Chapter 22 - The Gentleman at the Dressmaker's

(Part 1)

"Did you craft this marvel for yourself?" I sighed, mourning her constrained potential.

"Don't be absurd!" Her pride glowed. "It's yours, Crimson! Only you could animate it."

"For me?" Genuine shock colored my voice. To wear this would be transcendent. Such generosity bordered on alarming. "Cecilia, it's… breathtaking."

Pleased, her smile softened. "Then animate it, darling! Try it on!" Her tone shifted, a subtle edge emerging. "Though… gifting such treasure warrants a token in return, does it not?" The request, velvet-clad, held steel.

Lost in the gown's spell, I missed the warning. "Naturally! Generosity demands reciprocity! Name your boon!" Already moving toward the fitting room, silk sighing against my skin. "I emerge momentarily!"

Turning, gown draped over my arm, I caught Primrose's flicker of unease – lips parted, poised to speak. Eagerness overruled caution. I vanished behind velvet curtains.

The struggle was epic: muttered oaths, rebellious sleeves, near-catastrophes with tassels. Victory! Steadying myself, I swept the curtain aside.

Two faces froze. Their expressions – not awe, not shock, but profound intensity – unnerved me. I adjusted the neckline bow. "What? Do I sprout wings?"

Cecilia broke first. Awe ignited her eyes. She rushed forward, hands fluttering near my shoulders. "Heavens! Crimson! You are… incandescent! This gown… it doesn't adorn you, darling… it becomes you!" Seizing my shoulders, she steered me toward a cheval mirror.

Bemused, I faced the glass. Breath seized. Disbelief rooted in me.

I knew this face. Yet clad in Cecilia's sorcery… it was more than beauty. It was celestial radiance. The gown sculpted moonlight to frame impossible perfection – a goddess briefly gracing mortality. Even familiarity couldn't dull the shock.

Small wonder, a detached thought whispered, the original was… prolific. With such divine endowment, abstaining from charming every aristocrat would be sacrilege.

A young man's voice, polite yet intrusive, shattered the silence: "Pardon. Is the proprietor present?"

I turned.

A silhouette filled the doorway. Sunlight, conspiring, bathed him in sudden gold – a radiant, blurred figure of height and lean grace.

Vision clearing, he stepped inside. Seeing me, he halted. Stark astonishment flashed before polite composure reclaimed his features. Details resolved: simple riding clothes of dark wool and leather, impeccably cut. Honey-dark hair. Finely sculpted face – high cheekbones, strong jaw, lips curved in an enigmatic half-smile. Light hazel eyes, catching sunbeams, held flecks of liquid gold. He exuded effortless, breathtaking nobility.

This era hoards beauty like dragons hoard gold, I mused, mischief stirring beneath awe. Step outside, and it ambushes you. Intriguingly, after the initial jolt, my transcendent state seemed to bore him. His gaze slid past me. "Are you the owner?" His baritone addressed Cecilia.

His smile, now composed, was warmth incarnate – a soothing balm. Time to hunt. I stepped forward, blocking Cecilia. "I am!" My smile rivaled the sun. "Welcome to Silk & Lace. Proprietress, at your service. She assists." The lie flowed smoothly.

Cecilia retreated, a peculiar glint vanishing behind politeness.

"The owner?" Skepticism flickered, then dissolved into a soft chuckle. "A bespoke riding coat, then. Durable, yet refined."

Bespoke? Disaster. Panic fluttered. Fabric talk would expose me instantly. "Alas, sir!" My smile strained. "We've suspended commissions! Focusing solely on curated collections this season!" I waved at gown racks. "However—" My gaze swept him appreciatively, "with your stature, any piece here would be sublime! Bespoke is superfluous! Choose perfection today!" Charm saturated my voice.

Behind me, Cecilia inhaled sharply. Preempting protest, my hand swept back "accidentally," palm clamping over her mouth. She stiffened. Daggers glared from her eyes: Lovesick fool! Ruining commerce!

(Part 2)

Ignoring Cecilia's seething silence, I beamed at the gentleman. "Splendid timing, sir! We celebrate discerning patrons today!" Leaning in conspiratorially: "Simply provide your name for an exceptional prize!"

He regarded me, amber-flecked eyes gleaming with unnerving amusement. "Indeed? Elaborate, pray."

Hook set. I spun the tale breezily. "To honor our patrons, Silk & Lace grants a complimentary garment to every hundredth visitor today!" Dramatic pause. "You, sir," flourish toward the ledger, "are our two-hundredth! Fortune smiles! Inscribe your name, claim your prize! A splendid coat awaits!"

He didn't reach for the quill. Those captivating eyes assessed me – intrigued, not suspicious. Silence stretched. Just as doubt gnawed, his lips curved faintly. He took the quill, signed swiftly. Rhys Fallows.

"Yet," he straightened, gaze locking onto mine, "receiving without giving is poor form. Especially such… unexpected largesse." Warmth and curiosity mingled. "Might the proprietress grace me with her name?"

"Rhys Fallows," I breathed. "A name of distinction! Since you ask, I am—"

Cecilia erupted. Arm wrenched, I stumbled aside. She inserted herself, cool professionalism replacing fury. "Profound apologies, sir. A misunderstanding. No promotion exists. This lady," dismissive gesture my way, "is not the proprietress. I am Miss Cecilia Vance." Curtsey. "Commissions are my domain. Reciprocity also." Her eyes warned me. "A pleasure, Mr. Fallows."

"Oh?" His eyebrow arched. Amusement danced openly as his gaze shifted to me. Humiliation scalded my cheeks. Utter debacle! Flirtation felt a lifetime ago; here, it was mortifying.

Charmed by my disarray, he smiled fully before addressing Cecilia. I retreated behind Primrose, an ostrich in silk. Their conversation – broadcloth, doeskin, deadlines – flowed. His gaze, real or imagined, drifted toward me, warm with infuriating amusement.

Finally, Cecilia noted specifications. Guineas changed hands. A collection date set. He turned to leave. Spurred by regret, I emerged from hiding.

His hand touched the door. He glanced back. Directly at me. Our eyes locked. Cheeks blazed anew. I couldn't avert my gaze fast enough.

Pathetic! Self-loathing roared. Huntress's desire, mouse's nerve! One handsome man, and I combust like a schoolgirl! How to conquer London's bachelors like this?

As if hearing my thoughts, Rhys Fallows smiled – deeper, intrigued. His eyes held laughter, ripples on a sunlit pond. I stared fixedly at my gown's embroidery.

His smile broadened, luminous. He spoke not to Cecilia, but to me, voice warm and clear: "Until our paths cross again, Miss…" He paused, the omission deliberate, "... of the intriguingly unknown name."

He was gone. I stared at the closed door, his enigmatic farewell echoing. Intriguingly unknown? Did he see through the ruse? Frustration warred with lingering heat. I shook my head violently, willing the memory of my disgrace to shatter and vanish.