Elizabeth stared into the blurry void that was her own private hell. She was wilting on a dais in the middle of a room surrounded by women nipping and tucking, squeezing and fussing like gnats. She was weak from hunger and worry and wanted nothing more than to run screaming from this shop, leagues away from this baron’s exacting bearing and miserable marriage suit.
Being robbed of her sight made the experience all the worse, because she could see nothing beyond a close face, though she knew he was there, watching. He was choosingforher, too, outfitting her entire wardrobe without consideration of her own preference for color or style. It infuriated her, his obvious need to control. She would have to carve some shred of independence, some semblance of autonomy from him before he swallowed her entire being into his own.
Unless, that is, she managed to escape marriage altogether.
Elizabeth squirmed under his penetrating gaze. He was a blur of indigo across the room, the woman by his side a haze of red silk and inky hair. They were thick as thieves, the two, scheming up her wardrobe and wedding gown.Her wedding!How she wished she had her spectacles, that she might shoot them dirty looks.
She stared in the direction of Milton’s muddied blue person, hoping she radiated rage, when he rose and approached the dais to bat away the maids.
He slipped her spectacles over her nose. “You look as if you are about to faint.” His hands encircled her waist. “You are also more attractive than I thought.”
“And you are an even greater blackguard than I thought.”
“I am indeed, Miss Winthrop.” He laughed and drew her closer. “You amuse as much as you infuriate, a pleasant surprise indeed.” He began to pet her. “You’ll suit.”
Elizabeth was shocked by his words and his pleasant male scent, close as he stood. He suddenly buried his nose in her hair, but she pulled from him. “You have taken one too many liberties, Baron. Have you no sense of decorum at all?”
“Admittedly none, Miss Winthrop, which is why I am in dire need of a wife.”
She frowned. “You are a rake, sir, but at least you admit it.”
“Oh I’ll admit to worse than that.” He grinned. “But come, you must dress so we may eat. I am famished. And after, I promise to leave you alone with the modiste, because I cannot bear to sit through more fittings. Who knew a wife required more uniforms than an entire regiment of soldiers?”
He helped her off the platform and into her modest house dress, which lay draped over a waiting chair. Elizabeth felt shy, though he’d seen her from every angle already. He hooked her efficiently from behind, as if used to fastening a woman’s many small clasps.
Half an hour later, they were seated in a respectable tavern a short walk away, though the blasted man had orderedforher, a habit Elizabeth despised. She’d like to see his choice of meal taken from him. Yet she bit her tongue, biding her time and barely picking at her plate, eating next to none of the artfully arranged sandwiches before her.
“Are you not hungry, Miss Winthrop?” Milton devoured his without ceremony.
“Oh no, sir.” She forced a smile. “I am ravenous.”
“Then why do you not eat?”
“Because I dislike this watercress.”
“Ah,” he said. “Then you’ll not mind if I…?” He reached across her plate to steal one.
“By all means, sir, be my guest.” She rolled her eyes as he inhaled her sandwich.
“Pray tell me what you’d prefer, Elizabeth, and I shall order it for you.”
“Goodness, do not trouble yourself.” She motioned the waiter over. “I don’t mind ordering for myself.”
She was halted by his hand on her arm. “A gentleman always orders for a lady, Lizzie.”
How dare he continue to call her Lizzie!“Well, as you are admittedly no gentleman, sir, I’m sure you’ll not mind my ordering my own meal.”
He tightened his grip while he snapped his other fingers, making waitstaff magically appear. “Be so good as to bring the young lady whatever her heart desires.” His gaze locked on hers.
“Miss?” The waiter turned to her.
“A plate of watercress sandwiches, if you please.”
Milton flinched but quickly recovered. “Why Miss Winthrop,” he drawled, “I thought you did not fancy watercress.”
“I fancy it when ordered correctly, sir.”
Instantly his hand dropped to her thigh beneath the table, squeezing so that she jumped. “Try that again”—his reach crept higher—“and I’ll be forced to punish your brazen attempt to outmaneuver me.” His hand slipped between her thighs, to knead her there through her skirts, where he’d touched her before.
