‘Oh Lud. How on earth do I explain that even if I do see the lady there is no guarantee I’ll agree to outfit her?’ That was the cardinal rule. Even if Madame Belle agreed to a preliminary meeting, that didn’t mean she would take you as a client. There was also a rule that one agreement did not necessarily mean any more garments would be made. Each approach was decided on its own merit. So much depended on how much advice a client took on board, and as Clarissa had once put it, how well they continued to show off their clothes to their best advantage.
‘For if one has gone to seed, why be an advertisement for that?’ Clarissa had said prosaically.
Belinda agreed.
‘Madame?’
Oh Lord she’d yet again forgotten why Tippen stood in front of her with a look of query on her face.
‘Where is he?’ She automatically slipped into the voice she used for her clients. Luckily.
‘If you mean me, I’m here.’ The gentleman in question strolled into the workroom and bowed. ‘Lord Phillip Macpherson, at your service.’
Belinda had to force herself not to scowl. Just like fine wine he’d matured well. Damn it.
* * *
Phillip straightened up from his bow, and studied the stunning woman in front of him. She was dressed in understated elegance, held herself like any lady of the ton, and made his body harden with instant, unexpected desire. That jolted him. He might be renowned throughout the ton for his prowess in the bedchamber—or in an empty room at a ball—but rarely did someone affect him in such a manner. In fact, he thought as he willed his body to behave, the last time a lady had affected him so strongly, she was a young friend of his sister’s and he had fought against that attraction. Belinda Howells had been too young and too innocent for him. Then she’d dropped out of view and Clarissa had told him she’d moved to the north. He’d felt a pang of disappointment. She intrigued him. Pity about her awful family of course. Those he held in contempt. But Belinda now? If she’d been older…
He shut that thought away. She was a friend of his sister’s, welcome in his father’s house. No way could he have dallied there. But, she had affected him in the same way it appeared the lady in front of him did. Because once more his body was demanding he paid proper attention to a woman probably not suited to or interested in him. More’s the pity.
‘Madame Belle?’ He looked into deep, dark eyes, and wondered where he’d seen such intense blue irises before. She reminded him of someone but at that moment he had no idea whom.
She nodded. ‘My lord. How exactly can I hep you?’ The accent was a mix of French and English, and called to him like a siren song.
Phillip prowled around the room. One long table and a tall cupboard filled one side of it. The other had a deep and comfortable-looking daybed, two armchairs and a low table between them. The fireplace was ornate, and the light fittings of the highest quality. More like a sitting room, it was unlike any workroom he’d seen. Not that he’d seen that many. He was very selective as to which of his many—and he admitted it was a considerable number—mistresses he dressed to such a high degree. However, this time he rather thought the lady in question would merit such attention. A fitting swan song. Even he would admit his behaviour had been less than stalwart.
He was jaded. Bored and uneasily aware he went through the motions with no emotional involvement. It was time to take stock of what he was and what he wanted to be. The last thing he wished to become was an aged roué.
‘I wish you to outfit a lady.’ Phillip mentally winced at his affected languid rake’s tone, so unlike the normal tenor he used.
She cocked her head to one side. He waited for her to reply. She didn’t.
‘What?’ he asked in irritation. Who did he know who held her head in just such a way?
‘What?’ Madame Belle walked towards him, and indicated the door. ‘Why, if we are to discuss business let us go through to my office.’
She walked past him, and he looked at the other woman in the room with one eyebrow raised. ‘Which is where?’
‘Oh, sorry, my lord, follow me.’ She scurried past him, and turned to the left and down the stairs. ‘The upper part of the building is not for visitors to the salon.’
He hadn’t thought it was, but the woman had left him alone for so long he’d decided to explore. Voices from the floor above had led him to the stairs and the room they had just vacated. He’d arrived at the open door just in time to hear Madame Belle ask where he was. Now he wished he’d got there a few moments earlier. Something about the woman intrigued him.
And arouses me. He adjusted himself discreetly under his trousers before he reached the bottom of the staircase.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know your name,’ he said to the lady who waited for him. ‘You are?’
She blushed the colour of the sash on her dress. ‘Oh, I’m Tippen, your lordship. I’m, well, Madame Belle’s…’
‘Right-hand woman,’ the lady mentioned answered. ‘I couldn’t mange without her. Tippen, do you think you could ask Mrs Lovett for…?’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Brandy? Port? Wine? Whisky?’
‘Tea,’ Phillip said firmly. Somehow he had a feeling he’d need his wits and faculties in full working order or Madame Belle would run rings around him.
‘Tea?’ both women said in amazed voices.
He laughed. ‘Why not? My sister coerced me to try it, and now I find it refreshing.’
‘Tea it is, then.’
‘And scones?’ he asked in a tone most woman would roll over and beg for. ‘I’m partial to scones.’ He paused and smiled in a way he knew would persuade most women to do whatever he asked. ‘With jam?’
‘Do not push your luck, my lord.’ Madame Belle’s voice was full of humour, as if she understood what he was doing and was amused, but not influenced by it. ‘Follow me if you will.’ She turned into the room behind her and Phillip did as she bade with alacrity, amused by her attitude and his diverted response to it.
He looked around him, not bothering to hide his interest. This room was more as he expected but still had those womanly touches a man’s domain lacked. Flowers on a side table and a fire crackling in the grate. Knick-knacks grouped in a glass-fronted cupboard as well as several bookshelves, plus the obligatory desk and chair.
‘Very businesslike,’ he said as she settled in one of the two armchairs placed to one side of the fire, and waved him to the other one. So it might be business but it would be conducted in relative comfort.
Madame Belle inclined her head. Phillip blinked. Who did that remind him of? More and more he was certain he knew her. He racked his brain, but no elegant blonde in trade came to mind. In fact elegant blondes of any description were few and far between in his mind. Up until then he would have said he had a penchant for brunettes. Now he was rethinking that, somewhat rapidly.
‘I am businesslike,’ Madame Belle said, breaking into his reverie. ‘So, let us get started.’
She paused as someone knocked on the door and on her bidding, opened it. Evidently there was no such thing as ‘a door should be left open when a lady and gentleman are together’ in this establishment. And whatever she tried to say to the contrary, Phillip was in no doubt that Madame Belle was a lady in some way.
Once the tea tray, and a plate of scones and jam was deposited on the table and they were alone once more, Madame Belle turned to him. ‘Pray continue. Oh and help yourself to tea and scones.’
Her look defied him to argue or ask where her manners were. He bit back a grin and nodded. If the lady thought he had no idea how to pour the perfect cup of tea, or jam a scone, she was sadly mistaken. ‘May I pour you one?’
Her