Slave to Fashion

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An Excerpt From: SLAVE TO FASHION

Copyright © DEBRA GLASS, 2011

All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc.

Chapter One

London, 1782

“I’d be obliged if ye’d fetch the modiste,” Laird of Lockerbie, Blane MacLaren, said impatiently as he made rather a commotion of pretending to be dissatisfied with his service.

Three men fussed around him like butterflies, pinning and measuring and—

“Ach! Watch where ye put yer hands!” Blane barked as he weaved to dodge the wee miscreant’s groping fingers.

Standing here wearing nothing but a pair of silk stockings and a shirt was ignominious enough but having these three mollies coddling his bollocks bordered on intolerable. Blane gritted his teeth.

Coming here had been a fool’s errand from the very start. But Georgiana Talbot held the reputation as the most celebrated modiste in London. Her experience was vast. Her connections great. Sponsored by the Duchess of Devonshire, Georgiana Talbot enjoyed privileges no other woman of her station was permitted. She was accepted at the most exclusive parties of the Season and courted by the wealthiest and most powerful of nobles. No one in the haute ton escaped her influence. She published La Galerie de Mode and wrote commentary and fashion descriptions for Blackwell’s Repository.

Blane had yet to lay eyes on the crone. Well, at least that’s how he envisioned the spinster who’d dedicated her life to dressing others instead of marrying and bearing heirs. He snorted. Naturally she had to be quite foul in appearance. With all her connections, why else would she not already be wed?

He clawed at the shirt again. “This fabric is eating me up alive. I demand to see Mademoiselle Talbot.”

No sooner had he uttered the words than the door burst open. A woman barged into the room, followed by an entourage of several men and women she obviously employed. Impeccably dressed in a gown of pale primrose and a wide-brimmed hat perched jauntily over her imposing powdered coiffure, the woman strode up to him and eyed his shirt.

She was hardly a crone.

Instead, she was rather…bonny. He swallowed. Exceedingly bonny.

Blane gaped at the audacity of such a comely woman walking in on him while he was in a state of undress. Instinctively he tugged the hem of his shirt down to cover himself.

“That won’t do,” she said to one of the men trying to pin the sleeves on the shirt. “That won’t do at all.” Her lips formed a firm, straight line of displeasure. Her forehead creased as she eyed him.

Finally she shook her head. “With those shoulders,” she gestured a wide span with her hands, “adding gathers will only make him look that much more…coarse.”

Coarse? Criosd! Blane wasn’t certain but he thought the lass had just insulted him. Speechless, he continued to stare as she circled him. It was a slow and predatory circle that had him reaching for the back of his shirttail as she appraised his posterior. He forced himself to remember the real reason he’d come here. He intended to pretend his linen shirt was made of inferior fabric and then introduce her to a superior product.

His superior product.

Never once did she raise her gaze to his. She only peered at the infernal shirt. “Madam,” Blane said, finally finding his tongue.

She waved her hand as if she couldn’t be bothered, and while she continued her embarrassingly thorough examination, her assistants fell out of her way as if she were the king himself instead of a puffed-up seamstress.

Blane straightened. “Madam!”

As if she’d suddenly just realized he was in the room, her gaze shot to his. “Mademoiselle,” she corrected pertly.

Too pertly.

Her rouged lips pursed with the perfect pout. A tiny, black, star-shaped patch decorated the delectable area just above the corner of her mouth. Pink cheeks. Delicately arched eyebrows betrayed the true brown color of her real hair. A crimson plume dangled over the front of her hat, partially obscuring one of her blue eyes.

Nay. She was not the crone he’d envisioned at all.

“Lord Lockerbie, I presume,” she said when he didn’t respond.

“Well…aye.” This was impossible! Here he stood, half naked, and he was expected to introduce himself? “I must insist that I be allowed to dress appropriately and then I would very much like to have a discussion with ye. A proper discussion.”

A high-pitched giggle came from somewhere behind him. Mademoiselle Talbot’s cold glance to the offending woman put a quick stop to the laughter before her gaze slid back to his. A mirthless smile claimed her lips. “Sir, if you haven’t heard, I am quite the professional. I assure you I only have eyes for your clothing—rather than your lack of it.”