She told herself she didn’t belong to him or need him. She would go to Paris or Venice. It would be more agreeable than London. There would not be so many rules, for one thing. Gertrude had told her that the Parisians and the Venetians were quite wicked and immoral and tolerated all sorts of impropriety.
In one of those wicked places she would easily find a man who could awaken in her the feelings that Marchmont did. She’d find other men who could make her feel like a serpent slithering out of the cold darkness into the hot sun.
Other men who weren’t unreasonable and despotic.
A prince, perhaps. That would show him.
She beat down the memory of his mouth touching hers and the longing that still had not subsided.
“Everything,” she repeated. “And everything in the latest mode.”
“Oui,ma—”
The bell over the shop door tinkled.
Marchmont strode in.
He picked up his hat but did not put it on. He did not look at her or anybody else. He crossed the room, set his hat down upon a table, dropped in the most provokingly calm manner into the chair beside it, picked up a book of fashion plates from the table, and began turning the pages.
He was impossible, infuriating. Yet the world brightened at that moment. She hadn’t realized how heavy lay the weight upon her heart until now, when it lifted, and the regret and guilt trapped there evaporated.
She regarded the pale gold head, the one unruly lock falling over his forehead, the large but graceful hands holding the book, the long legs….
She remembered the warmth of his gloved hand against her back and the touch of his fingers on her jaw and the jittery shock that had raced through her at these mere nothings of caresses. She remembered the light touch of his lips and the ache it had made in her belly.
She turned her back on him and began explaining to Madame what she meant by “everything.”
“Everything,” Zoe said, “down to my undergarments. My sisters’ stays are so tight against my breasts that I can hardly breathe—and this includes the ones they wear when they are pregnant. But you see, they are smaller in the back even when their breasts are enormous from breeding. My mother’s corsets are very handsome and comfortable, but they are too big. She is older and more plump. All the women of my family are shorter than I, and we are not shaped the same. My bottom—”
A strangled sound came from the chair by the table.
Zoe ignored it. “My bot—”
“This,” came the deep masculine voice from behind her.
Madame looked that way. “Ah!” she said.
Zoe turned.
He was holding up the fashion plate book. It was open to a picture of a magnificent gown. “This will be perfect for the Prince Regent’s Birthday Drawing Room.”
Zoe crossed the room and stared hard at the design, not him.
It was splendid, daring and dashing. It wasred.
“It’s very French,” she said. The difference from English style was unmistakable. Had she not memorizedLa Belle Assemblée, which included not only illustrations but detailed descriptions of the latest fashions in Paris?
“You’re an exotic,” he said. “Your apparel ought to be something out of the ordinary. All the world will be studying you. Give them something they can see and easily put a name to, and their tiny brains won’t be forced to imagine.”
Though she knew it was in her best interests to do so, Zoe was not ready to forgive him. He had been unreasonable and tyrannical. He had hurt her feelings.
The coming weeks were going to be extremely trying.
Still, the gown was magnificent. It was so very, veryFrench.
She looked at him.
He lifted his gaze from the book he was holding and met hers. “Why don’t we buy the clothes now and argue later?” he said. “I have an engagement at eight o’clock. Hoare must have at least two hours to dress me for it or he’ll cry. That leaves us time either to quarrel or to order your wardrobe, but not both.”
