“Hopefully, you won't go around catching it on things,” he declared, dropping the gown over her head, standing aside as the senhora hastened to attend to the hooks and buttons and the sash.
“It needs to be shortened about two inches,” the senhora said, restored to equanimity now that her customer was decently clothed. “I can have that done in half an hour.”
Tamsyn took a couple of steps, kicking the folds out in front of her as she did so. “This is ridiculous. How can one move around with all this stuff twisting around one's legs?”
“Most women seem to manage without the least difficulty,” Julian said. “And it'll be better when it's shorter.” He examined her with an involuntary smile. Despite the fact that Tamsyn looked thoroughly uncomfortable, the gown created the most amazing transformation. Her slight figure appeared fragile rather than wiry, accentuating the curve of her bosom and the gentle flare of her hips. The small head with its bright cap of pale silky hair sat atop a long, slender neck rising gracefully from the low, curving neckline.
“Buttercup,” he said with a chuckle. “That's what you look like. No longer Violette, but a buttercup in the sun.”
Tamsyn's expression showed him exactly what she thought of this revolting description. She took another turn around the room and came to a halt in front of the long cheval glass. “Santa Maria,” she muttered. “I look ridiculous. I'll be the laughingstock of the town.” She glared at Julian in the mirror. “I suppose that's what you want… revenge.”
He shook his head. “Not so. Anyway, why should you imagine people will laugh at you just because you look like a woman instead of a some androgynous creature from the mountains?”
“Well, I'll laugh at me,” she declared.
“Get used to it,” he advised. “Because this is the way it's going to be for as long as you and I are involved in this contract.”
“And you're not going to lose an opportunity to get even, are you?” She turned to face him.
“No,” he agreed. “Not a single one.”
Chapter Ten
TAMSYN SAT IN THE BACK ROOM OF THE MILLINER'S SHOP while a young seamstress took up the hem of the muslin gown, and Julian, armed with one of her boots for size, went off in search of shoes that would match her new image.
She'd been neatly outmanoeuvred, Tamsyn reflected morosely, watching the girl's nimble fingers darting through the material. And it rather looked as if the colonel had the perfect weapon to ensure his victory in all such contentious issues. She was more interested in the arrangement's continuing than he was; therefore, she must keep him happy.
There were areas in which she wouldn't at all mind keeping him happy, and she'd rather assumed that he'd consider love play adequate compensation for inconvenience. Unfortunately, Lord St. Simon seemed determined to resist seduction. Although he hadn't been doing too well at resistance up to now.
The thought lightened her mood somewhat, and she stood up to allow the seamstress to try the dress on her. The length was pronounced satisfactory, and Tamsyn went to examine herself again in the mirror.
She didn't look in the least like herself; it was most unsettling, rather as if her head were sitting atop some other body. But she wasn't going to give the colonel any further satisfaction. He would find her cheerfully accepting of this new costume, and if people laughed at her, then she'd laugh with them.
When Julian returned with a pair of bronze kid slippers, Tamsyn greeted him with a sunny smile and amiably extended her foot to try the shoe, commenting how pretty they were.
Julian looked at her suspiciously, meeting only that airy smile. She walked around the shop, pronounced them a perfectly comfortable fit, and asked the senhora to pack up her discarded clothes and boots.
“Keep the boots,” the colonel said. “But you won't need the other things.”
“Not in your company, perhaps, milord colonel,” she said sweetly. “Nevertheless, I prefer to keep them.”
He shrugged and pulled out a billfold from his britches pocket.
“Do keep a careful accounting, milord colonel,” Tamsyn said as sweetly as before. “I should hate to be beholden to you.”
“Oh, don't worry, buttercup, I'll make sure you aren't.”
“Don't call me that,” Tamsyn said, her amiable facade cracking.
“Then don't call me 'milord colonel,'“ he returned smartly, counting out bills into the senhora's eager palm.
She seemed to have drawn a worthy opponent, Tamsyn reflected, going to the door. The evening sun cast long shadows down the narrow street, and there was a slight coolness in the air, brushing her bare arms. The thin gown fluttered against her skin, and she felt almost naked. It was most disconcerting.
“Here, you'll need this.” Julian draped a silk mantilla over her shoulders. “The senhora was anxious you shouldn't catch cold.”
“I've never caught cold in my life.”
“No, but then you've never been so impractically clothed before.”
“Oh, so you agree,” she cried indignantly. “It's the most impractical, ludicrous, skimpy costume imaginable.”
He chuckled, and she realized that he'd tricked her into expressing her true feelings. Crossly, she kicked the flounce of the skirt ahead of her as she strode down the street, moving with as much vigor as if she were still clad in her britches.
Julian, following a little behind, winced as the hem of the skirt caught on a loose stone and she jerked it free roughly, kicking at the stone with the dainty kid slipper.
“Tamsyn!” He caught her arm, slowing her progress.
“That is not the way to walk. You must hold up the skirts of your dress and petticoat in one hand, drawing them aside… look, like this.” He demonstrated, pinching the material of his britches at the knee between finger and thumb, taking a step. “Do you see?”
“I don't think I've quite grasped it,” Tamsyn said solemnly. “Perhaps you could show me again.”
“It's perfectly simple,” he said impatiently. “You just draw the material aside… Diablillo!” he exploded as Tamsyn went into a peal of laughter, doubled over, convulsed with merriment. He gave her an ungentlemanly swat, annoyance warring with reluctant amusement at the absurd image he'd presented.
She straightened hastily, turning her laughing countenance toward him. Picking up her skirt in exaggerated imitation, she took a mincing step, her nose loftily tilted, eyes on the sky. “Like this, milord colonel?”
“If you don't look where you're going, buttercup, you're going to end up on your backside in the gutter,” he declared.
Tamsyn grimaced and dropped the pose. She must remember not to call him that.
“Now, take my arm,” he instructed, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow. “And with your other hand, take up your skirts so they don't trail in the dirt. And watch where you put your feet.”
They progressed in this fashion into the broader main street, and Tamsyn glanced around, hoping she wouldn't see any familiar faces. Since she looked ridiculous in her own eyes, she couldn't imagine anyone seeing a different picture.
“God's grace, isn't that Gabriel?” Julian said suddenly. The unmistakable giant figure astride his massive charger rounded the corner at the end of the street. He was leading two laden pack mules, and bringing up the rear of the procession was another mule with a female rider swathed in shawls and mantillas.
With a cry of joy Tamsyn dropped the colonel's arm and, forgetting her embarrassment, ran down the street, holding up her skirts with both hands so she didn't trip. “Gabriel, how quickly you got here!”
“What did you expect, little girl?” Gabriel said comfortably, dismounting. “Och, bairn, what are you wearing?”
“Oh, it's all part of my plan,” she said, finally emerging from his embrace. “It makes me look silly, I know, but the colonel's insisting on it; but I'll explain later.”