“Oh, yes. I’ve known the lad since he was so high.” She held her hand off the floor to about the height of Catherine’s knees. “And I’ll tell ye, he was always a rascal.”
“I can believe that,” Catherine muttered.
“The boy could argue with a tree trunk if he felt so inclined.” Mrs. Punch wrapped the measuring tape around Catherine’s bust, and Catherine swallowed and tried not to blush. “Never got in trouble, no, not Master Quint. Whenever he was at fault, he managed to argue his way out of it. No surprise to any of us that he ended up in Parliament.”
She was writing on the pad again, and Catherine peered more closely at the older woman. “You seem proud of his accomplishments.”
“Oh, the whole village is proud that one of our own done so well. Put those on my chair,” she told Clare, when the assistant returned laden with various shades of muslin and silk. “And finish these measurements.”
The girl obliged, taking the measuring tape and stringing it along Catherine’s back. Catherine closed her eyes and tried to pretend she was somewhere else. “But Lord Valentine told me he did not grow up here,” Catherine said, when the assistant had paused in her efforts and was making a note of the measurement.
“Oh, well, him and his family were here often enough.”
“What is his family like?” Catherine asked, then thought better of the question, but as it was too late to take it back, she added, “As we’ve only just married, I do not know them very well.”
Or at all.
“The Lord and Lady Ravenscroft are proud but good,” Clare said, though Catherine had not been speaking to her. Mrs. Punch nodded her agreement. “Why, I never seen a noble lady who cared so much about people like us.” Clare paused and glanced at her. “Excepting yourself, of course, my lady.”
Catherine raised her brows. Noble lady! Ha! If only this seamstress had seen her scrubbing floors last week, she wouldn’t think her so noble.
“That family has always been good to me and mine,” Clare went on, while Mrs. Punch held up various colors and materials against Catherine’s skin to judge their effect. “My mother hasn’t been well for years, since my papa died when I was just a babe, but Lord Valentine makes sure that we have something to eat. He even gave my brother John a position as a footman at his estate.”
She would have expressed her surprise, but Mrs. Punch suddenly threw a mass of blue silk over Catherine’s head and shoulders. She had never thought Valentine particularly chivalrous. In fact, he appeared more single-minded. After all, hadn’t he plainly told her that he wanted a wife not for love or companionship but to advance his own interests?
And still, as the fitting continued, neither Mrs. Punch nor Clare had a bad word to say about Valentine. They sang his praises, so that by the time the styles and gowns had been decided on, Catherine felt that her husband was all but a stranger. If Mrs. Punch and her assistant had the right of it, Catherine was married to the most handsome, most intelligent, most successful, kindest, and best man in all of England.
Clare left to make a note of their selections and write up the bill, and then the shop bell rang and Mrs. Punch disappeared for a moment as well. Catherine was left alone in the dressing room in her shift and bare feet. She looked about for her shoes and stays, lifted chairs and bolts of material, but she could not find either. Finally, she stood and, turning, caught sight of herself in the mirror.
What had Valentine asked her to do today? See herself as he did? He’d said she was beautiful and irresistible. Now she stared at her reflection in the mirror and tried to see that girl. She supposed that her face was not bad. Her skin was too dark, but it was smooth and clear, and her eyes were pretty. She liked their honey hazel color and their almond shape. And she liked her nose. It was straight and not too big. And her mouth was wide, and she had even teeth. She smiled and admired the way her eyes lit when she was happy.
Lifting her hands, she extracted the pins from her simple hairstyle and let the mass of dark hair fall about her shoulders and back. Her hair was straight and soft but thick. She liked the way it felt when it swished against the bare skin of her arms.
To her surprise, she liked the way she looked. She was by no means the temptress Valentine described, but she was pretty.
How had she never noticed that before? Was it because she was always comparing herself to Elizabeth’s petite blond beauty that she had never admired her own assets?
Clare was another blond beauty, but she was not petite. She had large breasts and hips that were barely contained by her work-worn clothing. Perhaps men like Valentine preferred women who were not so small and slim but were robust with rounded bodies.
Catherine lifted her hand to her neck and brushed the hair back over her shoulders. Her skin tingled at the sensation, and she closed her eyes and ran her hand down to her collarbone and then the drawstring of her shift. She opened her eyes and peered about her. She could still hear Mrs. Punch speaking in the other room, and Clare did not seem to be hurrying back. With a quick motion of her hands, Catherine loosened the strings and allowed the cotton to fall down about her elbows.
In the mirror she stared at her breasts. They were the olive color of the rest of her skin, but the nipples were dark and jutted upward. In fact, now that they were free and exposed to the cool air, they hardened in much the same way they had when Valentine had kissed her this morning. She remembered the ache she’d felt and lifted a hand to cup one breast. It was heavy in her hand but also soft and full. With one finger, she flicked the hard nipple and felt a surge of pleasure rush through her. Her thighs tingled, and the skin became damp.
She took the other breast in her hand, holding them both, molding them, and then she closed her eyes and thought of Valentine doing this to her. The heat between her legs flared and burned, and she had to catch her breath.
It was a good thing she had, too, because she heard the bell outside tinkle again and the sound of Mrs. Punch’s footsteps. Quickly she righted her underclothing and was just securing her drawstring again, when the older woman entered. Catherine flushed, certain her face would betray what she had been doing and thinking, but the old woman seemed not to notice.
“Oh, my! Ye look as cold as an icicle! Where are your clothes?” And she hobbled after Clare, returning with Catherine’s clothing and shoes, which had been mixed in with the new materials.
She helped Catherine dress, and when Catherine looked in the mirror again, she expected to feel like her old self. But the woman in the mirror was not the Catherine she was used to. Even as she pinned up her hair and righted her clothing, she now noticed her breasts pushing against the material. She noticed the curve of her jaw and the slant of her eyes. She noticed the high color in her cheeks, and for the first time, she did feel beautiful. For the first time, she saw what a man like Valentine might see in her.
That was, if he had not forgotten her. She checked the clock and saw that it was past the hour he’d promised to claim her. She tried not to look hurt as she watched as Clare and Mrs. Punch right the store and make ready to close. As casually as possible, Catherine inched her way toward the shop’s front window, peering out in search of her errant husband.
“I bet I know where Master Quint is,” Mrs. Punch said. Catherine frowned. Apparently, she’d not been as surreptitious as she’d thought. “Clare, take Lady Valentine to Myrna.”
Clare smiled. “Do I have to come back?”
Mrs. Punch laughed and shook her head. “No, be off with ye. Take Lady Valentine, and then yer free to gallivant about with that man of yourn. But remember what I told you. Get the ring on yer finger before ye open yer legs.”
