He Said Yes Read online

  Agreeing that it was, the petite Frenchwoman snapped her fingers, bringing another girl out from behind the cur­tains that draped the doorway leading to the fitting rooms. "Assist Lady Winnifred. We will need to finish the hem this afternoon."

  The girl nodded and pushed back the curtain, holding it in place as if Winnifred was about to make a grand entry onto an imaginary stage.

  "I'll return with the carriage in two hours," Marshall told his sister. He kissed her on the cheek, then glanced toward the rear of the shop where Evelyn had disappeared. He would like to know more about the girl, but this wasn't the time for inquiries.

  Leaving Winnifred in the couturiere's capable hands, Marshall instructed his driver to take him to his club. Feeling confident that he'd unexpectedly found the woman he wanted, he now had to contemplate the best way to approach her. Her position as a shop girl prohibited a chance meeting at a party or ball. Their paths would not cross again unless Winnie required a second fitting. He supposed he could arrange to be in the neighborhood when the shop closed, but the idea of following her home didn't sit well with him. Gentlemen didn't stalk young ladies, at least not openly. Marshall decided something would come to mind. In the meanwhile, he'd entrust Druggs, his secretary, with the task of finding an appropriate residence.

  Unaware of the impact she'd had on the marquis, Evelyn stood in the empty fitting room preparing herself for another dose of Madame's temper. The excitable Frenchwoman val­ued her customers above anyone else. Evelyn prayed she wouldn't be dismissed from her job, but beneath that worry another emotion had her feeling slightly off course.

  Lord Waltham had smiled at her.

  It had been more than a faint smile, one bestowed by a gentleman who had been taught from his youngest years to treat females with courtesy and respect. There had been something special in the smile. Something that had shook Evelyn to her very core.

  She began to sort through the pins and chalk in her apron pockets, needing a task for her trembling hands. She knew she wasn't trembling out of fear of losing her job. The mar­quis was the cause of her anxiety. Though he hadn't touched her in the slightest way, she had felt the warmth of his breath, smelled the clean, crisp scent of his expensive cologne, and sensed the heat of his body. His gaze had been dark and mysterious, an unspoken promise of things to come.

  She was being foolish.

  The Marquis of Waltham was a man beyond her common reach, a titled gentleman who had done nothing but help her pick up a few pins, and yet the sound of his voice when he'd told her not to worry about Madame, as if a mere word from him would settle the issue, had been disquieting. It had also been a pleasing voice, strong and confident. But then, why wouldn't it be. He was a man of property and power, a man accustomed to having others bend to do his bidding.

  Evelyn knew about such men. She saw them every day, escorting their wives, daughters, mothers, and even their mistresses into the shop. The marquis wasn't the first gentle­man to smile at her, but he had been the first to make her react to the expression. Devastatingly handsome with dark brown hair and even darker eyes, his appearance alone was enough to turn a lady's head. But Evelyn was no lady, at least not a titled one.

  Gentlemen like the Marquis of Waltham didn't waste their smiles upon common-born young women unless they wanted something, and Evelyn knew what that something was. She didn't come from a sophisticated background, but she was twenty and six. She had witnessed the effect hand­some young men of the aristocracy could have on women. One of the girls in her village had been forced to leave, dis­graced by a pregnancy that had produced nothing but a bas­tard child and shame.

  Evelyn had come to realize that the peerage with all its manner and wealth was a show, a disguise used to separate them from the common people. The women who came into the shop were far more conceited than the men. They rarely bothered with a simple courtesy once they were in the fitting room, beyond the sight and sound of their own kind. Even Madame's best customers didn't speak to her by name, al­though she'd worked for the couturiere for almost two years and they knew her well. She knelt on the floor at their feet, pinning hems and lace while they prattled on about the ball they would be attending and how the dress had to be just right. Never once had she had one of them thank her for her painstaking handiwork. The compliments were rained upon Madame La Roschelle instead.

  Evelyn accepted the way of things, although it left a bitter taste in her mouth. She had no choice but to support herself the only way she knew how, and she enjoyed creating beauti­ful clothes. Although Madame would never admit it, the dress Lady Winnifred Bedford was being fitted for today was more of Evelyn's design than the Frenchwoman's. Evelyn had an uncanny gift for detail and color, an innate knowledge of what would complement a woman's appearance, and Madame didn't hesitate to use that ability to the shop's advantage.

  Evelyn had inherited a small sum of money after her fa­ther's death. Nothing extravagant, but enough, if she minded her expenses and saved every possible coin. One day Evelyn hoped to open her own shop. Not in London. The rent would be far too expensive, and she had no real desire to remain in the city. No, she'd open a modest shop in one of the more prospering villages.

  But before she could see her dream come true, Evelyn knew she needed the experience only a shop like Madame La Roschelle's could offer. That was why she bit her tongue numb instead of snapping back at the flamboyant proprietor, why she studied design and fabrics, why she watched and observed and learned the ways of business. When the day came, when she had enough money to set out on her own, she'd gladly give Madame notice and wave goodbye to London with its smelly sewers and smoky air. "Evelyn!"

  She returned to the main room expecting a lecture from her employer. Instead she was told to assist in the fitting of Lady Winnifred's gown.

  "Lenore needs help pinning the hem," Madame instructed her, waving an elegantly jeweled hand toward the largest fit­ting room. "See that it's done properly."

  Nodding wordlessly, Evelyn hurried to join her coworker and the marquis's sister. As she pulled back the curtain, she couldn't help but hope that the young lady would say a word or two about her brother. Surely no damage would be done if she learned the gentleman's given name.

  Two

  Marshall was frowning as he walked into Brook's. The brief carriage ride from Bond Street to St. James had him brooding over the best way to approach Evelyn . . . He had to learn her full name. Who was she, did she have family in the city, but more importantly did she have any suitors? The best way, he concluded as he handed his hat and gloves over to one of the club's footmen, was to assign Druggs or a Bow Street runner to look into the matter. A few discreet in­quiries, and he'd know all he needed to know. Then, if things proved satisfactory, he'd find a way to speak with her. Madame La Roschelle's shop would offer them no privacy. A walk in one of the lesser parks or a modest meal in a local eatery would better present the opportunity he needed.

  He'd never had this particular problem before, and he'd had lots of women. More than enough to make him an expert on getting one into bed. But then, he'd never set his sights on a common woman before. Not that there was anything com­mon about Evelyn. The graceful way she carried herself, the gentleness of her blue eyes, the sound of her voice, made her vastly different from the tavern girls he'd enjoyed in his randy youth.

  Cambridge had never seen a more lusty band of young lads than the illustrious men he now played cards with each Wednesday night. He and the Earl of Granby had spent a vast amount of time carousing the countryside, drinking and wenching, gambling, and having a wonderful time being young and irresponsible.

  Unfortunately, his days of running wild were over now. They had been since his father had taken ill, and he'd been called home. When his father had died the title had fallen upon Marshall's shoulders, a task he had been well trained to accept, but one that nevertheless restricted some of his former enthusiasm for life. He was obliged to be in London when Parliament was sitting, but he preferred the country. The ocean
-swept shores of Ipswich called to him, and he longed for the quiet times when he rode along the coastline unhindered by anything but a brisk wind. He didn't con­sider himself an ambitious man, but rather one who had an ability to see life as it was rather than the way it should be. A gentleman of means, he had always opened his eyes to the future and its possibilities more readily than his peers. That foresight made him successful in business and politics alike.

  Marshall sat down in a comfortable chair next to a ma­hogany reading table. Every newspaper the city had to offer was stacked neatly on its glossy top. Accepting a glass of sherry from one of the club's footmen, he settled back and stared out the window, too preoccupied by his personal thoughts to care about the London news.

  "Weaving cobwebs?" the Earl of Granby asked when he joined him a short time later.

  Marshall looked up. As always, his best friend was im­maculately garbed in a coat of fine wool with a perfectly tied cravat at his throat. His steely blue eyes were gleaming, as if he had somehow guessed what had Marshall brooding.

  "Who is she?"

  "What makes you think that I'm thinking about a woman?"

  Granby laughed as he made himself comfortable in a matching chair at the opposite end of the table. "Females are the only thing that can bring that sort of look to a man's face."

  "What look?" Marshall muttered with chilly disdain.

  "A frustrated one," the earl chuckled. "What you need is a little excitement, my friend. And I'm not referring to the kind dished out at a society ball. You're letting your title get in the way of things." Granby paused as he stretched out his legs. "It so happens, I've the perfect solution to your prob­lem. Last night I met a charming female. Since I was already sporting her friend on my arm, I had no choice but to promise her the pleasure of my company another time. However, I'm more than willing to make the introduction."

  Marshall shook his head. "I can find my own amuse­ment."

  "Then, find it," Granby demanded as only a close friend could. "You've been brooding about since Parliament called its first session. All duty and no play will make an old man of you before your time."

  Marshall knew Granby's idea of play all too well. Their friendship was founded on their childhood years and com­mon background but it had been forever sealed during their days at Cambridge. The earl had a way with, women that made him the foremost authority on sex to be found in all of England. He also had an abundance of common sense. The combination made him an ally.

  "I've found a woman," Marshall confessed "or should I say, I think I've found a woman."

  "Either you have or you haven't," the earl said then frowned. "She isn't married is she? God forbid that you fol­low Rathbone down the path to lunacy. Married women are more trouble than virgins."

  Marshall met the earl's gaze with a bland smile. "No. At least, I don't think she's married. I didn't see a wedding ring. But then, her husband might not have the coin to buy one."

  The earl gave him a quizzical look. "Not enough coin? Don't tell rne the girl is someone's serving maid. That wouldn't be well done of you, Waltham. Consorting with servants is the act of a desperate man."

  "A shop girl at Madame La Roschelle's," Marshall told him because he could trust his friend to keep the information confidential.

  "A shop girl."

  "I find her appealing," Marshall defended his select-ion. "Besides taking a widow from the aristocracy for a mistress has its own set of complications."

  "A mistress," Granby mused with interest. "I didn't know you were looking for a permanent means of amuse­ment."

  Both men knew a mistress wasn't permanent, but putting a woman up in a house so she could be at one's sexual beck and call was vastly different than seeking occasional plea­sure in a widow's bed. The man was required to maintain the comforts of a mistress as much as she was expected to see that the bed they shared never became boring.

  Marshall didn't see himself becoming bored with Evelyn. The few moments he'd spent in her company had his blood tingling. He'd left the shop half aroused and aching for the moment when he could do more than look at her.

  "You're brooding again," Granby pointed out as he reached for the latest issue of the Observer and scanned the head­lines. "If you want the girl, and she isn't married I don't see the difficulty. From what I know of Bond Street wages, she'd be better off with you for a benefactor."

  "And how do you propose I go about becoming her bene­factor? Should I ask Madame La Roschelle for a formal in­troduction, or perhaps Winnie would do the honors?" Marshall asked, clearly annoyed by obstacles he hadn't encountered before.

  Granby looked up from his paper, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "I'm beginning to see the problem."

  "Exactly," Marshall mumbled under his breath. With­drawing his timepiece from his vest pocket, he checked the hour.

  "Maybe I should have a look at the lady in question," Granby suggested, folding his paper and returning it to the table. "Having no female relatives to clothe in fashionable silks, Madame La Roschelle's shop is one I've had little rea­son to frequent."

  "I don't need your approval," Marshall scoffed. "I need to find a way to introduce myself to the young woman. I need to—"

  "Present an irresistible petition," Granby supplied. "One the lady can't refuse."

  Marshall didn't respond because he had no certainty that Evelyn wouldn't refuse him, especially if she was engaged or already had a husband. God forbid that she might actually be married to a man who couldn't afford to put a ring on her finger. No matter how tempting she was, Granby was right. Married women were more trouble than virgins.

  Strange, but the prospect of Evelyn being a virgin didn't disturb Marshall half as much as it should. The thought of teaching her how to please a man kept his mind occupied for several minutes. Passion was a delicate emotion, but once aroused it could turn the most restrained woman into a will­ing wanton.

  "Now you're smiling," Granby announced. "I confess I'm growing more curious by the moment. You aren't by chance returning to Bond Street any time soon, are you?"

  "In less than an hour," Marshall said. "Winnie's being fit­ted for a new gown."

  "A note, perhaps," Granby suggested. "An invitation for the young woman to meet you someplace discreet. If she's interested and I've never known you to have trouble holding a woman's interest, she'll keep the appointment."

  Marshall considered the suggestion. He declined it for the time being, preferring to know more about Evelyn before he confronted her again. Deciding he'd put Druggs on the scent as soon as he returned home, he turned the conversa­tion to politics and the upcoming race at Epsom Downs.

  Shortly thereafter, Marshall bid his friend an enjoyable afternoon and left the club. His carriage pulled up short of the intended shop on Bond Street, forced to the curb by the presence of a jail wagon.

  The wagon was actually a metal cage riveted to a wooden base. One constable was sitting on the high seat, holding the reins, while the other was busy dragging a young woman to­ward the gapping door of the cage.

  Marshall jumped down from his carriage, then hurried along the street. It wouldn't do to have his future mistress hauled off to jail before he'd learned her last name.

  "What's going on here?" he demanded as the constable encouraged Evelyn toward the wagon with a firm warning that she'd be better off to stop causing trouble.

  "I didn't steal anything," she insisted doing her best to jerk away from the burly man. Her actions only caused him to tighten his grip.

  Marshall stepped between the constable and the wagon. "I said what is going on?"

  "Excuse me, yer lordship," the constable said not recog­nizing Marshall personally but recognizing the cut of a gentle­man's clothes. "I've a job to do."

  "And what job would that be, my good man? Manhandling a lady?"

  Marshall didn't look at Evelyn. The thought of her being shoved unceremoniously into a wagon that reeked of human vomit was enough to make his temper boil. Whatever had happened,
no woman deserved that kind of treatment. He'd never had the misfortune of seeing the inside of a jail, but he'd heard enough about them to know what was in store for Evelyn once the constable got her there. She'd be searched, forced to shed her clothing while the guards watched. What could, and most probably would, happen next wasn't some­thing Marshall allowed himself to think about. The legal sys­tem gave little justice to those who couldn't afford the bribery that flourished within it.

  He glanced toward the shop. Winnifred was inside, staring out the window, enthralled by the scandalous scene taking place. Madame La Roschelle was standing in the doorway, watching as her employee struggled to free herself.

  "I didn't steal anything," Evelyn pleaded, her voice shak­ing with fear and outrage.

  "What exactly is the young woman accused of?" Marshall asked with a stern authority that captured the constable's im­mediate attention.

  "Thievery. Lady Monfrey presented the charges. Miss Dennsworth is accused of stealing a family heirloom. A dia­mond and ruby brooch. She can plead her case to the magis­trate in the morning."

  Well, at least he knew her name. Evelyn Dennsworth. Marshall stiffened his shoulders as his gaze moved from the constable's ruddy face to the young woman he felt an over­whelming need to protect. Her face was streaked with tears, her expression that of a frightened cornered animal. She looked alone and vulnerable. Marshall wanted to pull her into his arms, to promise her that nothing would do her harm.

  "You will wait a moment," he said his tone offering the constable no room for argument. His dark gaze moved from the law officer's face to the thick fingers wrapped around Evelyn's slender wrist. "If the lady promises not to bolt, will you unhand her?"

  Evelyn couldn't believe the marquis was coming to her rescue a second time. Frantically praying that he was suc­cessful, she promised the constable she wouldn't try to run away. What good would it do her? She had no place to run, and the man would surely catch up with her if she tried.