his chair scraping against the floor. Beside him, Lord Redhill started to do the same. Then, before Anthony found his voice, the curtain was jerked open.
Lord Redhill and Mrs. Mortimer stood face to startled face. But that wasn't the worst of it. No, right beside Mrs. Mortimer was Francine standing tall and proud in a gown that took her from beautiful to downright stunning.
Her hair tumbled about her shoulders, her eyes were sparkling with delight, and the bodice of her gown... sweet heaven, the bodice had a deep V that exposed those luscious mounds. Francine's breasts were hugged by fabric, outlined in the most glorious way, and accented by a necklace that dangled tantalizingly in her cleavage.
She looked like Boadicea come alive. Or perhaps Ruben's Venus. Or a queen straight from her boudoir. Good God, she was gorgeous . And she was standing right there in front of Lord Redhill.
"Lord Redhill!" Mrs. Mortimer cried. "What are you doing back here?"
"My God, woman, what have you done to the girl?" the man gasped.
Anthony didn't need the answer. He could see with his own eyes that Mrs. Mortimer had changed his Francine into a goddess.
"I'm terribly sorry," Mrs. Mortimer said stiffly, obviously not sorry at all, "but you do not belong here."
"I don't belong here? No decent woman belongs here! Is that what you intend to do to my sister?"
No, thought Anthony, Lady Gwen was of a different type. Different woman, different needs. Lady Gwen would never look as... as lush as Francine.
Meanwhile, Francine was eyeing the two combatants with bright eyes, following the spat even as her gaze caught and held on Anthony's. He opened his mouth to speak, to call her, to say something, for God's sake, but no sound came out. She was so damned beautiful!
When he had nothing to say, he watched Francine turn away from him and step right up to Lord Redhill.
"What has she done to me?" she demanded. Then when no one answered, she actually stamped her foot. " Tell me! What has she done?"
Lord Redhill cleared his throat, his color climbing high into his face. "You seem like a nice young woman," he said gently, "but this... woman... has dressed you as a... a..."
"A tart?" Francine asked, her voice shaking slightly.
Lord Redhill shook his head, even as he said, "Yes. Well, not exactly a tart. Much higher class than the usual flyer. But I'm afraid no man can look at you like that and think of anything but... but..." His voice apparently failed him and he looked away, his gaze momentarily falling onto Anthony. "Oh, bloody hell," the man groaned as he stepped directly in front of Anthony, blocking the view. "Well, you can see exactly what happens when you are dressed like that. Anthony, I believe I should like that tea now."
Anthony didn't answer. In truth, he barely heard Lord Redhill speak at all. He had moved to look again at the vision that was his Francine. His Francine. When had he come to think of her as his own?
Damn! He had the irrational urge to strip the gown off her and put her back in one of her shapeless sacks. Perhaps one with big ugly bows on it so no one but him would know what glory was beneath.
Meanwhile, Lord Redhill lost his patience. He snapped his fingers in front of Anthony's eyes. "Anthony!" the man barked. "Tea!"
"Oh. Yes, my lord. Of course. Yes. Tea. Right away..." he babbled in response. His mind was still so full of Francine. But at Lord Redhill's steely glare—and Mrs. Mortimer's too—Anthony pulled his errant thoughts together. He forced himself to leave the room, to make tea, even though his thoughts were completely consumed with the vision of Francine dressed as a queen.
Then a moment later, he heard Francine speak, her words distinct and filled with glee.
"I want three more dresses like this!" she cried. "No, ten more! I shall have my entire wardrobe redone just as you think best!"
That was it, Anthony realized with dread. Now she would have gentlemen aplenty, some of them titled. Compared to them,
Lord Redhill and Mrs. Mortimer stood face to startled face. But that wasn't the worst of it. No, right beside Mrs. Mortimer was Francine standing tall and proud in a gown that took her from beautiful to downright stunning.
Her hair tumbled about her shoulders, her eyes were sparkling with delight, and the bodice of her gown... sweet heaven, the bodice had a deep V that exposed those luscious mounds. Francine's breasts were hugged by fabric, outlined in the most glorious way, and accented by a necklace that dangled tantalizingly in her cleavage.
She looked like Boadicea come alive. Or perhaps Ruben's Venus. Or a queen straight from her boudoir. Good God, she was gorgeous . And she was standing right there in front of Lord Redhill.
"Lord Redhill!" Mrs. Mortimer cried. "What are you doing back here?"
"My God, woman, what have you done to the girl?" the man gasped.
Anthony didn't need the answer. He could see with his own eyes that Mrs. Mortimer had changed his Francine into a goddess.
"I'm terribly sorry," Mrs. Mortimer said stiffly, obviously not sorry at all, "but you do not belong here."
"I don't belong here? No decent woman belongs here! Is that what you intend to do to my sister?"
No, thought Anthony, Lady Gwen was of a different type. Different woman, different needs. Lady Gwen would never look as... as lush as Francine.
Meanwhile, Francine was eyeing the two combatants with bright eyes, following the spat even as her gaze caught and held on Anthony's. He opened his mouth to speak, to call her, to say something, for God's sake, but no sound came out. She was so damned beautiful!
When he had nothing to say, he watched Francine turn away from him and step right up to Lord Redhill.
"What has she done to me?" she demanded. Then when no one answered, she actually stamped her foot. " Tell me! What has she done?"
Lord Redhill cleared his throat, his color climbing high into his face. "You seem like a nice young woman," he said gently, "but this... woman... has dressed you as a... a..."
"A tart?" Francine asked, her voice shaking slightly.
Lord Redhill shook his head, even as he said, "Yes. Well, not exactly a tart. Much higher class than the usual flyer. But I'm afraid no man can look at you like that and think of anything but... but..." His voice apparently failed him and he looked away, his gaze momentarily falling onto Anthony. "Oh, bloody hell," the man groaned as he stepped directly in front of Anthony, blocking the view. "Well, you can see exactly what happens when you are dressed like that. Anthony, I believe I should like that tea now."
Anthony didn't answer. In truth, he barely heard Lord Redhill speak at all. He had moved to look again at the vision that was his Francine. His Francine. When had he come to think of her as his own?
Damn! He had the irrational urge to strip the gown off her and put her back in one of her shapeless sacks. Perhaps one with big ugly bows on it so no one but him would know what glory was beneath.
Meanwhile, Lord Redhill lost his patience. He snapped his fingers in front of Anthony's eyes. "Anthony!" the man barked. "Tea!"
"Oh. Yes, my lord. Of course. Yes. Tea. Right away..." he babbled in response. His mind was still so full of Francine. But at Lord Redhill's steely glare—and Mrs. Mortimer's too—Anthony pulled his errant thoughts together. He forced himself to leave the room, to make tea, even though his thoughts were completely consumed with the vision of Francine dressed as a queen.
Then a moment later, he heard Francine speak, her words distinct and filled with glee.
"I want three more dresses like this!" she cried. "No, ten more! I shall have my entire wardrobe redone just as you think best!"
That was it, Anthony realized with dread. Now she would have gentlemen aplenty, some of them titled. Compared to them,
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