Free A Season Beyond a Kiss by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

Ives as the man who had magnanimously supplied her husband with the coins to buy her from her uncle after the latter had tried to sell her to Gustav Fridrich. Jeffrey had offered an exorbitant sum for her, one which Cooper Frye had found too tempting to refuse. By extending a temporary loan to Jeffrey, Farrell had saved his friend the trouble of fetching the money from his shipping company several blocks away. His help had speedily concluded the matter.
    Raelynn could recall very little detail about the people who had formed an ever widening circle around them that day, but she had no difficulty conjuring a mental image of the couturier. He had literally stood head and shoulders above most of the onlookers, equally matching the height of the Birmingham men. A flawlessly trimmed Vandyke beard had accentuated his handsomely chiseled features, and she was of a mind to think that with his closely cropped, sun-streaked brown hair and vivid blue eyes, he was every bit as admirable looking as her husband or his brother, Brandon. Only Jeff could tell her more about the clothier.
    “You said that you and Mr. Ives are very close friends, did you not?”
    “Aye, love. I’ve known him since our youth. His talent for designing clothes and choosing the right fabric to complement them came mainly from his own desire to dress well. His parents were much poorer than those of his rich, snobbish cousins, and he was often made the laughingstock of his kin because he had to wear their hand-me-downs. He repaid them by learning to use his fists and gained a reputation as a fighter ere he reached a full score of years. He proved successful in that sport and, after a few years, saved enough from his boxing matches to hire a seamstress to make his designs. That was perhaps seven or more years ago. Even from the beginning, it was evident Farrell was no simple clothier. He was too talented to settle for ordinary fashions. Eventually he became known as Mr. Farrell Ives by those who had once laughed at him. He was certainly a good man to have on our side when we stormed Gustav’s warehouse. He helped us win the fray.”
    “What lies are you telling your pretty wife now, Jeffrey me dearie?” a deep male voice queried in laughing amusement, momentarily startling Raelynn. She turned just as Farrell Ives ducked his head beneath the low lintel of the doorway leading from the narrow passageway into which Elizabeth Dalton had disappeared moments earlier.
    “That you’re proficient with your fists and a pair of pistols,” Jeff replied with a chortle as he strode forward with a hand outstretched in friendship. “Haven’t you learned by now, Fancy Man, that you can’t hide out from all these women you’ve hired? They’re bound to find you sooner or later.”
    The two men clasped hands in a hearty handshake before Farrell grinned. “It’s not the seamstresses that worry me, Jeffrey dearie,” he murmured, “but a widow who has obviously set her heart on finding herself another husband.”
    Had they been alone, Jeff might have probed for an explanation, but he was anxious to make the introductions. “My dear,” he said, drawing his wife forward with a welcoming arm outstretched, “it’s time you formally made the acquaintance of a very good friend of mine, Mr. Farrell Ives. Farrell, this is my wife, Raelynn.”
    “Enchanted, Mrs. Birmingham,” Farrell murmured, his lips widening into a white-toothed grin. His neatly clipped mustache turned up subtly at the ends, accentuating the thin lines of whiskers that trailed downward into his pointed beard. Sweeping into a lissome bow, he bestowed a light kiss upon her fingertips. “Rarely do I have the pleasure of seeing my designs worn by one so fair.”
    “I’m honored to meet you at last, Mr. Ives. . . .” Raelynn assured him, bestowing a charming smile upon him.
    The couturier silenced her with an uplifted hand. “Farrell, please. None of that formality stuff.”
    “Farrell,” she conceded