“I love you.” Nell whispered against his chest, her face pressed to the wool of his coat. “I love you, you mad, reckless, wonderful man.”
“I know.” He tilted her chin up to look at him. His eyes were bright and suspiciously wet. “I love you, too.”
He kissed her then, in front of everyone. Deep, sure, and unhurried — a kiss that left no doubt about his absolute commitment to the woman in his arms.
Twenty-Five
“Hold still.” The modiste circled Nell like a hawk assessing prey, her pins bristling between her lips as she tugged the measuring tape taut across Nell’s shoulder. “You keep fidgeting, and I cannot work.”
“I am not fidgeting.” Nell shifted her weight on the small platform, making the cream silk whisper against her legs as she tried to find a comfortable stance. “I am breathing. There’s a difference.”
“You are fidgeting.” Philippa didn’t look up from her embroidery in the corner, her needle flashing silver in the afternoon light as it pierced the fabric. “You’ve been doing it since Madame Dupont arrived. Stand still and let the woman work.”
The modiste, a sharp-eyed Frenchwoman who had arrived from London with three trunks of fabric and opinions about everything, made a sound of agreement. She jabbed another pin into the bodice. Nell flinched, sucking air through her teeth as the point grazed her skin.
“The dress is too fine.” Nell touched the silk draped across her body, half-pinned and half-flowing. She ran a cautious finger over the seed pearls scattered across the fabric like stars fallenfrom heaven. “I will ruin it before I reach the altar. I shall spill something, trip on the hem, or set it on fire somehow.”
“You won’t.” Dominic’s voice came from the doorway, low and certain.
Nell’s head turned on its own, the movement nearly dislodging a pin. He leaned against the frame with that particular lazy grace he possessed, arms crossed over his broad chest. He watched her with an expression that made heat bloom beneath her skin. His glacial eyes traveled slowly down her body, over the silk and the pearls and the curves the modiste kept muttering about accentuating rather than hiding.
“You shouldn’t be here.” Nell pressed one hand to her flushed cheek, her words coming out breathless as she caught his eye. “It’s bad luck. Seeing the dress before the wedding.”
“I am not looking at the dress.” His gaze lifted to meet hers, dark and hungry and utterly unapologetic as he straightened his posture. “I am looking at you.”
“Lord Westmore.” Madame Dupont straightened to her full height, the pins clicking between her teeth like the bones of small animals. “This is most irregular. The bride’s gown is not meant for the groom’s eyes until the ceremony.”
“I own the house.” He didn’t move from the doorway, nor did he shift his attention from Nell even for a second. “I will be irregular if I please.”
Philippa sighed, her embroidery hoop dropping to her lap with a soft thump that echoed in the quiet room. “Dominic, really. Some traditions exist for a reason. You will jinx the whole affair.”
“I don’t believe in jinxes.” He pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room in three long strides that ate up the distance between them. He stopped at the edge of the platform. For once, they were nearly the same height, with her standing on the raised surface and him on the floor below. “I believe in her.”
“You are impossible.” Nell shook her head, but she was smiling. She felt her heart doing complicated things behind her ribs.
“You love it.” He reached up and tucked a stray strand of dark hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering at her temple with a tender touch. “You are beautiful. You know that?”
“The dress is beautiful.” She caught his wrist, intending to push him away, but her fingers simply rested there against the steady beat of his pulse.
“The dress is fabric and thread.” His thumb brushed across her cheekbone, feather-light, tracing the line of her jaw. “You are the one who makes it worth looking at.”
Madame Dupont threw up her hands with a torrent of French that Nell suspected was not complimentary, the movement causing a few pins to scatter from her lips to the floor. Philippa laughed, soft and fond. She looked like a woman who had long since given up trying to control her nephew’s whims.
“One week.” Dominic cupped her face in both hands, his piercing eyes boring into hers with an intensity that made the rest of the room fade. “One week and you will be mine.”
“I am already yours.” The words slipped out before she could catch them, tumbling free like birds escaping a cage. She felt her cheeks flush at her own boldness.
His eyes darkened, the grey turning nearly black, and his grip on her face tightened just slightly. “Say that again when we are alone.”
“Dominic...” She barely got his name out before his mouth covered hers.
He kissed her, quick and fierce and entirely inappropriate given their audience. Nell heard Madame Dupont's scandalized gasp and Philippa's knowing chuckle—his mouth was warm and demanding, tasting of tea and wanting. When he pulled back, his grin was wicked as sin.
“One week.” He stepped away and straightened his coat, nodding to the modiste with perfect aristocratic courtesy as though he hadn't just kissed his betrothed senseless. “Make her something magnificent, Madame. Spare no expense. I want the ton to weep when they see her.”
Then he was gone, his footsteps fading down the corridor. He left Nell flushed and breathless on her little platform with pins poking her ribs and her lips still tingling from his touch.
“That man.” Philippa shook her head, setting aside her embroidery with a rueful smile. “He has no sense of propriety whatsoever. Never has. Even as a boy, he simply took what he wanted and damn the consequences.”
