Free An Affair with Mr. Kennedy by Jillian Stone Page B

pressed white cravats in the drawer and his housekeeper stationed outside his dressing room. “I need you in here this minute, Mrs. Woolsley.”
    Alma proved to be wonderfully accomplished at the job, when in just a few moments a smart bow materialized at his neck.
    “There. Very handsome indeed, sir.” She beamed.
    He lowered his chin. “Any observations of interest regarding our new resident, Mrs. Woolsley?”
    “Not much activity today, other than a florist delivery this afternoon.”
    There it went again, a flip-flop in his chest and an uncontrollable desire to know who sent Mrs. St. Cloud flowers. This, categorically, was none of his business. But would it be of interest to Scotland Yard? Possibly. He gathered his opera hat and several pairs of white gloves and walked from Number 11 to Number 10.
    Zeno counted every chime of the clock as he waited at the bottom of the narrow, curved stairway in the foyer. He bounced a bit on his toes and took in the surroundings. A gleaming pedestal table stood unadorned, tucked into the turn of the stairwell. He inhaled the faint scent of beeswax. A large bouquet of flowers would do nicely there. So where were the posies that had been delivered today?
    The rustle of her skirts snapped him to attention. His gaze lingered over the very picture of elegance as she made her descent. It came to him as a kind of revelation. It was the noticeable lack of frills and lace in Mrs. St. Cloud’s wardrobe that made her style so becoming.
    Zeno swallowed. The skirt of her gown was an iridescent neutral gray that shifted in subtle ways as she moved, from pale violet to green and crimson.
    Delicate black velvet sleeves rested off bare shoulders. The pristine white bodice appeared to be as stiff as a tuxedo shirt, and featured a row of elegant cut-crystal buttons running from the waist to bosom. The plunging décolleté accentuated high, rounded breasts, braced enticingly within the tight-fitted bodice. Zeno’s gaze lingered for a moment.
    “Good evening, Mr. Kennedy.”
    Rather than stammer a greeting, he nodded a polite bow. She picked up a boutonniere from the console table in the entryway. A white rosebud wrapped partially in a silver leaf. It was exquisite, just like her. A swath of black velvet swept around her waist and hips, finishing in a butterfly bow above the bustle at her back.
    “This dress is not from a London modiste.”
    She turned. “No, it’s from a couturier in Paris.”
    “It changes color.” Zeno pointed to the narrow shirred skirt.
    Cassie seemed pleased and amused at his interest. “The fabric is silvered moiré taffeta.” Moving closer, she touched his chest. She could have no idea how her proximity affected him. Her scents permeated his senses—violets from her bath soap and that wonderful French perfume. She removed the pin from the boutonniere and took hold of his lapel.
    Good God, he had forgotten flowers. How had this happened? “In keeping with my woeful lack of charm, I seem to have forgotten a corsage of some kind.”
    She stood inches away, her mouth in a bow and brow wrinkled in concentration. “I am always at a loss as to where to put a corsage, Mr. Kennedy. They often ruin the effect of the dress and droop sadly before evening’s end. It occurred to me, though, that you might need one of these.” She tilted her head to check the effect of her work. “A tuxedo suits you. And now that you have a flower on your lapel, I believe you are ready for a ball.”
    She looked into his eyes and smiled. A moment savored before he held out an arm. “Shall we betake ourselves to Grosvenor Square?”
    Outside in the brisk night air, Zeno drew in a deep a breath and collected his wits about him. Small cut crystals fastenedthroughout the back of her hair sparkled in the flickering light of the streetlamps. She gathered her skirts to board the carriage. “You will save me a waltz tonight, as compensation for several tedious hours of Evelyn Stanfield’s ball,” he