After the show, wine and refreshments were served on the floor below. Clients milled about, browsing the dressed mannequins, attended by their individual vendeuses who advised on the suitability of the outfits and took orders. While Lulu seemed determined to drink as much wine and eat as many canapés as possible, Genevieve tried to rise to the occasion. She soon had her vendeuse—a tiny woman with thin hair and a pink, sore-looking scalp—running back and forth to get the answers to a number of detailed questions about the garments. No, she couldn’t have a tennis dress in crêpe de chine. And no, they didn’t do the strappy sandals in silver. But was she interested in the swimwear? How about the beach wraps?…

“Genevieve, darling.” The Countess de Frémont, in unbecoming lilac, followed closely by a vendeuse bearing a pile of newly bought clothes so huge she could hardly carry them. “What a pleasure it is to see you.”

“Violet. How delightful.” Genevieve darted “help me” looks at Lulu, but her friend was fading slowly away from them. Lulu was a past mistress of the “gradual fade.”

“I’m so sorry about your mother. It must have been dreadful for you.” There was an unbearable, exaggerated sympathy in the countess’s voice.

“Thank you.” Desperate to change the subject, Genevieve looked down at the countess’s feet. Four-inch spike heels and a mesh of thin black shiny straps crisscrossing back and forth across her feet, like a beautiful, intricate cage.

“My new Zacharis. What do you think?”

Genevieve flinched, as though a bright light had been shone into her eyes. She hadn’t heard that name spoken aloud since leaving his shop with her red velvet shoes and her secret almost two months ago. In England, she had done her utmost to banish all thoughts of Zachari from her head, telling herself it had been another mistake—the second of this particular kind. As with the first transgression, she had kept it to herself. As with the first, she had told herself it should not happen again. It must not happen again.

But Zachari was not Monteray. This was different. Time and again, she dreamed of his mouth pressed to the small of her back. Time and again, she ran her hands over his chest, tasted his skin, sighed against his neck. These were the most vivid, sensuous dreams she’d ever had. And over and over again she found herself waking from them alone—or worse, lying next to Robert—bereft. Guilty.

“Do you think it’s true that Zachari’s making special booties for Josephine Baker’s pet leopard?” came Violet’s brash voice.

“How should I know?” Genevieve put a hand to her head. “I’ve been away. Anyway, I barely know the man.”

“Of course, my dear.” Violet was peering over Genevieve’s shoulder now. “Well, look who it is! I might just go over and ask him.”