Argyll rose.
Silence fell. Seamstresses straightened. Heads bowed.
“If I was unclear earlier,” he said coolly, “my wife is at liberty to choose whatever garments she desires. In whatever quantity.”
His gaze held hers.
Her lips moved.
Daria was trying to convey something to him. He narrowed his eyes. What was it?
She cupped her hands around her mouth. “None.”
The word cracked through the room.
Modiste and maids went silent as duchess challenged duke. Heads bowed, every attendant directed their focus to the floor.
“None?”
“As inzerogowns, Your Grace?”
A smile threatened despite his resolve. He managed to keep his features cool.
Their audience’s curiosity proved greater than their deference. The maids sneaked furtive peeks between Argyll and his somber bride.
Argyll pushed languidly to his feet and strolled to the circular velvet dais. That put her eyes nearly level with his. “Ah, but indulge me, Your Grace,” he murmured huskily. He took Daria’s hands in his and kissed them one at a time. “I want to grant you your heart’s content this day.”
A series of collective sighs rolled through the room.
Daria’s fingers trembled in his hold.
He brushed his thumb over her thudding pulse.
Madam Amalie seized the moment. “Her Grace is exquisite, but she insists upon dark shades, and you said—”
“Out.”
Argyll’s command was sharp. Final. And not for the reason that she’d been about to reveal how he’d given direction to Daria’s appointment.
“You heard His Grace.” Madam Amalie clapped her hands together two times briskly, springing her girls into movement.
Fabric slipped from their fingers and fell where they left them.
Like a rolling wave, the young women curtsied. As they filed from the room, his and Daria’s gazes stayed locked.
“As I said, Your Grace,” Madam Amalie said, briskly gathering the rainbow of jewel-toned fabrics. “Her Grace insists on—”
“My instructions included all of you, Madame Amalie,” he cooly informed. “I will pay your day’s closure costs.”
Silver fine eyebrows shot up. “Oui. Oui.” The modiste relinquished the material in her hands so quick that it hit the air and fell in a kaleidoscope of color.
Her retreating footfalls followed the same ones her servants had taken. A door closed firmly in the distance.
Argyll relaxed against the mirror. “Now, my beautiful bride, what—?”
“You paid the cost of Madam Amalie’s clients for the day,” she whispered.
He quirked his lips into a grin. “Worry not, love. It is a pittance.”
