their London town house.
“So you admit to its unsuitability?”
“It was a quixotic gesture, except perhaps for that gray dress,” he said reminiscently, a hint of a smile curving his lips.
Elizabeth dimpled up at him. “It did have a certain charm, didn’t it?”
“I believe it wasn’t its charms that caught my attention,” St. Ryne said drily. “Why haven’t you worn it since?”
She blushed. “It served its purpose,” was all she would answer in return.
St. Ryne laughed and pressed her arm closer to his side.
“So whose establishment are we to grace with our custom?”
Elizabeth’s brow wrinkled in thought. “In truth, I am still considering. I refuse to visit any of the modistes my aunt frequented. They would likely parade before us fabrics and dresses such as my aunt preferred. I desire something very different. ”
“May I make a suggestion?”
“You?” she queried archly.
“Aside from my wretched choice for a trousseau, I am aware of the niceties of feminine fashion.”
“Ah, supported the high-flyers, did you?”
His mouth gaped then snapped shut, his eyes dancing. “Hush, you silly widgeon! No need to broadcast our conversation to all of Bond Street. As to your supposition,” he continued with mock dignity, “may I remind you I have been on the town for ten years now, and since clothing is something women discuss incessantly, a gentleman is bound to pick up a thing or two.” He waved his free hand airily.
Elizabeth compressed her lips against a laugh. “Just so.”
“My lady, I believe you are laughing at me.”
Elizabeth opened her golden eyes wide and batted her eyelashes in feinted innocence. “I, my lord and master?”
“Ah—ha! Finally she has the right of it.”
She wrinkled her nose up at him in playful disgust. Abruptly she realized she was flirting with her husband. She looked up at his teasing visage, aware that she enjoyed his company.
No, more than that; she loved him. The realization shook her to the core of her being, and a soft blush rose in her cheeks. She looked away, taking note of their surroundings, allowing her face to cool. They had been walking in their own private world, oblivious to their location or the people they passed. Several members of the ton were eyeing them with open curiosity. Elizabeth laughed gaily, a heady euphoria brightening her countenance.
“Justin!” she exclaimed, tugging on his arm. “Have you noticed, we are the object of close scrutiny and speculation,” she said conspiringly.
St. Ryne looked up briefly, a wry smile twisting his lips “Let them speculate, it is their bread and wine. What matters is what we know.”
“And what is that, Justin?” she asked softly.
For a moment he was bereft of an answer. How can a man tell a wife he has virtually married in jest that he has fallen in love with her? “That you are a siren and I the unlucky creature to hear your call,” he answered lightly.
“Oh—annoying creature!”
He laughed, halting her before a dressmaker’s shop “Here is Mme. Marie Vaussard’s establishment. I’d wage your aunt never shopped here, and I think Mme. Vaussard would appreciate your coloring and could turn it to good effect.” He opened the shop door and led her inside.
The reception room, decorated in the Grecian style, was white and gold with pale green hangings and upholstery. Tall mirrors in simple gold frames hung on one wall appearing to double the room’s size. The shop exuded quiet refinement and elegance and not, as Elizabeth had feared the ostentation of establishments frequented by the Fashionable Impures. A little woman as neat as wax came through a green curtained doorway on their left.
“Milord! It has been a long time, no?”
St. Ryne grabbed one of the woman’s tiny hands and guided it to his lips to bestow a courtly kiss. “But I always return, Mme. Vaussard, and manage to make my way into your delightful company.”
She quickly withdrew her hand and wagged a finger at him. “Flatterer. If I listened to a Soupçon of what you said I would never get anything done and would be a poor, broken woman. Now, who is your charmante companion in this hideous attire?”
St. Ryne laughed. “You have never been one to mince words. I think that is one of your charms that has me returning to your side.”
Mme. Vaussard sniffed. “I am waiting.”
“A thousand apologies, but it is my great honor to introduce you to my wife, the Viscountess St. Ryne.”
“Your wife! Oo-lala, I am overwhelmed. I had heard stories—but—but—"’
“Precisely,” St. Ryne interjected causing Elizabeth to purse her lips in suppressed laughter while