Vixen in Velvet Read Online Free PDF Page B

to emphasize one’s assets,” Leonie said. “Where men are concerned, your bosom is your greatest asset.”
    “ Greatest I can’t quarrel with, if you mean immense,” Lady Gladys said. “I know I’m not the sylph here.” She shot an angry glance at Lady Clara, who was too statuesque to qualify as a sylph. She did qualify as impossibly beautiful, though: blonde and blue-eyed, gifted with a pearly complexion and a shapely body. And brains. And a beautiful nature.
    Nature had not gifted Lady Gladys with any form of classical beauty. Dull brown hair. Eyes an equally unmemorable brown, and like her mouth too small for her round face. A figure by no means ideal. She had little in the way of a waist. But she had a fine bosom, and acceptable hips, though at the moment, this wasn’t obvious to any but the most expert observer.
    “That doesn’t mean you don’t have a shape,” Leonie said.
    “Do you hear her, Gladys?” Lady Clara said. “Did I not tell you that you were hiding your good parts?”
    “I don’t have good parts!” Lady Gladys said. “Don’t patronize me, Clara. I can see perfectly well what’s in the mirror.”
    “I beg to differ,” Leonie said. “If you could see perfectly well, you’d see that your corset is wrong for your ladyship’s figure.”
    “What figure?” Lady Gladys said.
    “Well, let’s see what happens when we take off the corset.”
    “No! I’m quite undressed enough. My dressmaker at home—”
    “Seems to have a problem with drink,” Leonie said. “I cannot imagine any sober modiste stuffing her client into this—this sausage arrangement.”
    “Sausage?” Lady Gladys shrieked. “Clara, I’ve had quite enough of this creature’s insolence.”
    “Jeffreys, kindly assist Lady Gladys with her corset,” Leonie said firmly. The modiste who let the client take charge might as well close up shop and earn her living by taking in mending.
    “You will not, girl,” Lady Gladys snapped. “You most certainly will not. I refuse to be manhandled by a consumptive child who speaks the most disgusting excuse for French to assault my ears in a city grossly oversupplied with ignoramuses.”
    Jeffreys had grown up in a harsh world. This was motherly affection compared to her childhood experience. Undaunted, she moved to the customer, but when she tried to touch the corset strings, Lady Gladys twisted about and waved her arms, practically snarling.
    Like a cornered animal.
    “Come, come, your ladyship is not afraid of my forewoman,” Leonie said.
    “Jeffreys can’t possibly be consumptive,” Lady Clara said. “If she were, she’d be dead, after the ordeal of wrestling you out of your frock and petticoats.”
    “I told you this would be a waste of time!”
    “And I told you I was tired of a certain person’s sly remarks about remembering your dresses from your first Season. And you said—”
    “I don’t care what anybody says!”
    “Ça suffit,” Leonie said. “Everybody go away. Lady Gladys and I need to talk privately.”
    “I have nothing to say to you,” Lady Gladys said. “You are the most encroaching—no, Clara, you are not to go!”
    But Lady Clara went out, and Jeffreys followed her, and gently closed the door behind them.
    Lady Gladys couldn’t run after them in her underclothes. She couldn’t dress herself, because, like most ladies, she had no idea how. She was trapped.
    Leonie drew out from a cupboard an excessively French dressing gown. The color of cream and richly embroidered with pink buds and pale green vines and leaves, it was not made of muslin, as ladies’ nightdresses usually were. This was silk. A very fine, nearly transparent silk.
    She held it up. Lady Gladys sniffed and scowled, but she didn’t turn away. Her gaze settled on the risqué piece of silk, and her expression became hunted.
    “You can’t mean that for me,” she said. “That is suitable for a harlot.”
    Leonie advanced and draped it over her ladyship’s stiff