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Jacinda ignored the flutter in the stomach as she held the silk against Phoebe’s cheek. They’d had one night together at a ball designed for such connections. It didn’t mean anything more. Phoebe arriving here without invitation or notice wasn’t going to bother Jacinda. At all. No. She would focus on business and selling her most expensive silk to Phoebe, who apparently didn’t need to worry about the expense. Lucky her—and lucky for Madame Fabriquer who could profit from a client that valued appearance over cost. It was easier to think of her business and of the money, than to think of the softness of Phoebe’s skin or the gentle rose and jasmine perfume she wore.
“You really don’t need to worry that people will make the connection between yourself in that dress, and Madame Fabriquer.”
Jacinda tried not to frown. “I want people to connect the quality and design of the costume to Madame Fabriquer.”
“But not to you as a person?”
“My brother disapproves.” And Jacinda really didn’t need any hint of scandal getting back to her father in Manchester. Jacinda put the silk back on the shelf, carefully folding it to expose the lovely embroidered pattern.
“Men often have one rule for themselves and another for the women they are related to.”
“Yes.” Jacinda didn’t need to elaborate on that, and once again, she was glad she wasn’t solely attracted to men. It gave her options in a world that favoured men, unlike Margs who only enjoyed attraction to men, and thus had decided simply not to have any type of relationship because she didn’t want to give up her hard-fought wins for a man’s whim.
“It is difficult when men own the world. Complying with their demands can be restrictive.”
Jacinda let herself smile. “Are you implying that my business is owned by men?”
“Of course. I’ve never heard of a woman owning a business.”
“The rules are different for the lower classes. Many women run small businesses, and most women work. Many of us don’t have the option or luxury of spending our time running a household and family with no other demands.”
“But how does that work?”
“Carefully.” Jacinda couldn’t open a bank account without her father’s permission, choosing to operate her business without one. She did owe her father a slowly decreasing debt for the initial fabrics when she’d first set up Madame Fabriquer. Margs dealt with most of the money, and they had a safe carefully hidden to keep any payments received.
“I find myself impressed with your industry.” Phoebe reached out and touched the red silk.
“Thank you. We could use this silk to create an illusion dress.”
“An illusion dress?”
“A dress that looks like it is made from the blue silk but shows the red when you move.” Jacinda had seen one in the latest papers from Paris. She folded the two silks together to demonstrate and the gasp from Phoebe’s lips reminded her of their fabulous night together. With a suppressed sigh, Jacinda focused on the task ahead. Phoebe was a Lady, with a capital L, and exactly the type of client Margs and her had been trying to gain. She couldn’t let herself get distracted by memories when she ought to be selling Phoebe more silk than she needed for this gown. An illusion gown with the double layers of silk would be an expensive proposition; difficult to create taking a lot of time to sew all the of sections with a precision that only Jacinda’s very best seamstresses were capable of.
“It would be perfect for the Duchess of Henley’s ball on Twelfth Night.”
In five days time? Jacinda’s team would have to only work on this gown. “I will make you a sensation.”
“Oh bosh. I am too old for that. I wasn’t even going to go to the ball.”
“And yet you mentioned it immediately.” Jacinda sighed. “It’s fine. I understand that we are not of the same class.” They’d spent one night together, it didn’t mean anything.
“Come with me to the ball.”
Jacinda blinked. “Now you are being absurd. I can’t attend a Duchess’s ball.”
“No. I suppose you can’t. Well, this is a frustrating situation.”
“What situation are we talking about exactly?” Jacinda just wanted to make expensive gowns for wealthy people. She didn’t need to have infuriating conversations with widowed Viscountesses who didn’t have the self-preservation not to know she couldn’t invite a dressmaker to a bloody Duchess’s ball. A ball Phoebe apparently didn’t want to attend.
“I enjoyed myself at the Soho Club ball very much. I would like to do that with you again.”
Jacinda almost choked. “Are you always this direct?”
“I’m old. I don’t have the patience for pretty words and time-wasting nonsense anymore.”
“Why are you here?” Jacinda couldn’t ignore the irritation inside her chest. She wasn’t going to get to make this dress, was she? She could already imagine the way it would move as Phoebe walked, swaying gently with her hips to reveal flashes of the red silk under the blue. She’d have to pleat it precisely to get the illusion she could visualise.
“I wanted to find you.” Phoebe’s glance slipped sideways.
“Are you certain?” Jacinda was tired of this game. For someone who could be direct when she wanted to be, Phoebe could be incredibly confusing. Was she just a curiosity to the upper-class woman?
Phoebe laughed awkwardly. “No. I’m not certain at all. But I do know that I can’t stop thinking about you. When Lady S mentioned you were here in Cheapside—”
“It’s not an insult to have a trade shop.” Jacinda stiffened at Phoebe’s snide tone.
“Of course not. I find it admirable. I’m making a mess of this, aren’t I?”
Jacinda didn’t bother to try not to nod. “Why are you here?”
“The truth is that I don’t know. Lady S bundled me into a hackney and sent me here.”
“You had no choice?” Jacinda found Phoebe’s switch between directness and obvious mistruths to be confusing and frustrating.
“I thought she was coming with me to look at the dress you made for her.”
Enough. Jacinda needed to sell the illusion dress to Phoebe. “And now it’s time for you to wear a unique Madame Fabriquer creation. If you have time for a fitting, I will take your measurements.”
“I have all the time in the world.”
Jacinda ignored the exhausted tone in Phoebe’s voice. There was too much at stake to play Phoebe’s annoying games. She didn’t have the inclination to expend emotional energy on trying to understand the reasons behind Phoebe’s inconsistency.
“Lucky for some. Come this way.” She collected the two different silks and walked away. She was here to work, not to play word games with someone who had too much time, too much money, and didn’t know what she wanted. She stepped into her office, not bothering to check if Phoebe had followed. The whole interaction had on her edge; confused about why Phoebe was here and juggling both the compulsion to be stand near Phoebe and the logic of knowing she needed Phoebe as a client. It was time to put on her business smile and create something amazing that would wow the ton. Get this gown correct and everyone will want her to make them a dress for a special occasion.
As she walked into her office, Jacinda waved towards the fireplace heating the small room.
“Strip down to your stays. Stand very still.” Jacinda was terser than she’d dare to be with any other customer. It was snowing lightly outside, but the fireplace kept this room nice and cosy; both for her own fingers as she worked, and for her clients when they undressed for measurements and fittings. If she’d learned anything from their snatched moments together at the Soho Club, it was that Phoebe liked to be in charge, so she’d better take control right now and keep this about work. And yet, she hadn’t invited one of her seamstresses, or Margs, to be in the room with her, so she wasn’t exactly excelling at self-preservation. Accusing Phoebe of curiosity when she was cursed with the same thing was probably something they ought to talk about, but it was too grand a topic to broach now they’d been bickering with, and circling, each other. Jacinda bustled around collecting all the things she didn’t need—measuring tape, paper, pencil—as well as those things she did need—pins, a bolt of calico, needle and thread, chalk—so she didn’t watch Phoebe get undressed.
“Can you please assist me?”
Jacinda turned around. Phoebe hadn’t even started. “What is the problem?”
“This dress can’t be removed without assistance. The hooks are all down the spine.”
With a nod, Jacinda walked behind Phoebe to play at lady’s maid. She held back at acerbic comment about expensive women’s clothing being created to keep women helpless. None of her designs had this problem with hidden fastenings in places where the wearer could dress—or undress—themselves. The hooks on Phoebe’s gown were incredibly tight, impressively sewn, and she needed to find her little tool to help undo them without damage. It was a lovely day dress, designed to be worn multiple times with very strong stitching, unlike many of the upper class’s evening gowns that were created to be worn once. Fabric cost more than labour, so it was cheaper to have a lady’s maid stitch the wearer into the dress than bother to add buttons or hooks that would ruin a section of the fabric before it could be remade into something else. Once unhooked, Phoebe’s dress sagged to reveal her stays. Jacinda was careful not to touch Phoebe’s skin as she helped remove the cotton day dress from Phoebe’s shoulders. After Phoebe stepped out of the long skirts, Jacinda hung the dress over a rack she had in this measuring room for the purpose. The current fashion, with the tight bodice and long skirts that hung from under the bosom, meant the upper classes wore an overdress in light material and all of one piece, typically with stays and an underskirt beneath.
“Should I remove the underskirt too?”
“Yes.” Jacinda would make an underskirt for this dress that would help hold the shape of the pleats. Hopefully Phoebe was wearing decent drawers as she didn’t exactly need the distraction of seeing Phoebe as naked as she’d been after removing those leather pants at the Soho Club. How irritating that Phoebe was equally as beautiful in a day dress as in a costume designed to highlight her curves in faux masculine pants.
“Is that to your satisfaction?” Phoebe’s teasing tone washed over her skin, and Jacinda couldn’t help but wonder why she was fighting this attraction so much.
“Yes.” She deliberately ran her gaze over Phoebe’s figure before she picked up her measuring tape with a small huff. If Margs could see her now, she’d be in for a right telling off. Playing games with a potential aristocratic client was the very opposite of what Madam Fabriquer needed. “Are these the undergarments you intend to wear to the ball?”
“Yes. These will suffice.”
Jacinda slung her measuring tape over her shoulder. “I think we’ll make a pattern from calico, and then use that to create the final garment.” She really didn’t want to cut into the very expensive silk before she knew how much she was going to need for this gown. Normally, she’d use the client’s choice of fabric for the first fitting, and then get her team to help pin it into place before they sewed it together.
“I am aware of the process.”
“Excellent.” Jacinda ignored the implication in Phoebe’s tone. She probably didn’t need to get upset at everything Phoebe said from the heights of her ivory tower. Time to stop breathing in Phoebe’s rose perfume and get to work. Margs’ voice rang in her skull, an echo reminding her to focus on her task. If she could make a dress worthy of a Duchess for the upcoming ball, then people would start talking about her and she’d have a chance to step into the modiste ranks where real money existed.
“Could I give you some business advice?”
Jacinda nodded politely against her instinct to growl. Better that than snap at a potential client who could take her designs to the people she wanted to dress.
“Going to the Soho Club was just the beginning. You need to get your work modelled for those who you want as clients.” Phoebe reiterated the very thing that Jacinda had already been planning to do; she just didn’t quite know how to do it.
“I realise that, but I don’t run in the same circles as the haut ton. The Soho Club was the best I could do.”
“And it was great. You need more. More of the correct eyes on more of your gowns.”
She knew. Heavens above, she knew this more than Phoebe could probably guess. Almost every evening, she sat with Margs going over the days takings and working out how on earth they would step into the class where she felt destined to be. Growing up in Manchester, she’d learned business from her father, who ran a linen manufacturing company. She understood who had money and how they liked to spend it; that’s why she wanted to take her design skills and come to London where she could step away from the family expectations of her role—marry a man who can assist in the business—and create something for herself. She’s naively assumed she had enough connections before she commenced on this journey. So far it hadn’t been enough, and she needed assistance to take the next step towards her goals.
“Yes.”
“I have many connections. Lady S mentioned that she heard about you from the Duchess of Henley’s sister who knows about emerging new modistes. We could assist you.”
Why would these people want to help her? “I can’t afford to pay you.”
Phoebe scoffed. “You wouldn’t need to pay anyone. People will wear your gowns for attention. They want to be in the gossip pages, talked about by street philosophers. It makes no sense to dress someone who wants financial compensation for their time. You want someone who will show off your best designs because they care about being seen in your product.”
“And you are offering?” Jacinda didn’t bother to hold back the force of her sarcasm this time, except Phoebe didn’t even blink in response.
“Obviously. I enjoy spending time with you. I loved the dress you made for the Soho Club masquerade ball, and I think I would be happy to wear your creations, make a sensation, and remind everyone of where they can get a similar gown.”
“And you don’t want compensation for this?” At the very least, Jacinda would’ve negotiated for free gowns.
“I didn’t say that exactly.”
“You want the gowns for free. It makes sense if you are going to model them and tell everyone about this business.” She needed to get Margs to help her price the cost of this arrangement to see if it was viable.
“No. I will pay for the gowns. I ...” Phoebe’s cheeks pinked. “I would take a few kisses as reward.”
Against her better judgement, Jacinda couldn’t resist. She leaned forward and brushed her lips against Phoebe’s cheek. Phoebe turned her head, just enough that their lips met. This kiss—in the middle of the day—tasted like the forbidden, more so than their night at the Soho Club. Logic didn’t matter when she could kiss Phoebe who kissed her in return as if she was the best thing that’d ever happened to her. Phoebe reached up and grabbed her measuring tape, pulling her closer. The pressure on the back of her neck was ungodly in its delight. Good and right and exactly what she needed, even if she wasn’t sure what she wanted. She didn’t want to be a curiosity for a Viscountess who was bored with her life, but damn if she didn’t want to submit to the way Phoebe demanded pleasure from her.
“Yes, sigh like that again.”
It was unfair that Phoebe could make her feel like this. Wet and willing. She’d almost give up...
“I’m not giving up my business for you.”
Phoebe’s head jerked backwards. “I would never ask you to do that. Why would you think that? We’ve just been discussing how I can help your business and improve it.”
Jacinda nodded. “I’m sorry.” She pushed Phoebe’s shoulders and turned away. “You are making it difficult to think properly.”
“Then think improperly.”
“Phoebe.” Jacinda wanted to scold her. “You can’t just walk into my business, offer to model a gown at a Duchess’s ball, and then distract me from being able to create it. What do you want?”
“If the truth is to be told, I do not know what I want. I’m discontent with my life and I feel guilty for that because I have everything I need.”
“Are you lying to me or to yourself?”
“Am I lying?”
Jacinda hated these awkward types of conversations, but sometimes it was best just to barrel on through regardless. “You were slippery about why you came here. Do you even want the gown? You jumped to mentioning the Duchess’s ball, and then said you didn’t want to go? Did you just want to boast that you know a Duchess to me? What use is any of this?”
“Oh.”
“And you invited me to a ball with the haut ton without any consideration of class or practicability.”
“I’m being illogical.”
“Yes. And it’s irritating. Stop lying to yourself and make up your mind about what you want. I refuse to be a rich person’s mistress.” She wouldn’t waste her time on someone who only wanted her because she was different to the other women Phoebe spent time with.
“Oh. I see.” Phoebe hugged herself and Jacinda would not—would not—feel sorry for her. Phoebe was the rich client who wanted everything from Jacinda without giving up anything for herself. She walked out of the small room before she said something that couldn’t be unsaid.