The Allure of Attraction Read online

  The wealthy woolens merchant with a grand house on Drumsheugh Gardens in the most fashionable part of the New Town had any number of people he could send to collect the rent on her Victoria Street shop, but he insisted on doing it himself. When they’d first met as he inspected the property before he’d purchased it, he’d reassured her that he had no intentions of evicting her or raising the rent. She’d naively thought it was because she was a solid tenant and finally thriving after years of hard work. However, within months, it had become clear that he wanted far more from Lavinia—even if she had no intention of satisfying the brutish man. The only benefit of the entire annoying situation was that his mother, Mrs. Wark, had become one of her best clients, and it gave her a perverse satisfaction to send her invoices to Wark nearly every month.

  Her head was still bent over her shop’s appointment book when she heard the heavy clatter of a man’s boots on the stairs. Only one man came to the upper floors of Mrs. Parkem’s. Caleb.

  “Livy, dearest girl,” her brother announced in a booming voice as he threw open the door. He was handsome as ever, with floppy brown hair and all the height that she lacked.

  She sighed and bracketed her right temple with her fingers, pushing on the pressure point. “Whatever it is, Caleb, I don’t have time today.”

  “Not even for a wee bite of breakfast for your favorite brother?” he asked.

  “Only brother,” she reminded him.

  “They don’t have to be mutually exclusive. Come on, how about it?”

  She swept her hand over the appointment book. “I have bookings. Find your own breakfast.”

  “You wound me, darling sister,” he said, clutching at his chest for dramatic effect.

  “Your rooms, which I’m supplementing at great expense, give you breakfast every morning.”

  “I’m well aware of the great expense because I’m paying most of the rent,” he said, a touch of hurt entering into his voice. But then another of his infectious grins broke out over his face. “No one cooks a breakfast like you.”

  “Thank you, I think, but no.”

  Caleb shrugged. The world should bend and twist to his will, but if it didn’t, it was no bother. Eventually he’d get his way and all would be right again. He was a scoundrel who liked women, cards, and drink—in that order—but he was her brother, and she loved him to pieces.

  “What’s on the books for today?” Caleb asked.

  “Don’t you have your own work to attend to?” she asked.

  He waved a hand. “Being the junior solicitor in chambers is dull as dirt.”

  “And I suppose you find dressmaking fascinating?” she asked, laughing despite herself.

  “Without you, how would I keep abreast of all the fascinating things ladies wear under their dresses?” he asked with a waggle of his eyebrows.

  “You do just fine with that on your own,” she said. “Last week the New Town Tattler and the Thistle & Tittle implied that an engagement with Miss Withers could be imminent.”

  Caleb shuddered. “Rumors and lies. I hardly know the girl.”

  “Good,” said Lavinia. “I’ve been trying to poach Mrs. Withers away from Madame Hollande for years. She has five daughters, and three have yet to come out.”

  Caleb tilted his head to consider this. “They could keep you in orders for years.”

  “Precisely. So stay away from Miss Withers.”

  “Noted.” He leaned over her desk to peer at her book. “Who are you seeing today?”

  “The Fosters are coming in late this morning. I’ll see to Mrs. Foster and Miss Foster, and Siobhan will attend Miss Isla while Kelsie is in the workroom,” she said.

  “How is Siobhan, the love of my life?” he asked.

  “Touch her, and I will stab you with my sewing scissors,” she said.

  “No you wouldn’t. That would dull them.”

  She rolled her eyes, refusing to concede that he was right.

  “Siobhan won’t suddenly become receptive to your amorous overtures if you call her the love of your life,” she said.

  “A good, practical woman. I like that,” said Caleb.

  No he didn’t. He liked them flighty and flirty. It was even better if they were recently married, widowed, or divorced and therefore unavailable or unsuitable for marriage.

  “It will be a little cramped for the Fosters’ visit because Moira Sullivan will be coming in for her last fitting,” she continued, talking through the logistics of her customer visits not because Caleb was particularly interested, but because it helped her work out the flow of the day. “I’ll put her in the crimson room.”

  He started laughing. “You can’t put Mrs. Sullivan in the crimson room. It’s nothing more than a cupboard, and she’s the doyenne of Edinburgh.”

  “She’s a friend as well as a customer. She won’t care which room she’s in. Besides, you don’t even like Moira,” she said.

  He snorted. “That’s because she swept into Edinburgh fifteen years ago and set herself up as a meddling matchmaker who flaunts her late husband’s wealth.”

  “You really are the most horrible snob, Caleb, but you wouldn’t turn down an invitation to dine with her if she ever thought to extend you one.”

  Her brother grunted.

  “It’ll be much easier to manage the Fosters if they’re all together in the blue, green, and purple rooms,” she said. “They’re all next to one another, and if Mrs. Foster is in the green room in the center she can pop back and forth between her daughters’ rooms to check on their progress. It’s the only reasonable solution.”

  Her brother rolled his eyes. “Well, it’s your shop.”

  “It is. I also have a new client, one of Lady Barrett’s friends who wishes to consult with me about a gown for the Prince of Wales’s ball. She’s left it rather late, but I gather there was a misunderstanding with her London dressmaker.” Lavinia sucked in a breath and braced herself as she continued, “And I sent Mrs. Wark word that her cashmere walking dress was ready for her fitting, so she’ll want me to come to the house in the next few days.”

  “Green like always?” her brother asked.

  “The woman has a signature color.”

  “And what of her son?”

  She grimaced, regretting having let him know a few months ago that Wark had been sniffing around her. “He’s my landlord.”

  “If he’s ever too forward, you’ll let me know,” said Caleb.

  Her expression softened. Caleb was a good man in his own way. True, he was unreliable, a spendthrift, and far too fond of chasing skirts, but he was still her brother, willing to protect her however he could.

  “I’ll come running to you the moment he is,” she said.

  “I’m serious, Lavinia.”

  She patted his hand. “And I appreciate that you’d fight a duel to protect my honor.”

  “I’m good with a dueling pistol,” he said, puffing his chest up a bit.

  He wasn’t at all familiar with the antiquated weapon, she knew, but there would be no duels fought over her honor, because there would be no need. She could handle Wark, even if she hated doing it.

  “If he offered to marry you, that would be quite another matter,” Caleb said.

  It was her turn to snort. “One husband was quite enough for me.”

  “As you say, Livy,” said Caleb, standing and stretching. “Now I’m off for work, ready to be tied to a desk.”

  “I’m trying to find an ounce of sympathy, but I’m afraid I’m struggling,” she said.

  “Shrew.”

  “Cad,” she responded with affection.

  He rounded the desk to kiss her on the cheek and then plucked at the lace on the collar of her lavender dress. “You could wear some color.”

  She pointed to herself. “Widow, remember?”

  “Parkem died ten years ago,” said her brother.

  “I’m no less a widow now than I was then,” she said.

  As a dressmaker, perhaps she should’ve been more i
nclined toward a wider color palette than the black, gray, mauve, and lavender assigned to women occupying that limbo between full mourning and being completely out again, but she found the hues suited her. The half mourning colors showed off the precision and detail of her workmanship without distracting the eye with bold patterns or flashy colors.

  “All I’m saying, darling girl, is that you don’t have to remind every man in Edinburgh over and over again that you were once another man’s wife. A man you didn’t even like,” said her brother.

  She drew in a deep breath. “Caleb, it’s time you went.”

  He snuck another quick kiss in penance. “Good-bye, Livy.”

  The door shut, and she closed her eyes. Her brother hadn’t intended to be cruel in reminding her of Alistair, but it still hurt. He was right though. She hadn’t wanted to marry the man, but the option to say no had been taken away from her.

  In her darkest moments, Lavinia let herself think the nasty truth: the best thing Alistair Parkem had ever done was die two years into their marriage. He’d left her with almost nothing, but she hadn’t cared. For the first time in her life, she’d been a free woman. As soon as the debts were paid off and the funeral was over, she’d escaped to Edinburgh against the wishes of her parents and the Parkems alike, vowing to never again let anyone else be responsible for the rise and fall of her fortunes.

  In the middle of their fights, usually spurred by her refusal to lend him any more money, her brother liked to point out that, as the daughter of a vicar, her status in the world had plummeted when she opened her shop. That wasn’t how she saw it at all. As the owner and sole proprietor of Mrs. Parkem’s, she’d made something out of herself.

  The back-door bell jangled, announcing the arrival of Siobhan ahead of the other girls. Lavinia shut the appointment book, tucked it under her arm, and went to greet her head seamstress to officially begin the day.

  The next few hours passed quickly with the arrival of the Fosters. Each of the women had to be attended to, with Lavinia hurrying back and forth between salons. It had been worth the frenetic rushing, however, because Mrs. Foster had decided that she couldn’t live without a new wardrobe—not just an evening dress—for the upcoming royal visit from the Prince of Wales. There would be a royal parade through the streets from Waverley Station to the Palace of Holyroodhouse, a military display, concerts, charitable events, and, most important, a ball held in honor of the heir to the throne. Who was invited to that particular event had been speculated over shamelessly. The week the invitations had been issued in a flurry of activity, men and women across the city had jumped at every knock or ring of the doorbell in anticipation of receiving one of the prized cream-colored envelopes. For all of the hubbub, however, there’d been few surprises: Edinburgh’s elite, from barons to businessmen, had been invited to the ball. Lavinia had no illusions that she’d get anywhere near the ballroom at Holyrood Palace, but her creations would, making her the happy recipient of a healthy profit.

  Lavinia had gone up to her workshop to pull books of silk and brocade samples when she rounded a corner and nearly crashed into Siobhan.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you,” said the seamstress, catching Lavinia by the elbow.

  “It’s my fault. I’m rushing,” said Lavinia.

  Siobhan nodded to the samples. “Mrs. Foster?”

  “Her gown for the prince’s ball,” she said with a grin.

  “God save the future king,” said Siobhan.

  “I never thought I’d hear those words from an Irishwoman.”

  Siobhan snorted a laugh. “I’ve never had much of a head for politics. If the Prince of Wales visiting means more orders, then I can stand to be a royalist until his visit is over. In the meantime, we’re going to need another seamstress to help with all of these orders.”

  “Do you know anyone?” asked Lavinia.

  “My cousin, Bronagh, has just come over and is looking for work,” said Siobhan. “She’s handy with a needle.”

  “And her story . . . ?”

  Siobhan bit her lip. “The same as ours in so many ways.”

  The girl was running from something. Lavinia never asked the women who worked for her what it was that had driven them away from home, but each of them had found their way to her shop for a reason. It had taken Siobhan five years to finally tell her about the abuse she’d suffered at the hands of her husband, and although they rarely spoke of it, Lavinia knew what it meant to have a place to go and money of one’s own. For her small band of women tucked away on Victoria Street, Mrs. Parkem’s was a haven, a chance to begin again.

  “Bring Bronagh in and start her on some of the simpler dresses for the younger ladies,” she said. “We’ll see how she gets on from there.”

  “Thank you,” said Siobhan. “She’s a good girl, and I’ll make sure she works hard.”

  “See that she does, and we just might get all of these orders filled.”

  Lavinia hurried downstairs to help Mrs. Foster select a rich blue brocade shot through with gold thread that would complement the lady’s white-blond hair. She said farewell to the Fosters in the front of the shop, promising to deliver the three day dresses the ladies had had fitted in two days’ time.

  When the door shut behind them, Lavinia turned her attentions to Fiona, the shopgirl who tended the front counter and helped those looking for ribbons and other accessories when Lavinia was busy.

  “Anything to report?” she asked, lifting the hinged flap that allowed the staff to slip behind the counter.

  Fiona shook her head, and Lavinia checked the little watch she wore on a chain at her waist along with a pencil, a notebook, and a tape measure that rolled up into a little steel box.

  “I have a few minutes before my next appointment. I’ll tend the front so you can have a bite to eat,” she said.

  Fiona bobbed a curtsy and scrambled through the door leading to the kitchen that served both the shop and the upstairs rooms where Lavinia lived. Fiona hadn’t said much since she’d shown up on the shop’s doorstep looking for work two months ago, but she’d proven to be efficient, polite, and tidy. That was enough.

  The delicate sleigh bells mounted above the front door jangled, and Lavinia prepared a wide smile. But when she turned around, it dissolved like sugar in water. Wark had come calling.

  “Good day, Mrs. Parkem,” said the man, sticking his thumbs in the slit pockets of his waistcoat. The gesture had the unfortunate effect of emphasizing his paunch, which had been growing steadily since she met him, although she was certain the man’s vanity blinded him to the fact.

  “Mr. Wark,” she said. “I suppose you are here about the rent.”

  “Among other things. I’m delighted to find you alone,” he said.

  “Is that so?” She kept her voice clipped and cold, hoping that Wark would realize he was not welcome. Of course, it wouldn’t work. It never worked.

  “Do you know how rare it is to claim a moment of your time, Mrs. Parkem? I’d almost think you were avoiding me if I didn’t know any better,” he said.

  “You don’t know better,” she said, adding an icy “sir” at the last possible moment so she couldn’t be accused of being unforgivably rude. The man might be odious, but he was still her landlord and could make her life very difficult indeed.

  He laughed. “You’ve always been a coy one.”

  And you’ve always been a slobbering brute.

  “I can assure you that being coy is the last thing on my mind. I have a business to run,” she said, reaching for the banknote she’d stored under the counter just before the Fosters arrived. “Here is what I owe you.”

  He took the note and folded it into thirds before slipping it into his pocket. He did not, however, turn and walk out of the shop as she’d hoped he would.

  “It’s always business with you, Mrs. Parkem. Tell me, what do you do for recreation?” he asked, sidling up to the gap in the counter.

  She brought down the counter flap with a satisfying bang, cutt
ing off his path to her. “I’m a shop owner. I don’t take recreation.”

  “Everyone does something for pleasure,” he said, rolling his lascivious tongue around the last word.

  She held up her hands to show him the tips of her fingers that had been scarred from being pricked over and over again. “These hands never stop making your mother’s dresses.”

  Wark’s expression darkened with lust, rather effectively turning the contents of her stomach upside down.

  “I can think of far better occupations for your hands,” he said.

  One of these days I’m going to pop you in your fat nose.

  “That’s funny, I can’t think of a one,” she said as she snatched up a pair of scissors she kept under the counter and held them up so that their blades caught the light. Caleb had been wrong. She would sacrifice a good sharp pair of scissors if it meant this lout would never bother her again.

  The confident smile on Wark’s face wavered, and he took a tiny step back. From a safer distance, he said, “I’ve always found that women who play games are the most fun to catch.”

  The blades opened with a sinister snick. “I’m not fond of games.”

  The jangle of the front-door bells robbed Wark of his retort. Her gaze flicked past her landlord’s shoulder, and that was the moment hell froze over. It was the only explanation for how a stony-faced Andrew Colter had been induced to step across the threshold of her shop.

  It was the first time she’d seen him since that horrible moment she’d last laid eyes on him—two days after her wedding to another man. She could still remember the breathtaking thrill of discovering he was alive and the crushing realization that, when he understood what she’d done, his fury would burn white-hot.

  Now, caught between the present and the past, she watched the man who’d broken her heart into a million pieces take another step into the room, his gaze falling on the scissors. Then his stern expression transformed, replaced by a wry grin she remembered well and had never imagined she’d see again.

  “Have I come at an inconvenient time?” Andrew asked.