'Oh, drat!' She banged down the brush and straightened up so fast that she had to take a balancing step

backwards-straight into Lucas. 'Oh! What on earth do you think you are doing?'

'Ow!' The cry of anguish was wrung out of him. She might be slender, but the top of her head banging back into his nose packed a powerful force. Lucas was fond of his nose. In his opinion it was one of his more distinguished features, and having it broken by an irritable dresser would be distressing.

'Don't blame me,' she continued, with no sympathy for his pain. She turned round and glared at him. 'It is entirely your fault, creeping up on me.' Her eyes were an intriguing hazel colour, her brows arched, her nose small and straight. Right now she was glowering down it. He lowered his hand, reassured that his own nose was still intact. As she saw his face properly her expression became even more severe. 'It is you again! I should have known. You libertine.'

Libertine? 'Are you a dresser?' But of course she was. He remembered her now-the striking girl with the scowl, surrounded by shabby bags. He had winked at her. Obviously a mistake.

'Of course I am!'

'Well, you do not sound like it,' he retorted frankly, dumping the breeches on another table and reaching for a brush. Her accent was crisp, assured and educated, even if her language when he had entered had been decidedly unladylike.

'I was raised in a gentleman's house,' she informed him, picking up the garment she had been dealing with

and giving it a vigorous shake. 'And educated with the young ladies. Not that it is any business of yours. A dresser is expected to be genteel.'

'You aren't genteel.' Lucas scrubbed at one muddy knee. 'You sound like a dowager duchess at Almack's.'

'It was a very superior household.' She pushed back the damp hair from her forehead and held a hem up to the lamp. The garment appeared to be a drab pelisse of unfashionable cut. 'I do not believe this is mud at all. I think it must be glue.'