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haven’t met him as yet.”
    “I’ve met him in London,” Sophie told them. “He seems pleasant enough.”
    “Yes, a very pleasant man,” Madame Duvalle responded as she set the chemise on a table and began to wrap it in tissue. “That is how, I am told, the London actresses and opera singers speak of him, a most pleasant gentleman.”
    “Oh, dear.” Mirabelle and Kate didn’t bother to hide their frowns. Sophie and Evie didn’t bother to hide their grins. And Madame Duvalle didn’t bother to consider that either reaction might be anything other than encouragement.
    “His conquests are quite legendary, but it is said he does not dally with the innocent or the married, as many young men seem to feel they must, and that is something, no?”
    Evie gave a scoffing laugh. “It’s quite all right, then, for him to seduce legions of women so long as they’re actresses and courtesans?”
    Madame Duvalle gave a very Gallic shrug and put the chemise in a box. “One cannot expect him to exist as a monk, after all.”
    “Why not?” Evie demanded. “Women are expected to live as nuns. It’s most unfair.”
    “ C’est vrai, ma petite, but so it has always been for women, no? If life were fair, I would be forever young and beautiful, I would have a delectable young man to dance attendance upon me, and all my customers would be as much fun as the four of you.”
    “I think, Madame Duvalle,” said Sophie, “that if you were forever young and beautiful, it would be distinctly unfair to the rest of us.”
    Madame Duvalle smiled slyly. “Don’t be silly, I would share my dancing man.”

Four
    T o Mirabelle’s mind, it was just a touch unsettling to traipse about Benton carrying a box that held an unconventional undergarment. As such, she thought it might be best if she dropped her purchase off at the carriage while the others went ahead to the bookseller’s.
    But if she had known she would run into Whit on the sidewalk, she would have carried the box from one end of town to the other without complaint. There w ere, after all, varying degrees of unsettling.
    “Whit. Hello. It’s a very nice day, isn’t it? The others have gone to the bookseller’s. Where’s Alex?”
    She was chattering. She knew she was chattering, she just couldn’t seem to stop herself. It was amazing she was able toget out anything at all, considering she had an entirely different—and entirely involuntary—sort of conversation running through her head.
    Whit. Hello. I’m carrying a blue chemise in this box. I think it might be some sort of satin. Isn’t that lovely?
    She peeked over his shoulder at the carriage and wondered if she could sneak by him without being too obvious about it. She rather thought not. Certainly not with him suddenly looking at her so intently.
    She felt the heat creep up from her chest to spread across her neck and face. She was blushing. Five-and-twenty years of age and she was blushing. It was ridiculous. And dangerous. Whit was watching her with amused curiosity, his blue eyes narrowing with an interest that alarmed her.
    “Alex is at Maver’s Tavern. What are you hiding, imp?”
    “What?” The word came out too loud, but good Lord, how could he possibly know? Had he seen her? Mirabelle glanced back at the modiste’s shop. No, the windows reflected the afternoon sunlight, no one could see inside without standing mere inches away, and she was fairly certain someone would have mentioned if the Earl of Thurston were pressing his nose against the glass.
    She cleared her throat nervously. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about, Whit.”
    Her voice came out too soft this time. Damn it, she was only making things harder for herself.
    “You’re only making things harder for yourself,” he said, and smiled at her scowl. “You’re so nervous, I half expect you to bolt.”
    The idea had merit. Her whole body was tensed for flight. She forced her muscles to relax. But not too much. She