Robin Schone by Gabriel's Woman (10 ebook reader TXT) 📕

nothing more than clinging

wet hair.

The woman who called herself Madame René circled around Victoria.

Victoria pivoted, intent upon reclaiming her dress.

Two warm hands cupped her breasts, simultaneously lifting them up and squeezing them together.

“You have passable breasts, mademoiselle”—instantly, Victoria’s breasts sprang free. Madame René

reached inside a side pocket and retrieved a rolled-up tape. She pulled a short strip out, stretched it taut

between small, slender hands. A pigeon egg-sized diamond ring flashed on the forefinger of her right hand

—”but you have no hips or derriere. We will design dresses to emphasize your bosom, oui?. And then we

will add padding to the hips and the derriere.”

Victoria gaped down at the woman. Men mauled women’s breasts; women did not maul other women.

The wool dress lay on the floor between them.

Victoria forgot about dignity.

She had stood naked in front of Gabriel; she would not parade around nude in front of a woman who

manhandled her breasts.

Victoria dove for her dress.

A small, leather-shod foot kicked the dress away. It skidded across mirror-shiny wood.

“You are in my charge now, mademoiselle.” Years of authority rang in the older woman’s voice. “I will

not abide a woman of mine to dress in rags.”

In my charge... a woman of mine.

Did Gabriel think to find Victoria a new position by training her to be a prostitute?

Acutely aware of her dangling breasts that were mirrored by the polished wooden floor, Victoria

straightened. An icy rivulet of water trickled down the crevice between her buttocks.

She clenched her chapped hands into fists.

“Madame René, I am not in need of a bawd.”

The older woman drew herself to her full height. “I am a couturiere, mademoiselle.”

A modiste.

Gabriel had said his house was not a brothel. Why would a modiste visit it?

“Madame, obviously there has been a mistake.” Victoria’s nipples stabbed the air between them. “I did

not send for a ... a couturiere.”

The bright tawny eyes narrowed with speculation.

“C’est vrai,” she said.

“What is true?” Victoria asked sharply, arms digging into her sides rather than moving to cover up

private places as they seemed to independently want to do.

“Monsieur Gabriel, he cannot—how do you English say it—get erect for a woman.”

A picture of Gabriel’s black silk trousers as he stood over her the night before flashed before Victoria’s

eyes. It was followed by the echo of her words, his words.

It had hurt him to tell her the truth. But he had.

How dare this woman judge him?

The surge of anger was stemmed by the sharp acuity behind the woman’s tawny stare.

There was only one reason that the autocratic woman would be here. This chambre de coucher...

belongs to Monsieur Gabriel, she had said.

“Monsieur Gabriel sent for you,” Victoria shrewdly asserted.

The older woman perched her head to one side. “He sent for one of my seamstresses, oui.”

But he had not directly sent for Madame René.

“And so you yourself came because you wanted to see the woman whom he bid on ,” Victoria surmised.

“All of London wants to see the woman whom Monsieur Gabriel bid on, mademoiselle.”

So they could judge him. As he had already judged himself.

“You have accomplished your goal, Madame René,” Victoria bit out. “Now please leave. You may

inform your clients that Mr. Gabriel has no difficulty in getting erect for a woman.”

And that Victoria had a passable bosom but no hips or derriere.

Inquisitiveness shone in the older woman’s tawny eyes. “You are angry.”

Victoria did not deny it.

“I do not enjoy gossip, madame.”

Lies had lost Victoria her job. And now possibly they would cost her her life.

“Gossip cannot hurt someone who has no name, mademoiselle,” Madame René said dismissively.

Victoria had long ago accustomed herself to such snobbery.

“But Mr. Gabriel does have a name,” she said pointedly.

The modiste, with her head cocked to the side, all at once reminded Victoria of a bright, inquisitive bird .

. . of prey.

“And you think that he would be hurt by this gossip?” Madame René asked curiously.

“ I should think, madame,” Victoria’s voice did not invite further conversation, “that any man would be

distressed at having his private life bandied about.”

“Mais Monsieur Gabriel is not just any man, est-il?”

“No, he is not,” Victoria agreed coldly, voice matching the temperature of her naked skin. “If he were,

he would not still be alive.”

Madame René straightened her head; the peacock feather waved.

“No, he would not,” the modiste briskly concurred.

Victoria blinked.

For one fleeting second approval shone in the older woman’s tawny eyes; immediately it was replaced

with smug condescension.

“You are fortunate, mademoiselle. Monsieur Gabriel is très riche. Not just anyone can afford my

dresses.”

Dresses. . .

Gabriel had hired a seamstress to make her dresses.

Victoria pictured a feminine, frivolous concoction of silk and satin.

The stab of desire to own a new dress was a physical pain.

Immediately the image was supplanted by the brown wool gown crumpled on the floor.

She did not want charity.

“I do not need additional dresses, thank you, Madame René,” Victoria said coolly. “If you will pardon

me .. .”

The tawny eyes glittered craftily. “If you send me away, mademoiselle, you will only increase

speculation about Monsieur Gabriel’s abilities.”

Victoria hardened her heart against the modiste’s manipulation.

Blackmail was the price of sin, Gabriel had said.

“Are