Page 8 of A Single Thread of Moonlight

“Grey,” I said finally.

“Miss Grey.” His voice was smooth, and he sketched an unhurried but beautiful bow.

I did not respond, forcing myself to be still. I adopted an expression of blandness, returning his look of enquiry with all the indifference I could muster.

“May I ask how long you have been modelling here?”

I saw no harm in answering honestly. “Today is the first day,” I replied, smoothing the skirts of my dress.

He nodded, as though I had confirmed a suspicion he had. I was not sure why – I thought I had done a perfectly acceptable job at showing off the clothes. Still, I kept my mouth shut. The less information I gave him the better.

“And prior to your employment by Madame Solange,” he asked, “what were you doing then?”

I stiffened. “I do not see what concern that could possibly be of yours.” As an afterthought I added the word, “Sir.” I had meant the word to get us back on to polite, distant ground, but instead it came out like a taunt.

Those mesmerizing blue eyes blinked lazily. Again, I was reminded of a cat before it pounced.

He moved to sit down on the red velvet sofa that Teresa had vacated, and swung one ankle across his other knee, his fingers drumming against the side of his boot. I noticed that his boots were polished to a higher shine than I had previously believed possible – dark mirrors, in which I could see a distorted image of my own pale face reflected back.

“Indulge my curiosity.”

I didn’t bother trying to hide my annoyance then. His high-handedness made my hackles rise. I could think of only one direction in which these questions could be leading. It was wearyingly predictable.

“I am not usually a model at all,” I said, as evenly as I could manage. “I’m a seamstress. I work in the back of the shop.”

Something flickered across Lord Wynter’s face, something that looked curiously like satisfaction. “Better and better,” he murmured. “Hidden away, as it were?”

“If we’re done, sir…” I said, turning away and hoping to avoid the inevitable scene that would follow.

“Actually, there is something else I wanted to ask,” he called.

Fine. Let’s get it over with.

I turned to face him again.

“I have a proposition for you,” he said, his voice a lazy drift of smoke curling towards me.

I folded my arms. “I’m not interested.”

His eyebrows rose. “You haven’t heard what it is yet.”

“Yes, I have. Not from you, perhaps, but from several other self-important, entitled men who think all they have to do is snap their fingers and they can buy a girl as easily as the gown she’s wearing.”

Amusement leaped in his eyes. “I see,” he said. “So, you already know what’s on offer?”

“A nice little house in the best part of town, jewellery, fine gowns.” I ticked them off on my fingers. “I believe one gentleman thought a caged canary might sweeten the deal.”

“I hadn’t considered a canary,” Nicholas murmured.

“And you’re worse than the rest of them, when you’ve already come here to buy another lady’s clothes … and a married lady at that! Good grief, sir, how do you expect to juggle us all?” I threw the words at him – a challenge, like the sharp sting of a glove across the cheek.

“Ah,” Nicholas said thoughtfully. “Now if Teresa is the problem, that is easily resolved…”

My mouth dropped at that. The cold lack of concern, as if a woman was an expendable object, easily thrown aside when she became inconvenient or a better proposition came along. “You … are … insufferable!”

“My dear, you have no idea.” His mouth curled up at the corner, almost a smile, though one that got nowhere near his eyes. “But I actually meant that I could clear up the misunderstanding. Teresa is my cousin, and I was helping her to choose a gown – which I certainly won’t be paying for – because she, tragically, does not possess an eye for colour. Last season she developed an unfortunate passion for puce, and my eyes have still not recovered.” He shuddered.

“Your … cousin?” I managed. “Not your…”