Love à la Mode

"Love a la Mode" was originally written for Amazon.com's romance newsletter, back when I was writing the PLEASURES series. The story sprang from characters depicted in Enchanting Pleasures.

If you've read Enchanting Pleasures, you'll remember the child whom Gabby befriends on her way back from India. That little girl, Phoebe, is being sent to England to live with an aunt she's never met, Mrs. Ewing.

Emily Ewing and her sister Louise write popular fashion columns. They are ladies who have fallen on hard times. As Lady Sylvia says, "Phoebe's new mama is Emily Thorpe, as was. From the Herefordshire Thorpes. There was a disgrace, some sort of rumpus, and Thorpe threw both his daughters out. Now I think of it, it wasn't the eldest gel that got in trouble, it was the younger, Louise."

In Enchanting Pleasures, Emily Ewing falls in love. But I could never forget her funny sister Louise, who charmed little Phoebe by telling her that there may be a genie in her teapot, and by saying "Zooks to that!" Louise needed just the right man...someone who could protect her, and make all the bitterness of the scandal fade away. Someone whom she could trust and who would adore her.

For a long time I thought I might turn this story into a novel, but life moves on, and I'm entranced with the tales I'm currently writing. So I decided to offer it on the website. It's short enough to download, and short enough to read on-line. And it's not explicitly sensual, since as a mother of young children, I wouldn't want to add to the tidal waves of that material already washing around the internet.

Enjoy!

#122 St. James’s Square,

London, 1806

There was no question about it. The task was impossible. Hercules may have cleared out some filthy stables, and killed a lion or two, but even he couldn’t have done this.

“I cannot write a column on male fashion!” Colin Salisbury bellowed.

His little brother smirked over his buttered toast. “In that case, you’d better send your matched grays and curricle to Kittles without delay.” Julian pointedly glanced at Colin’s less than fashionable attire, “Actually, I agree with you. Your coat has thin lapels, you’re not wearing a corset, and you have no rouge! You can’t write a word about male fashion.”

“Muttonhead,” Colin snapped. “Where’s that nonsense you were reading aloud last night?”

Julian nodded toward the sideboard.

“Fashion, tasteful yet fantastic, merciless yet idolized, seats herself in the weather-cock throne on the dome of elevated Pleasure –“ Colin broke off. “What the devil is this gibberish?”

“Edward Etherege’s column. You likely don’t remember, given your state of inebriation, but –“

“I remember everything,” Colin snarled.

“Never seen you so cast-away,” his brother continued cheerfully, putting more marmelaide on his toast. “And all because Adelaide Churchill got married.”

“It wasn’t due to Addie getting married.”

“No?”

“No. Take that smirk off your face. Addie can marry whom she wishes. I’ve never read anything as idiotic as this column. She dictates her unappealable injunctions to the votaries of the enchantress within, the goddess who governs our lives and our waistcoats."

“Who the devil is the goddess who governs our waistcoats?”

Julian shrugged. “No idea. Whoever she is, she will undoubtedly outlaw your waistcoat. Don’t you have anything that isn’t black?”

Colin flashed him a look of extreme dislike. “I can’t believe I agreed –“

“Agreed? You boasted to the whole of Lord Brussels’ table that you would write a fashion column for six weeks!”

“In my cups,” he said morosely.

“Fashion’s Portents is going to be delighted to publish a column written by Salisbury himself. The man whom not one, not two, but three betrothed have ditched on their way to the altar. Of course, Addie is the only one who declined to marry you due to your clothing, but – “

“Nabble it, Julian!”

“It’s simple truth,” he said with a virtuous smirk.

Colin ran a hand through his black curls. “Perhaps I should have agreed to her demands. But I like myself the way I am. She wanted me to powder my hair and wear velvet.”

His younger brother snorted. “She wanted you to look like a gentleman, that’s all.”

“And then she was so unbearably tedious, for all her beauty. Never talked about anything but her hat, and whether her nose had a bit of sun, and whether one glove or the other had a smudge. When she wasn’t trying to talk me into wearing something as revolting as a pink waistcoat.”

“Count your blessings that she married Singleton instead of you,” Julian observed.

“Yes,” Colin said in a lackluster sort of way. “But I want to get married. I’d like to have children. Believe it or not, I’m tired of being a bachelor. It’s just –“

“It’s just that you can’t keep a woman,” Julian said cheerfully. “Well, now we’ve identified that little problem, you had better concentrate on keeping your grays. You have to come up with your first column by the end of the week, if you remember. Here – I’ve gathered a whole load of Etherege’s columns. Since he’s the most popular columnist in London, you might as well copy him.”

“Rot!”

“Rotten or not, everyone reads his column.”

Colin narrowed his eyes at the stack of papers. “What the devil do I have to say about clothing?”

“You’ll learn.” His brother had the barely concealed exuberance of a younger sibling watching his elder ride for a fall. “Why don’t you track down Etherege and get a few pointers?”

“The man who wrote this rot?”

“You can hardly start by describing your own attire,” Julian pointed out.

“Devil take it,” Colin said morosely, as he headed out of the room.

Three hours later, he was on the steps of a small, rather dingy house. A young maid answered the door. “Miss Thorpe, sir? Oh no, Miss Thorpe doesn’t receive visitors.”

Colin narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean, Miss Thorpe doesn’t receive?”

“She doesn’t receive visitors, sir,” the little maid repeated.

“Tell her Edward Etherege has come to pay a call.” The woman was writing a fashion column under false pretenses, after all. The ton believed in Etherege, although in fact there was only Miss Thorpe. Not even a married woman! What would she make of Edward Etherege himself?

The maid trotted off obediently. Colin cocked his ear. He could hear faint laughter floating down the corridor. He strode after the maid and walked into the room without knocking.

A slender woman stood in the middle of the room while a maid kneeled at her feet, pinning up the hem of her gown. He stopped, flustered. “Excuse me.”

She didn’t even blink an eyelash. “Good afternoon, sir. Did Sally say that your name is Edward Etherege?”

“She did,” he confirmed. “Are you Miss Thorpe?”

“My name is Mrs. Ewing. May I help you with something?”

“I would like to speak to Miss Thorpe,” he said stubbornly.

At that, the young woman who was pinning Mrs. Ewing’s hem stood up. “I am she, sir.”

Colin felt as if he’d had a quick, sharp blow to the stomach. She was clearly Mrs. Ewing’s sister, but whereas Mrs. Ewing was all composure and cool gray eyes, Miss Thorpe was – different. She had silver-gray eyes too, but they weren’t distant and composed. They danced. Moreover, she had high cheekbones, perfectly arched eyebrows and a mouth that curved as if she were about to smile. Or be kissed. A slow sweep of heat sank through his body.

Louise Thorpe waited for the large man to say something, but he seemed to be dumbstruck. “This is rather awkward,” she finally remarked. “I always pictured Edward as divinely fair. After all, I created the poor man, and I do think a creator should have last say over her creations, don’t you?” She eyed the black haired, powerfully built man before her. “You are nothing like Edward. He is slight and sensitive. And he currently wears his hair a la Titus, when it is not powdered.”

A lopsided grin sat at the corner of his mouth and he ran one hand through tousled – and quite un-dressed – hair. “Yet I am Edward Etherege, and this is precisely how I look. Always have looked. Unfortunately, I am neither slight nor sensitive. It sounds as if you’ve described me as a dandiprat!”

“I have not,” Louise said indignantly. “You are quite unexceptionable. Truly elegant, isn’t he, Emily? I’m sure most of London believes you to be the very figure of distinction.”

Mrs. Ewing blinked. “Well, my dear, the gentleman has a right to be annoyed if you have been using his name when you write your column.”

“Even if I did use his name,” Louise said, “I had no idea that he existed. And truly, sir, I’ve done you a favor. I’m quite certain everyone considers you to be the most well-tailored man in London.”

Colin was starting to enjoy himself. “Well, I’m not,” he remarked, an amused glint in his eye. “What do you say about that, Miss Thorpe?”

Louise looked him over from head to foot, ignoring the way her heart was pounding. The Edward she pictured when she wrote her columns was slender and, while not exactly a dandy, he was punctiliously correct in his dress. Whereas this Edward wore an outmoded coat that didn’t even have the slightest puff to its sleeve. This Edward was a great, lounging man, all muscled legs and broad shoulders.

“I gather you agree that my trousers are rather too loose for fashion?” he asked sleekly.

Her whole body turned rosy with embarrassment. Embarrassment was the only explanation for the swift heat that raced up her limbs. She had merely glanced at his trousers. But –

“I am afraid that you present no competition for my Edward,” she responded calmly.

“Oh dear!” her sister Emily cried. “Why, we are being abysmally rude. Please do sit down, Mr. Etherege, and we shall have some tea.” She gathered up the folds of her half-pinned dress and rang a bell.

“Thank you,” Colin remarked. “I would be honored.” He loathed tea, but he wasn’t leaving the house until he had an invitation to return.

They all sat down and waited – and waited. Colin had already decided that Sally was the only help Mrs. Ewing could afford, but even Sally seemed to be unavailable.

“Oh dear,” Emily said after a few more moments. “If you will excuse me, sir, I will return directly. Perhaps Sally took my young niece for a walk.”

The moment the door closed behind his flushed hostess, he pounced. “Miss Thorpe, I should like to know how you plan to make amends.”

She looked at him with a little frown. Her eyes were fringed with the longest eyelashes he’d ever seen. “I can’t think what you mean, sir.”

“I would like amelioration for the use of my name.”

“I truly had no idea that you existed. But I fear that I cannot pay you for the privilege.” Her voice was apologetic but dignified.

He could see that for himself. The house was far too small and shabby for young women with exquisite manners. Both of them were clearly raised to be in the highest society although he, who had weathered some five years of London parties, had never met either of them.

“Are you related to the Herefordshire Thorpes?” he asked.

A shadow crossed her face, but she answered readily enough. “My father is indeed Reginald Thorpe, but I am afraid that we are estranged.”

Colin waited, but when she didn’t say anything further, he changed the subject. “I would like you to teach me the business of writing these columns.”

He’d truly surprised her now. “What?”’

“You’ve been using my name,” he pointed out. “I plan to write my own prose from now on.”

She gaped. “But – I –“

“Of course you may continue to write your own column,” he said. “Under a different name.”

She jumped to her feet. Her eyes flashed with anger. “So you would collect my fee for writing the most popular fashion column in London, would you? You – you – you utter blackguard!”

He had risen when she did, of course, and now he took one lazy step closer.

“I bid you good day,” Louise commanded. “I will certainly not allow you to use Edward’s name.”

“It’s my name,” he said mildly.

She looked up at him. She was a tall woman but he was truly large, well over six feet. “It may be your name,” she pointed out, “but I have built up Edward’s reputation as a leader in fashion – a reputation of which you, sir, are not worthy!” She swept his coat a scathing glance.

“Point taken.” He moved again. He was just before her now, staring down at her with his black, black eyes.

“Edward would never wear a coat like yours,” Louise added, rather loudly. Her heart was thudding in her chest so hard that she had the impulse to cover it with her hand so he couldn’t hear it.

He had a wicked smile, this Edward.

“I am not a fribble who worried about my lapels or my hair,” he said. “Yet I do attend ton parties. Why is it that I have never met you, Miss Thorpe?”

She flinched visibly. “I do not attend parties.”

“Why not? Your sister apparently does, given that you are sewing a ballgown to her measurement.”

She looked down at the ground. Colin had to stop himself from pulling her into his arms and kissing her eyes until she lost that sadness, and then – He pulled himself together. He’d never had such uncouth impulses toward his former fiancées.

Her eyes were a curious color, somewhere between gray and black. “I did not mean—“ he began, but the door opened.

He turned. “Ah, Mrs. Ewing. I’m afraid that Miss Thorpe and I were on the point of fisticuffs over the matter of her column.”

“I trust not,” said Emily, putting a tea tray on the table. She had changed from the half-made ballgown into a simple morning dress.

“He wants to steal my column!” Louise said. Her knees felt weak, so she sank onto the coach.

“Not steal it,” Colin said cheerfully, seating himself. This was the best day he had had since his father unexpectedly gave him a puppy when he was eight years old. “I merely wish to borrow my name back. For six weeks only.”

“You can’t!” Louise all but wailed.

“I don’t want the money,” he said, a comment that seemed to infuriate her even further.

“You may not have my column. You’ll destroy it!”
            Emily’s sensible voice intervened. “Why on earth do you want the column, Mr. Etherege? You have confessed to being unconcerned with fashion; why would you wish to write such a column yourself?”

“I made a bet with some friends,” he explained.

“That’s wonderful,” Louise said bitterly. “My column is going to be taken over by a gambling thief. What sort of bet?” But she answered herself. “Your friends don’t believe you write the column, do they? Not you!”

“There’s no need to be insulting about it,” he said. “No, my friends do not believe that I write your column.”

“And now you want to write it in order to persuade them of a gross untruth – that you are, in truth, writing my column.”

“Something like that,” he said, seemingly unperturbed by her sharpness. “But only if you will help me, Miss Thorpe.”

She could feel a rosy tide of color wash into her face. He had no right to have such appealing eyes, great hulking lummox that he was.

“I suppose,” she snapped, “that I have no choice. Although I find it impossible to imagine you writing a fashion column. I’m quite certain that Mr. Sneed, the editor of Fashion’s Portents, will refuse.”

“I’ve already spoken to Mr. Sneed,” Colin said. “How do you think that I found your house? We have decided that you shall write your column as…who was it? Oh! Colin Salisbury.”

“Salisbury? Are you mad? I’ve read about Salisbury. He’s some sort of pariah – why, I think he’s been left at the altar five or six times. Something like that!”

“Tsk, tsk,” Colin said. “Reading the gossip columns, are we?” His eyes had a laughing glint that made Louise’s stomach curl.

Emily intervened. “We necessarily subscribe to all the papers, Mr. Etherege, since I write a column on women’s fashion for La Belle Assemblée, and Louise writes for Fashion’s Portents. We cannot afford to miss any description of clothing.”

“I will not sign a column with Salisbury’s name,” Louise said. “He is a real person.”

“He’s only as real as I am. Mr. Sneed seems convinced that his name will sell papers.”

“Lord Salisbury may not like it,” she objected.

“As it happens, Salisbury is an acquaintance of mine,” Colin remarked. “I’ll make certain that he doesn’t fuss.”

“It’s simply impossible!” Louise moaned. “What on earth are you going to write in my column while I am writing his column?”

“How hard can it be? I know the English language as well as the next man. I may not be as flowery as you are, but –“

“It is not easy to write about clothing.”

“I have read your column, Miss Thorpe. All one has to do is write some fussy twaddle to start, and then describe two or three suits of clothing.”

“Oh, is that all!” Louise retorted. “Why don’t you describe the ball gown my sister was wearing a moment ago?”

He was silent.

“Go on!” she commanded.

“Well,” Colin said slowly, “it was pumpkin-colored, with some ribbons around the – the bosom.”

Louise giggled.

“The skirt was in two parts. A bottom part and a top part.”

“Good!” Emily said encouragingly. “There is a gauze overlay on top of crepe.”

“Right,” Colin said. “Gauze and crepe. That’s what I was going to say. With some little things sewn onto the bodice.”

He looked at Louise. “How was I?”

She broke into a peal of laughter.

“What did I miss?”

“It’s not pumpkin-colored. It’s amber-colored. And those are beads, not things!”

He shrugged. “Men don’t wear beads, so I don’t see a problem there. The real question is whether you will help me, Miss Thorpe.”

She was silent.

“Since you have been making use of my name,” he added gently.

Six weeks later Colin sat in Mrs. Ewing’s dining room, a chamber to which he was becoming accustomed. After all, he had sat there nearly every day for the last month.

He and Louise sat on one side of the table and looked at a waistcoat laid before them.

“Where did this one come from?” he asked.

“The French modiste, Madame Carème. Apparently it was ordered by Lord Rauchley. I have to send it back this afternoon.”

“Stands to reason,” Colin muttered. “Rauchley is a twit.” He frowned down at the striped waistcoat.

Louise tapped her quill against the table. “Let’s see…” she said.

Colin leaned a little closer. She had one of the loveliest necks he’d ever seen. It made him thirsty, it made him intoxicated, it --

“Fashion orders the use of a waistcoat of striped toilinette,” Louise said thoughtfully. “That has a nice ring. And then I might add something personal. Although the color is, naturally, at the behest of the wearer, Mr. Etherege would like it to be known that he himself prefers bottle green with a slight – very slight – stripe of the darkest red to provide –“

She looked up and found him smiling at her. A swirling wave of heat swept through her belly.

“Not Mr. Etherege,” said Colin. “You are writing as Salisbury, remember?”

“Of course,” Louise said, blinking at the look in his eyes. “Salisbury advises that an olive green –“

He tapped her hand with a large finger. “You said bottle green,” he interrupted.

“Oh,” Louise said. She was uncomfortably aware that the very touch of his finger made her feel like squirming in her seat. “Yes, well, what are you going to say about the waistcoat?” she asked hurriedly.

Colin smiled. “I’m not going to talk about it. I don’t like that striped effect. Makes a man look odd about the waist.”

“That is the desired effect,” Louise explained. “You see how the stripes slant toward the buttons at the waistline?”

“Looks dandified to me,” Colin remarked.

There was a faint snore from Sally, who had interpreted the role of chaperone as an invitation to slumber.

“I shall write the truth,” he said, leaning closer to her.

“And what –“ she steadied her voice. “And what, pray tell, is the truth?”

In answer, Colin’s quill skittered over a piece of foolscape. Then he shoved it over to her.

“The flummeries of fashion are often fribbles and foolishness,” Louise read aloud. “One could even call them freakish. But it is Mr. Etherege’s considered opinion that nowhere is freakishness more in evidence than when men wear striped waistcoats with large golden buttons.”

He grinned down at her, a devil of a grin, all white teeth and suggestiveness.

“Edward would never say that,” Louise moaned. “Edward likes striped waistcoats. He said so only few months ago. You have ruined my column, just as I thought!”

He had a splendid wounded look. “Surely not. I have been making a special effort to sound precisely like you. Did you read my piece last week?”

“It was an abomination,” Louise said severely. “You said that Edward never wears colored stockings in the evenings. But Edward thinks that pink stockings are delightful. He has often said so!”

“Not any more,” Colin said with a grin.

“And Edward likes stripes,” Louise persisted.

“Well, if you say so…” he said. There was something in his tone that made the color rise in her cheeks. “I’ll try again. It is Mr. Etherege’s delight to drink in the deliciousness of the striped waistcoat.”

“That is nonsense,” Louise said severely. He was so close to her that the white edge of his shirt brushed her arm. She told herself to breath slowly. This would pass. He would leave after finishing his last column, and she would learn to live without him. Somehow.

His eyes were so dark. He didn’t smell like her Edward either, she thought irrelevantly. Her Edward wore men’s cologne – expensive men’s cologne. This Edward, on the other hand, smelled like the outdoors, and very faintly, like soap, and perhaps more faintly still, like – like a man.

It was the way he looked at her, Louise decided. It shook her to the toes.

“That should provide enough material for your final column,” she said cheerily, standing up.

Colin nodded. “I’m certain I can make a fairly good piece about this striped waistcoat.”

“I suppose my poor Edward will shock all of London yet again.”

He smiled at her. “I’ll do my best.” Sally was still snoring gently by the fire. “Tomorrow?” he asked, and touched her cheek with his finger.

She shook her head. “Your column-writing days are over, Mr. Etherege. There is no further reason for you to call here.”

The finger wandered from her cheek and tipped up her chin. He bent his head. “Tomorrow?” His lips brushed hers and they were wondrously, devilishly persuasive.

“Mr. Etherege!”

His mouth wasn’t gentle any more, it was hot and demanding and altogether hungry. His hands slipped to her shoulders and pulled her close.

Sally snorted in her sleep and Louise returned to herself.

She leapt backwards. Her heart was pounding. “Did you think to kiss me because I am ruined?”

“What?”

“My father threw me out of the house because I kissed the gardener’s boy,” she said in a low, furious tone. “As I’m sure you know, if you asked anyone in London.”

“I did not,” he said steadily, his eyes on hers.

“Well, he did,” she said, trying to make her tone less shrill. “However, one youthful indiscretion does not mean that I am prey to any gentleman who wanders into our sitting room.”

He didn’t seem angry, but just kept smiling at her with that lopsided grin of his. “I may have wandered in,” he said patiently, “but I am not wandering out again.”

The warm length of him stood just before her, and then slowly, slowly, he reached out and pulled her toward him again. “I am not going anywhere,” he said softly, against her lips.

A lock of his hair had fallen over his eyes. Her Edward’s hair was a beautiful golden color that swept back from his forehead in a la Titus. This Edward’s hair curled at his neck and fell over his eyes and made her want to weep.

Except that she didn’t have time to weep because he was kissing her, and his hands were tight around her. It felt safe – safer than she’d felt since her father threw her and her sister out the door and told them never to come back. The thought made her shudder closer and entwine her fingers in those curls at the back of his neck. And kiss him back.

They kissed until a log fell with a shattering crack. Sally snorted again but didn’t wake up. “You must leave,” Louise said in a steady tone. “I may have kissed the gardener’s boy, but I am actually a…a quite respectable type of female.”

His eyes always seemed to be laughing. “I wouldn’t go that far. You do, after all, favor striped waistcoats and pink stockings.”

She tried to smile back but failed. “It has been a pleasure,” she began.

But he cut her off.

A small box had suddenly appeared in his hand. She stared at it.

“Would you like me to go on my knees, Louise?” His voice didn’t sound quite as confident as it usually did. And there wasn’t a bit of humor there. “Because I will, if you want me to. In fact, I’ll do just about any damn thing you ask me to.”

Silence thundered in the room.

“Are you asking…” She didn’t quite finish the question.

His voice was uneven. “I have to warn you that although I have allowed my three previous fiancées to change their minds, I don’t think that I could allow you do that. So be very sure if you wish to marry me, Miss Louise Thorpe.”

She touched the ring with one pink tipped finger.

“It was my mother’s,” he said huskily. “I went to the country last week to ask your father for your hand.”

She looked up at him, a silent question in his eyes.

“A old shark, your father,” Colin said. “But he acquiesced.”

She swallowed. “I can’t…can’t marry you.” The anguish in her voice gripped his heart. “I’m not a proper wife for someone like you. I don’t go into society.”

He wound his hands into her hair and hairpins fell to the floor. Black hair like silk slipped over his fingers. “Yes, you are,” he said huskily. “You are my Louise. I don’t want anyone other than you.”

Her lips trembled. He took her hand, turned it over and kissed her palm. Her whole body trembled. He looked at her, and there was raw truth in his eyes. “I never really gave a damn when my fiancées gave me the mitten, Louise. But for you – “

She blinked. “Fiancées? You said three fiancées earlier? You aren’t Edward Etherege!”

He couldn’t stop himself from kissing her. She looked so surprised, and her lips were so delicious.

“I’m not Edward,” he said apologetically. “I’m Salisbury. I’ll be a earl someday. That will make you a countess. And I’d like you to call me Colin.”

She opened her mouth, perhaps to yell at him, so he kissed her again.

He held her as if he’d never let her go, and after a while she started to hold him in precisely the same way.

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