Gregory leaned over and kissed her lightly on the lips. “The answer is no, love.”
Love.
“You are not returning me?” she whispered.
His features stilled. “Returning you? Like an ill-fitting gown?”
“To my family.”
His features darkened.
“An annulment because you said we’d made a terrible mistake and—”
Gregory cut her off with another kiss. “Let us forget last night and start over.”
Daria’s heart raced. Emotion filled her throat. “I-I would like that very much, Gregory.”
“Me too, little raven.” He winked. “We’ve arrived.”
She was warmed with a flood of light and joy when there’d only been darkness since last night. “Arrived?”
Overwhelmed by the heat he’d stirred, Daria scrambled to the far corner of the carriage and pressed herself against the window.
This…this was where he’d brought her.
Her brow furrowed.
No. That didn’t make sense.
She cast him a quizzical look.
Gregory lounged on the opposite bench, broad shoulders slumped, finely corded arms draped along the back. His lips curved into a slow, satisfied smile—not practiced, but genuine. Satisfied with what, she could not say.
“Madam Roselle Amalie,” he said.
Her gaze flew to the white-stucco building outside, its wide shopfront windows overflowing with pink, red, and white roses.
“A modiste?” she asked faintly.
In the mirror, she caught Gregory’s pleased nod.
A dashing rogue knew precisely what women adored. Unfortunately, Daria was not like any of them.
Her stomach dropped.
Gregory wasn’t returning her or annulling their union. He was doing the third worst thing—taking her to be fitted for a wardrobe.
Chapter 18
Argyll, arms folded in front of him, reclined a shoulder against a wall away from the frenzied action taking place.
This morn, he’d paid to have the shop closed for four hours. Had the curtains at the cheerfully well-lit front windows drawn tight. Granted Madam Amalie complete freedom to design whatever—and however many—gowns Daria wished, with the singular stipulation that they reflect the color she kept hidden beneath her stoic restraint.
“Non. Non. Non.Pas la faille de soie! Bring zee thesatin de soie.”
Madam Amalie’s rapid-fire instructions flew between the crisp slaps and swift whooshes of fabric.
“Vert! I wantvert!”
