Dominic stopped at the door to his bedroom.

‘The dressing room is to your left as you enter. Just go on in. She’s expecting you.’

Mrs Hawthorne walked through the door he opened for her, heard it shut behind her and surveyed the large bedroom filled with light from six large windows. A huge four-poster bed with a canopy and curtains in gunpowder-green silk was placed opposite the windows; the views from the bed must be spectacular. An arrangement of chairs and a sofa upholstered in brick-red faille fronted a fireplace with a magnificent cast brass surround. The walls were papered in hand-painted scenes from the Victorian period, the artistry delicate enough to suggest a woman’s hand. The carpet was new, her feet sank into the plush pile, the colourful pattern from the Asian steppes. A number of Victorian narrative paintings, beautifully framed, hung on the walls.

The room was exquisite. An example of everything that money could buy if one had a good eye and superior taste. Could the same be said of the woman waiting for her? Dominic Knight had clearly been solicitous of the lady’s mood – whatever the price of her company. Mrs Hawthorne took a small breath as she approached the designated door, not sure what kind of female she’d find in the dressing room.

A spoiled aristocrat, a temperamental cinema star, a high-priced prostitute with attitude? Someone else’s wife?

But when she opened the dressing room door, she came to an abrupt halt on the threshold, her eyes wide.

None of the imagined females met her gaze. Instead, the figure before her was a startling facsimile, albeit a modern one, of the French print she had in her shop. The little Irish courtesan could have been this young lady’s twin. Perhaps it was the rolled arm daybed on which she was sprawled, or the cut velvet upholstery in the same shade of serpentine. Or the pose – face down, rosy cheeked, her legs spread wide on the pillow bolsters. In this case the lady was clothed, although her skirt was hitched up so her pale, slender legs were on full display. And the face had the same nubile beauty, her tangle of red curls only adding to the remarkable likeness. She cleared her throat – whether consciously or unconsciously – and the portrait came to life. Slowly, languorously, the figure rolled over with a soft groan and a flutter of her lashes, revealing a voluptuous body. The lingerie she’d brought would complement such a lush body, Mrs Hawthorne reflected, provided the lady was amenable.

Although Dominic Knight’s ‘If you should need my help’ comment gave the impression the lady would be found amenable one way or another.

Mrs Hawthorne smiled. ‘Good morning. I understand you might like to try on some lingerie.’

Still drowsy, Kate quietly sighed. ‘I suppose he said that.’

‘I could come back later if you like?’ Having been warned of the lady’s reluctance, she was all deference and courtesy.

‘No – no, that’s not necessary.’ Kate shoved herself up into a seated position against the sofa arm, surveyed her visitor through her lashes. ‘Come in. I already promised I’d do this.’ She smiled. ‘So please stay.’

Mrs Hawthorne decided this young couple might have the franchise on dazzling smiles. Or perhaps it was nothing more than their youth and beauty that dazzled. ‘Why don’t I unpack some of the boxes while you’re waking up?’ she said with a meticulous courtesy.

‘He must have told you I’d be grumpy.’ Kate waved her hand in a little nullifying gesture. ‘It has nothing to do with you, it’s him. He has his way too often. My name’s Kate,’ she pleasantly added. ‘I’m sorry Dominic dragged you out so early.’

‘I’m Elizabeth Hawthorne. And it’s not a problem.’

Kate flicked her fingers at three large boxes. ‘That’s a lot of lingerie.’

‘Mr Knight didn’t know what you’d like.’

Kate snorted. ‘I told him I wouldn’t need anything but he ignored me. He’s very charming, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, he is.’

‘Does he do this often?’

‘I don’t know. He’s not a client.’

A startled green gaze. ‘He isn’t?’

‘Not of my shop.’

‘You own the shop?’

That small surprise again; the young American – her accent unmistakable – didn’t know him well. ‘Yes, the shop is mine.’

‘And this is important enough to get you here at ten thirty in the morning?’

‘He’s important enough.’

Another small sigh. ‘I’ve noticed that. Do you have to deal with many people like him?’

‘Some. This is a wealthy city. What would you like to try on first?’

‘A robe so I can go back to sleep.’ Kate smiled faintly. ‘Just kidding. You decide.’

‘Why don’t we begin with the basics? That way I can get an idea of sizes and it won’t be necessary to try on everything.’

‘Perfect. Then this shouldn’t take long.’

‘We’ll go as quickly as we can, my dear.’

As Kate discarded her dress, Mrs Hawthorne selected several items from the boxes and laid them out on a large table.

The young woman was naked beneath her dress, Mrs Hawthorne noted. She wasn’t shy about standing nude in the centre of the dressing room. In that respect, at least, she and Dominic Knight must be compatible.

‘I hope this doesn’t take long,’ Kate murmured drowsily. ‘I’m tired.’