Page 12 of Venus in Disguise

“No,” he said hastily. “The darker pink, with the cherries.”

Frowning, Delia regarded a simple straw bonnet with a broad dusty pink ribbon and a small cluster of white blossoms embellished with two wax cherries. It was not, at first glance, terribly interesting, but then Narcissa considered how it would look on Delia and smiled.

“Oh, that is perfect,” she agreed.

Delia looked between them sceptically, apparently unimpressed. “Come along,” Narcissa said firmly, towing her inside the shop. Barely ten minutes later they emerged once more, both holding hat boxes and Narcissa admitted herself surprised to discover Mr Anson waiting for them outside.

“Well?” he asked, curiosity glinting in his eyes.

“It’s splendid,” Delia admitted, beaming at him. “I should never have chosen it in a million years, but I adore it. Though I wonder if perhaps I should add—”

“No.” Mr Anson gave her a stern look. “No adding. It needs nothing more than your lovely face, I assure you,” he continued in a milder and rather flirtatious tone.

Delia turned quite pink. “Thank you,” she said faintly.

Mr Anson inclined his head. “If I can be of no further service then, I shall—”

“You can,” Narcissa said in a rush, before he could escape them. “Be of further service,” she added, boldly meeting his eyes even as her insides squirmed at her temerity.

“Indeed?” he asked, one dark eyebrow quirking. “I am alight with curiosity to discover how.”

“I need a new gown, f-for a ball,” she said, avoiding Delia’s gaze. Her friend knew that was a lie as well as she did, having discussed the small fortune she’d recently spent on her wardrobe over tea and cakes.

“Which ball?” Mr Anson asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Er…” Narcissa’s mind immediately became a blank canvas as panic turned her into the ninny she thought she only pretended to be.

“Lady Roxborough’s,” Delia said promptly, naming an event to be given in three weeks, bless her heart. “We’re both going. I need one too. A dress, I mean.”

“Hmmm.” Mr Anson looked from Narcissa to Delia and back again. “Lady Roxborough is very fashionable.”

“She is,” Delia said with a sigh. “Which is why we need your help in case we make spectacles of ourselves.”

Narcissa shot her a glare. Delia was over-egging the pudding somewhat, and Narcissa would not have the arrogant devil thinking she would look like a fright if he didn’t help her. Mr Anson caught her eye, his lips twitching a little.

“Well, I cannot have you both going to such a splendid affair looking like dowds, can I? I suppose I had better give you the benefit of my expertise. It’s the charitable thing to do.”

“I don’t need your ch—oof!” Narcissa rubbed her side where Delia’s remarkably pointed elbow had just struck her.

“You’re so very kind, Mr Anson,” Delia said, giving him a look of besotted admiration. “A veritable good Samaritan.”

“Oh, that’s me,” Mr Anson agreed, offering Delia his arm. Delia hurried to take it, darting a look at Narcissa that warned her she had best do the same or else.

“My lady?” Mr Anson said, a glint of challenge in his eyes.

“Too kind,” Narcissa murmured with a saccharine smile. “If you are certain your coat can stand it. I should not wish to wrinkle you.”

“I’ll risk it,” he replied.

“Very well, then.” Narcissa regarded his proffered arm dubiously, for she knew this was a terrible idea. Yet for once she wanted to do something for no other reason than because she wished to, not to please her father, or to keep herself out of trouble with him. Quite the reverse in fact. She was playing with fire, and she knew it, but she would not change her mind now. Hesitantly, she placed her fingers on his sleeve, far too aware of the muscular strength of the arm beneath the well-tailored fabric.

They continued along Bond Street, with Delia chattering happily as Mr Anson offered the occasional answer to any direct question. Narcissa was silent, deeply uneasy at having got herself into this situation, though it was entirely her own doing. Many acquaintances had by now seen her on Mr Anson’s arm. It was bound to get back to Mrs Chandler, and yet she could not regret it, even as her stomach churned with anxiety.

They paused before another shop window, this one with a colourful display of fine kid gloves, leather boots, and prettily embroidered silk shoes. Having no interest whatsoever in any of the lovely things on display, Narcissa dared a glance up.

Sighing inwardly, she admired the hard line of an uncompromising jaw, the sharp angle of a chiselled cheek bone and the sweep of thick black lashes. A subtle scent reached her nose, a faintly citrusy melange of sandalwood and amber that made her long to press her nose against his skin. Belatedly, she realised she was leaning closer, pressing against him in her desire to follow the tantalising scent to its source.

Naturally, Mr Anson looked down at that moment. Heat swept Narcissa from head to toe as his incinerating blue gaze met hers. Narcissa’s breath caught as he stared down at her, uncertain what the intensity in his eyes meant, but assured that there was powerful emotion behind it. Whether he wanted to kiss her or snatch his arm from her grasp, however, she could not have said. He looked away a bare second later, leaving her all at sea, trembling inside and wondering if she had imagined that look, as he asked her—with perfect politeness—if she liked the cream silk dancing slippers.