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 the satin de soie.”
Madam Amalie’s rapid-fire instructions flew between the crisp slaps and swift whooshes of fabric.
“Vert! I want vert!”
Young maids came in one at a time, with material raised for the exacting older woman’s appraisal. “Non. Non. Non!” She turned them around with a finger. “Saxon green. Get that away from me.”
With the latest batch rejected, the servants rushed out to their employer’s frustrated mutterings, and a party of new servants and their selections filed forward.
Madam Amalie considered a silk satin. “Theez may do. Leave it.”
The girl curtsied and made way for the next.
“Her Grace n’est pas une pomme!”
But as the soft green material was lifted, revealing a glimpse of his wife’s nearly bare form, he discovered a newfound appreciation for an outing to the modiste.
No, Her Grace was not an apple, but she tempted the same way that first succulent fruit had.
“Apportez-moi la soie verte!”
As a rule, he never accompanied a lover to the modiste. Bloody demanding things they were—the trips and the women. All the clinical questions about preference, which accessory went with which gown. He’d see the fruits of their labors after, in his rooms—or theirs.
The difference this morn was that Daria was no ordinary woman. No, not in all the ways, but one singular way set her apart from all ladies, for the rest of his life.
She was his wife.
After Argyll’s abysmal showing last eve, DuMond, good friend that he was, did him the boon of reminding him—ladies wanted gifts. Baubles, to be precise.
“Oui. Oui. Magnifique!”
Daria stood encircled by seamstresses, fabric snapping and fluttering as they moved about her like bright-winged insects.
As the twisted universe should have it, he attended his wife’s fitting with lust-filled eagerness—and the woman he wished to adorn as a celebration of their union had bare toes that twitched.
Argyll rubbed at the back of his neck.
Damn me.
In an aggravating twist, Argyll discovered there existed someone who loathed a trip to the seamstress even more than he did.
His wife.
The whole bloody thing would have amused him, had he been of a mind to laugh.
Oh, he’d hand it to his wife—she did her best to put on a show for his benefit.
But as fabric after fabric was swept over and layered and draped about her, the truth was there on every strained line in his expressive bride’s face.
She was deuced miserable, wretchedly so.
As if on cue, from over the heads of two maids draping her in an apple-red crimson, Daria’s gaze caught his.
“No, no, no,” Madam Amalie insisted in rapid French. “It must be one of these colors.”
Daria turned to him.
Not pleading. Assessing.
Something lodged sharply between his ribs.
She was not asking to be saved.
She was asking whether he would choose her.
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 in zero gowns, 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.”
“A pittance!” She drew back. “Not to everyone. There are so many causes that might benefit…”
Argyll touched two fingers to her lips.
He admired the glide of her throat as she swallowed wildly.
Ah, yes. He’d forgotten again. He’d married the only woman who’d meet such generosity with disapproval, not awe.
“I settle five thousand pounds each year upon the Foundling Hospital.” Argyll glided the pad of his thumb along her lip.
“Two thousand to the Magdalen Hospital.” He continued stroking that velvet flesh.
“Three thousand to the London Dispensary.” The things he’d do with her mouth.
“One thousand to the Royal Humane Society.” The things he’d show her to do, how to please him.
He paused, then added evenly as his breath allowed, “Fifteen thousand annually to the Ladies of Hope.”
One corner of his mouth lifted. “For obvious reasons.” There were a dozen charity more besides.
Daria stared at him—entirely unmoved by Gregory’s touch.
He frowned slightly. “On account of Lady Rutherford’s connection to—”
Wonder, bright and unguarded, touched her eyes.
His cravat suddenly grew too tight.
“You give to all those charities, Gregory?”
Among others. He made no effort to clarify or confirm. “It is garish of a fellow to speak of money,” he muttered. “But ye—”
“That is silly,” Daria said, wrinkling her nose. “Particularly when you are speaking of giving it away to important causes. I…” She started and then abruptly stopped.
Argyll softly nudged her. “Yes, love?”
“It is garish to speak of money.”
Argyll hesitated briefly, then recovered. “You just told me it wasn’t.”
“It is different.”
Do not ask. Do not ask.
“How so?”
“I have a question regarding money.”
That is what he got for asking.
He nodded for her to continue.
“You might not have heard of the Mismatch Society. Sylvia was a founding member, and—”
“Yes.”
Her eyes shone bright as the sun at first morn. “You’ve heard of it!”
His bride gazed upon Argyll with such wonderment; he almost opted for a glib, dance-around to her assumption.
Christ, of all the times to gain a bloody conscience. “No.”
Daria blinked quickly. “Oh.” Her eyes dimmed—but only for a moment. “It’s just you said yes, and—”
“Were you not going to ask for a charitable donation?”
“I…was.” She spoke as if she herself had only just recalled.
Argyll chuckled. “Only you would prefer I give my fortune away rather than lavish it upon you as the queen you are.”
Since their first meeting, there were two primary responses he’d sought to rouse from his bewitching bride: mindless lust, the kind that made her forget herself. And—And then a moment he’d sought since two days earlier happened.
A tremor passed through Daria before laughter burst free—bright, helpless, unrestrained.
Her shoulders shook; her head tipped back.
And yes—bastard that he was—Argyll drank in the sight of her freely: the lift and fall of her breasts beneath the sheer cotton, the faint pebbling where the fabric clung, the way the material tugged and skimmed her thighs as she laughed.
For all that he hungered for her, it was this raw amusement he had coaxed from her that filled him with the greatest swell of masculine satisfaction.
“A q-queen,” she rasped, flinging herself against his chest. She pounded her small fists against him, trying—and failing—to bring herself to order.
Wait a moment…
His mouth hardened.
His provoking wife had fixed upon endearments, now laughed at one he’d bestowed upon no other. A largesse that had slipped free as naturally as breath.
Growling, Argyll bit his fingers into her hips, drawing a sharp gasp from her. He tightened his hold and pulled her firmly between his legs.
“You bear my name,” he rasped harshly, burning his gaze into hers. Argyll kissed her.
Daria’s mouth yielded to his; her body melted against him.
Argyll curled his fingers under the curve of her sweet arse and dragged her closer—letting her feel the full force of his desire.
“You bear my title.” Deepening their kiss, he pressed the full length of his arousal hard against her belly. “You are my queen.”
Her breath stuttered. Her lashes lowered.