He regarded her in frowning silence for a moment; then slowly he nodded. “Very well. Since, as you say, our contract is to begin today, then I agree, you certainly stand in sore need of different clothes. I know just the place. Colonel Delacourt's wife was telling me all about it.” Briskly, he set off up the street without looking to see if she was accompanying him.
Tamsyn hesitated. There'd been a look in his eye that made her a little uneasy, a glint of amusement that didn't strike her as particularly friendly. Then, with a shrug, she set off after him, running to catch up.
“There's no need for you to accompany me, milord colonel.”
“Don't call me that.”
“Why not?” she asked with an innocent smile.
“I don't care for the tone.”
“Ahh. Then what should I call you?”
“Colonel will do fine. Lord St. Simon, if you prefer.”
Tamsyn pulled a wry face. “That seems very formal for a six-months liaison.”
“We are not having a liaison.” He kept his voice even.
“Oh.” Tamsyn followed as he turned down a narrow side street. “Why don't I call you Julian?”
“My friends call me that, and I see no reason for you to do so.” He pushed open a door into the cool, dim interior of a milliner's shop, setting a bell jangling. “In here.”
Tamsyn paused on the threshold. “I suppose I can buy underclothes here. There really isn't any need for you to come in with me, my lord colonel.”
The colonel didn't reply, merely planted a hand in the small of her back and pushed her ahead of him into the shop.
A woman came out from the back. She wore a gown of dark bombazine with a crisp white muslin apron and a black lace mantilla draped over her shoulders. One quick glance took in her visitor's rank, and she smiled with a hint of obsequiousness, greeting him in Spanish. “Good afternoon, sir. How may I be of service?” She cast a cursory look at the colonel's companion, seeing a somewhat undersize lad in the dimness.
“My companion here needs to be reclothed from the skin out,” St. Simon said briskly, pushing Tamsyn into the ray of light falling through the window. “I think it would be simplest if she removes all her clothes and we start from there.”
“Hey, just a minute,” Tamsyn said. “I need a new pair of drawers, a new shirt, of lawn or silk, and a pair of stockings. Since I'm sure the senhora doesn't sell britches, I'll find them elsewhere.”
The colonel ignored her, saying calmly to the astonished senhora, “She needs drawers, a chemise, petticoats, silk stockings, and a gown… something simple, I think. Muslin or cambric.”
“What are you talking about?” Tamsyn protested, switching to English. “I cannot possibly wear women's clothes here.”
“And why not? Countess other women appear to,” the colonel demanded dryly.
“Because it's different… I'm different,” she said.
“I can't imagine what you're thinking of.”
“When did you last wear petticoats?” he inquired, untroubled by her rising annoyance.
“I never have,” she said dismissively. “Neither did Cecile… or at least she did occasionally,” she added. “But I think that was all part of their love play. Skirts were quite impractical for the way we lived.”
“Well, they're not impractical for the game you've chosen to play,” Julian stated. “In fact they're indispensable. Permit me to remind you that at your instigation I hold the reins in that game; therefore, you'll accept my ruling. As of today you adopt women's clothes.”
“But… but we are to ride to Lisbon presumably, to take ship. How can I do that in women's clothes?”
“The way other women do,” he said. “Unless you'd rather travel in a spring wagon.”
“Oh, don't be absurd.” She turned back to the door with an impatient gesture. “I'll manage as I am until Gabriel arrives. He'll be bringing all my clothes.”
Julian took her arm, swinging her back to face him.
His eyes rested with calm certainty on her flushed face. “You wish to cancel the contract, Violette?”
Her flush deepened and her eyes flared. “You would renege, sir?”
He shook his head, still maintaining his hold, still regarding her calmly. “I warned you that we're going to play this by my rules. If you don't like those rules, you can back out any time you wish.”
Tamsyn bit her lip in chagrin, wrestling with herself.
She knew he was just waiting for her to give him an excuse to end their agreement. She'd told him she could take anything he threw at her. Was she going to crumple at the first hurdle? And it was a hurdle that would have to be taken at some point, sooner rather than later. She just wasn't ready to cease to be Violette in these circumstances. Plenty of time for that transformation when they reached the peaceful, verdant English countryside that Cecile had so often described.
“Well?” Julian said, aware that the senhora was starring in unabashed curiosity, unable to understand what was clearly an acerbic exchange.
Tamsyn made up her mind. She shook her arm free of his hold, saying with icy indifference, “I see no difficulty.” She began to unbutton her shirt.
“Ay… ay!” The senhora gave a squeak of dismay and hustled her unusual customer behind a worked screen.
Tamsyn stripped, tossing her garments over the top of the screen as she removed them. Shoes, stockings, drawers, shirt, and britches fell in a heap on the floor, while the senhora hastily produced a selection of undergarments, offering them with some reluctance for the colonel's inspection.
“Do you prefer silk or lawn?” Julian asked in the direction of the screen, riffling through a heap of lace-trimmed smocks.
“Silk.” Tamsyn stuck her head around the corner.
“But I don't want any frills or ribbons. They catch on things.”
“Try this.” He tossed her a cream silk chemise and turned his attention to the drawers. “Silk drawers, too, I imagine.”
“No, lawn,” Tamsyn said perversely. “And no frills.”
“That might be difficult,” he mused, shaking out delicate garments under the aghast eyes of the proprietress. “These are about as simple as I can find. They have pink ribbons.”
“Ugh!” Tamsyn appeared from behind the screen, clad in the chemise that reached the tops of her thighs. “Let me look.”
“Ay de mi,” the senhora moaned as the colonel stood aside to let the scantily clad girl examine the offered selection.
A saint couldn't have resisted. She was leaning over the counter, her body brushing against his. Julian's hand slipped to her thigh. He felt her stiffen, but she affected to be unaware, studiously searching through the filmy pile of silk and lawn. His hand moved upward beneath the chemise, over the bare damask curve of her bottom. Tamsyn cut him a quick sideways up-from-under look and grinned wickedly.
He was aware that his breathing was somewhat ragged. What had happened to his resolution to resist the brigand's enchantment? He pinched the firm flesh of her backside with a degree of vigor and heard her quick indrawn breath. Then he turned with a businesslike expression to the senhora.
“Show me some gowns, senhora. I doubt you have anything small enough. I should think something to fit a child would be suitable.”
Tamsyn lost all interest in seductive play at this patent insult. She turned to protest but saw that they'd moved into the rear of the shop and were deep in discussion. She seized a pair of relatively unadorned drawers, a lawn petticoat, silk stockings, and garters and returned behind the screen.
“This, I think.” Julian held up a gown of cream muslin with puffed sleeves, belted below the bosom with a violet sash. Violet embroidery edged the hem and the curving neckline.
Tamsyn emerged from the screen, her expression one of resigned distaste. She examined the gown with wrinkled nose. “It's so flimsy. It'll tear at the first catch.”