.” Phaedra nodded with surety.

  Madam studied her for another long moment then nodded. “I agree. We will make the ball gown in pale blue.”

  “But I don’t need a gown,” Raeni protested quietly and wishing desperately she did need a gown.

  “I cannot get a sense of the best neckline for her. Put her in the gown we brought. It will be too big on her, but at least I can judge the style.”

  “But Madame—” Raeni was escorted off the stand and back behind the screen where she was summarily undressed then redressed in an evening gown of white.

  “This was made for a lady last year,” Betsy told her as she buttoned up the back. “But before her mama could pay for it, the lady fled to Gretna Green.”

  “What is Gretna Green?” Raeni asked.

  “It’s across the border into Scotland,” Phaedra said. “Couples go there to elope. Her parents washed their hands of her and would not pay for the dress. Madam hoped it might fit you. With a few changes it could be made de rigueur, but it is too big.” She pinched at the extra material at the ribs and hips. The bodice was too large as well, but Betsy had pinned it in back.

  “I don’t understand why I am trying on a ball gown at all,” Raeni said.

  Betsy shrugged. “Mr. Gaines said to fit you for a ball gown, so we fit you for a ball gown.”

>   “But why would he—"

  “What is taking so long?” Madame called and the seamstresses hustled Raeni out from behind the screen and back onto the raised platform. Madame descended, ordering the gown pinned here and let out there. She was still barking orders when the office door opened and Raeni’s eyes widened. Mr. Gaines entered.

  But instead of looking appalled at the riot of fabrics littering his room or the three women scurrying about his clerk, who was being treated like a doll in the center of the room, he smiled. His gaze went immediately to Raeni and that smile widened. She felt her cheeks heat at the way his eyes glinted with pleasure when he looked at her.

  “Sir! We are almost finished,” Madame Renauld said, snapping at Betsy to remove the fabrics from the chair nearest Mr. Gaines.

  “Oh, there’s no rush.” He thanked Betsy and sat in the chair, crossing his legs. “Do you mind if I stay?” The question was obviously rhetorical as he had already settled himself.

  “It ees your chamber, monsieur.”

  “Oh no, Madame. It is clearly yours. You have worked miracles, I see.” He gestured to Raeni.

  “Oh, but thees is not the gown she will wear. Everyone will be in white. I want her to stand out.”

  “I quite agree. What color have you chosen?”

  “Excuse me,” Raeni interrupted. “But I don’t understand what is happening. I do not need a gown. I do not even need such stylish day dresses. Certainly, I can file papers in more serviceable attire.”

  Mr. Gaines stared at her for a moment then closed his eyes. “I’ve put the cart before the horse, haven’t I?”

  Raeni frowned in confusion.

  He rose. “Madame, would you mind giving us a few moments alone?”

  “No. You may have all the time alone. I am finished except for the sample gown. Just send it to my shop tomorrow.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Come along, mes filles.”

  The seamstresses hastily gathered up all the materials and the raised platform, and with arms full, hurried out the door. Madame Renauld followed them, turning before closing the door and winking at Raeni.

  What exactly did the modiste know that Raeni did not?

  THOMAS STARED AT RAENI, wishing he had thought to gulp down some water while the ladies gathered their things. His mouth was as dry as the Virginia fields during a drought. He had thought Raeni beautiful before, with her long, slim body and her high cheekbones and full lips. But seeing her now—with her hair free and her shoulders bare—well, he was speechless. He’d wondered what her hair might look like under the turban she always wore. It was a riot of curls that had at one point been pinned but had mostly escaped confines now. He had the urge to touch those soft curls and bury his hands in it while pressing his lips to hers.

  He knew he shouldn’t think such thoughts, but it was difficult when she looked as she did now. She would tempt any man, and he struggled to keep his eyes on her face and not to allow them to rest on the lovely dark half-moons of her breasts, visible at the edge of the low bodice.

  “I should apologize,” he said. “I should have asked you before I had a gown commissioned.”

  “Asked me?”

  He reached in his pocket and withdrew the invitation to the Dark Ball. He handed it to her, and she looked at it then shook her head. “I don’t understand. What is this?”

  “The prominent Negro citizens of London host a ball every year. I’ve been invited.”

  “It is only for Negroes?”

  “Primarily. We have our own community—our clubs and societies and entertainments. I’ve just been getting to know the people myself as I haven’t been in London long, though Wapping isn’t far and I knew some men and women already. But it’s an honor to be invited to the ball. It could be good for the store and the coffee room.” He shook his head. “And that hasn’t anything to do with you.”

  “Oh, but I understand now. You want me to go so I might tell people about the opening celebration and act as your representative.” Her shoulders seemed to relax as she thought she understood now.

  “No, that’s not it at all.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I do want you to attend with me, and I apologize for not asking you before, because I do not want you to go as my clerk. I want you to go as my lady.”

  She stared at him, her eyes wide.

  He held up a hand in case she wanted to speak. He had mucked this up quite enough, and he was determined to say everything he needed to before she turned him down. “I meant to speak to you about this sooner, but then that shipment of coffee was lost and the price of tobacco fell, and I haven’t had a moment to sleep much less take you aside. I should have asked you to the ball before this, and I will ask you—properly—but I can’t ask you without a few provisions.”

  “There is no need for this, Mr. Gaines. Of course, I will attend with you.”

  “Call me Thomas in here, please. And I want to make sure you understand you have a choice. I had Alfred create a contract for your position.” He patted his pockets. “I have it here...” He pulled out a sheet of paper, glanced at it, then pulled out another. “Ah, here.” He handed it to her. “It states that if you choose to leave my employment, you will be paid six months of your salary no—"

  “‘Matter what the conditions are for departure,’” she read. She gaped at him. “Why would you do this?”

  “Because you work for me, and I have never before mixed business and personal matters. But with you I want to.”

  Her eyes went soft and she bit her lip. He wanted to see that as a positive sign, a sign she also had an interest beyond business in him. But first he needed to finish explaining. “I don’t want you to feel obligated to return my sentiments. If you don’t, I respect that. And you are free to stay without any further unwanted attention from me. If you feel uncomfortable staying, I think six months’ salary will ensure you have the means to look for another position. So you see, you are under no obligation to agree to go to the Dark Ball with me.”

  “I do see that. And I thank you.”

  He swallowed, his throat still dry. “Now that the preliminaries are out of the way, Miss Sawyer, would you be so kind as to attend the Dark Ball with me?”

  She smiled. “I cannot think of anything I’d rather do, Thomas.”

  And then to his surprise, she moved close to him and kissed him on the cheek. It was a sweet kiss, like one might give a brother or elderly uncle. Thomas enjoyed it, but he wanted much more. As she moved back, he caught her wrist lightly in his hand.

  She looked down at where his flesh met hers and her breath hitched before she met his gaze. Heat shot between them, a flash of fire so hot Thomas could almost see the sparks. Slowly, he drew her back to him. She had begun to tremble, and he slid his free hand around her waist to quell her shaking. “I want to kiss you, Raeni. I’ve wanted to kiss you since the first time I saw you.”

  She nodded.

  He released her wrist. “But you don’t have to kiss me. You can tell me to stop.”

  “I don’t want you to stop.”

  Tension coiled in his belly at her words, and he fought for self-control. He would kiss her once. That was all.

  For the moment.

  He slid a hand along her cheek. “You are so lovely. So intelligent. So...organized.”

  She laughed. “And you find that alluring?”

  “Very much. I like a capable woman. I like—”

  “Thomas? Do you think you can stop talking and just kiss me now?”

  Oh, yes, he could absolutely do that. He bent his head slightly and brushed his lips over hers. His skin tingled and his heart hammered. One of her hands slid up his arm to his shoulder then behind his neck. Her fingers pressed into his skin lightly, letting him know she wanted more. He brushed his lips over hers again, lingering this time. She moaned softly, her body melting into his. He could feel the rise of her breasts against his chest, and he fought not to crush her to him.

  H
is mouth took hers more confidently now, their lips joining together and exploring the way they fit. He nibbled at her lips, liking their fullness and the way they parted when she gasped at a flick of his tongue. He took advantage of her parted lips to kiss her deeper. She tasted so sweet, so intoxicating when her velvet tongue rubbed against his.

  They broke apart, and he trailed his lips across her jaw and down her neck. The scent of coffee clung to her skin, permeating as it did everything in the shop. It was his favorite scent, and when mixed with the scent of her, of Raeni, it was irresistible.

  A tap sounded on the door, actually a continual tapping, and Thomas lifted his head like a drunk man made suddenly sober. Clearly someone had been tapping for half a minute or more and he hadn’t even heard. Raeni jerked in his arms, and he knew she had heard it too. She stepped back, and he let her go, though the impulse to pull her back against him was almost overpowering.

  “Sir?” It was Mrs. Poole. He hoped she had brought a tray of coffee, though he hadn’t asked for one. He needed something to fortify him at the moment.

  “What is it?” Thomas called.

  “There’s someone here to see Miss Sawyer.”

  Raeni gasped, and Thomas cut his gaze to her. She’d gone very still and very rigid.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked. Certainly, it was unusual for someone to call on a clerk at a place of business, but it did not warrant this much of a reaction. Raeni looked...afraid.

  “It’s nothing,” she said, her voice shaking slightly. “I can’t think who would call on me here.”

  She had obviously thought of someone, and whoever that was scared her. Thomas crossed to the door and pulled it open. Mrs. Poole peered past him, curious to see what had been happening in the chamber. Thomas let her look, disappointed she hadn’t brought the coffee. “Who has come to see Miss Sawyer?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, sir. Mrs. Price sent me up to fetch Raeni. She didn’t say who it was, and I didn’t ask because...” She didn’t really need to say why she hadn’t asked. He knew Mrs. Price.