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on his head, not caring that he upset the waves his valet had fussed over for endless moments that morning, Sam yanked on the thin leather gloves. Where was she? As he glanced up and down the street, he spied her dark silhouette disappearing into Lady Cynthia’s Dressmakers a block up the road. Not an ideal situation by any stretch, but he supposed he could wait for her outside. Although, how would he explain himself once she emerged?
    Lost in thought, he arrived at his destination long before he’d worked the explanation out in his head. I could shift into my phoenix form, wait for someone to open the door, then fly inside the shop to spy on her, except… The string of vulgarity he wanted to spill died in his throat as the vine-carved wooden door opened to reveal a couple of lace-draped women. “I beg your pardon.” Moving out of their way, Sam politely held the door as they stepped onto the leaf-strewn walkway.
    When they nodded their thanks, he knew a few seconds of acute indecision before shoving his doubts to the side. With a deep breath, he entered the dress shop and immediately found himself in a stately parlor, complete with dainty furnishings trimmed in gilt, floral-printed fabrics at the windows, and thick, inviting Oriental rugs. Behind closed doors, the high-pitched titters of female laughter filled the air. Occasionally, an authoritative set of instructions would cut the gaiety short. No doubt overworked seamstresses or harassed companions.
    As he stood gaping, a side door opened, and a matronly woman joined him in the room. Dressed in black crepe, her gray hair was arranged in braided coils around her head, and an expression of mild distaste lined her round face.
    “May I help you, sir? It is highly irregular for a male to enter this establishment.”
    Her double chins quivered in apparent fury.
    Sam swallowed as his throat had suddenly grown thick and dry. “I am searching for a woman.”
    An elderly eyebrow soared. “Sir, Lady Cynthia’s is not that sort of place.”
    “I am aware, thank you.” Heat infused his face, but whether from embarrassment or outrage at her claim, he couldn’t say. “Not two minutes ago, I witnessed a woman come in here dressed in strange clothing. I did not recognize her and wish to see if I could be of assistance to her as she settles into Destiny.” Ice dripped from his words, but his displeasure wasn’t enough to leave an effect on his hostess.
    She held her ground as sure and stubborn as she held his gaze. Sam wouldn’t back down. For whatever reason, his interest in the woman went beyond mere curiosity. Perhaps it was an end-of-life surety, but he refused to leave now. He needed to find out why he still felt the pull to the woman.
    The matron huffed her disapproval. “Wait here. She is not exactly conforming to this style of dress at the moment.” She swept through the doorway she’d entered from, clearly expecting him to bow to her dictates. The door slammed shut with a finality that brooked no argument.
    Sam hesitated, but he remained in the parlor. Beyond the door, a shout of irritation rang out. The female in question had much to say about the abhorrent effects of a corset on the female body as well as the waste of money using so many yards of fabric for everyday wear. Whoever the speaker was, he grinned at the verbal reprimand she gave. Imagining the seamstresses and the other women helping on the project made him chuckle. Perhaps if more females were outspoken, the ridiculous lines of women’s garb would slowly change.
    Perhaps not. Theirs was a strict and exacting world, yet merely the fact that women were swaddled and covered in multiple layers brought exquisite excitement to the unveiling of the bodies that lay beneath.
    I do love divesting a woman of her clothes…well, I did. Now, I’m as harmless as a eunuch.
    The door swung open, and this time his gaze shot past the matronly bulldog of the establishment to settle upon the woman who stepped into