Sexy As Hell

such courage with a man like Lennox? “His lordship simply wishes to acknowledge you as his wife before the world,” the modiste smoothly replied. “Any and all decisions apropos your toilette are naturally yours to make,” she diplomatically added. “His lordship was quite specific. I’m here merely to assist you.”

Isolde softly sighed; there was no point in airing her grievances before a stranger. “Forgive me,” she said, silently taking herself to task for her ill-advised outburst. “I do appreciate your help, of course.”

And so you should, my dear, dressed as you are in that demode country gown. “You’ll be magnificent tonight, my lady,” Mrs. Aubigny bracingly pronounced, knowing she had her work cut out for her with the time allowed. “And you and his lordship will make an absolutely stunning couple.” The modiste kissed her fingertips with a flourish, envisioning the handsome pair with an artist’s eye. “The delicious contrasts-wildness and innocence, dark and fair, Lennox’s powerful virility-la, my sweet, taming him will be exciting. There now, I’ve made you blush,” she murmured. “Come now, enough of my flights of fancy. We must bestir ourselves,” she briskly added, indicating several fashion books on a nearby table, “You decide which design most appeals to you, my dear.”

Grateful for an end to the modiste’s embarrassing observations, Isolde put to rest her lingering resentment over Oz’s dictates and followed the dressmaker. Taking a seat beside her a moment later, Isolde set about perusing the beautiful illustrations, while the Frenchwoman kept up a running commentary, offering pithy judgments with her usual vigor.

Amused at the fiction that the decision was hers to make, Isolde waited to see which design Mrs. Aubigny would deem appropriate.

“Certes, pink is too youthful for a wife,” the modiste firmly declared, wrinkling her nose at a pink confection of a gown. “As is this pastel shade of blue, non, non, completely unsuitable”-another page flipped over-“this daffodil yellow as well-not with your fair skin. Umm-this rose and the sea green-I think not. They’re both too precious by half. A woman of mettle such as yourself who’s taken on a brute like Lennox requires je ne sais quoi-a bit more drama.” Three more pages discarded. “What I’d really like to see you in, my sweet, would be a diaphanous white, wholly feminine creation, but it’s hardly appropriate on such a cold night,” she went on, turning over several more pages. “Black, too, would be wonderful with your coloring, but not quite right I think for a lady of your, shall we say, grace. Nor do I think his lordship would like you in something so seductive.” To Isolde’s quick look, she added, “He’d find the sensual implications unsuitable.”

“I doubt he’s so pious.”

“He isn’t, but he’d prefer his wife not attract lustful glances.” Or so his note had asserted-although less directly. He’d used the word lurid.

“You no doubt know him better than I, but still I’d disagree. His lordship is degage about women.”

But not about a wife apparently. There was no point, however, in continuing the argument, so Mrs. Aubigny crisply said, “I’m sure you’re right. Tell me now, what do you think of this cobalt blue velvet?” She tapped the illustration with her manicured nail. “In the midst of winter, with the chill and rain, the soft fabric and diamant ornament offers a cozy sense of luxury and warmth.”

More than willing to defer to Mrs. Aubigny’s expertise, Isolde yielded without argument. She’d never been a martinet to fashion in any event. Country ways were considerably less modish. “If you think it suitable, then I agree.”

“It’s perfection.” Mrs. Aubigny made a circle with her thumb and forefinger and briefly held it aloft to underscore her point. “We have a bit of dashing spectacle, but not too much. The sumptuous fabric draws the eyes, the shade of blue is perfect against your pale skin, the dйcolletage, if I might say so, is everything that’s proper, yet revealing enough to discretely display your lovely breasts.”

Her attention called to the low neckline of the gown, Isolde murmured, “You don’t think it too shocking?”

“Non, non-it’s the perfect compromise. Wifely, yet alluring.”

“Very well.” Isolde wasn’t overly concerned with gowns in general. Had they been perusing photos of new breeds of cattle, her attention would have been more engaged.

The necessary approval granted, Mrs. Aubigny immediately rose from her chair, clapped her hands, and called out, “Vite, vite, my little helpers!” The door to an adjoining room opened and the room was soon awash with pretty young assistants. Isolde was quickly stripped to her chemise and petticoats and placed on a small dais that had been carried in with all the paraphernalia required for a fitting. Mrs. Aubigny commenced cutting then draping blue velvet on Isolde while a dozen chattering young women expertly pinned and basted the fabric in place.

The gown was taking on structure and form when the door quietly opened and closed.

Isolde looked up, Mrs. Aubigny turned, and a dozen seamstresses went motionless en masse.

“Don’t let me disturb you,” Oz affably said. “Very lovely, darling,” he softly added, moving to a chair. Sitting, he leaned back, stretched out his legs, and gazed at Isolde from under his long lashes. “That cobalt blue velvet is perfect with your coloring.”

“You’re well versed in women’s fripperies,” Isolde observed.

He knew what she meant; he also knew Mrs. Aubigny was discreet. “I told you-fabrics are part of my shipping cargo. Even Venetian velvets like that, although my trade is mostly in Eastern silks.” He almost said, Is that better?

“Consider yourself fortunate, my lady, to have a husband who notices such things,” Mrs. Aubigny interposed, conscious of the small heated note in Isolde’s voice, hoping to forestall a contretemps. She had very little time to create a gown of suitable magnificence for Lennox’s wife. “Most men care nothing for the subtleties of dress.”

“Or undress.”

“Behave.”

The single word was softly spoken, almost a whisper of sound, the authority beneath it giving rise to Isolde’s sudden high color, Mrs. Aubigny’s increased anxiety, and an explosion of gasps among all the wide-eyed seamstresses.

“Now, now, children,” Mrs. Aubigny swiftly intervened. “Need I remind everyone of our time constraints? I think not. Charlotte, hand me my shears. This train is a bit too long.”

Isolde bit back the remark on the tip of her tongue.

Oz’s assent took the form of a faint smile.

And possible disaster was averted.

For his part, Oz was more than content; the view was enchanting, his plans were well in hand, and if his wife chose to show a bit of spirit in public, he had no complaint. In fact, her audaciousness was one of her many charms. Although, at the moment, he was rather more drawn to her shapely breasts exquisitely mounded above the blue velvet drapery.

“A little less fabric on the shoulders, Mrs. Aubigny. If you please.”

Isolde flushed under his assessing gaze and the bluntness of his injunction. He could have been some prince of the blood directing his minions with the bland assurance in his voice. And while she took intellectual issue with his explicit command, unfortunately the deep timbre of his voice provoked and stirred her senses, his stark beauty tantalized-as usual, as always, and quite against her will, a small heat began to warm her blood and pulse in the core of her body. Damn him-how dare he simply look at her and make her want him without so much as lifting a finger? How dare he turn his smile on all the pretty little seamstresses and tantalize them with equal ease.

Familiar with adulation, more familiar of late with that rosy flush rising up his wife’s throat, Oz pushed himself upright in his chair and out of concern for Mrs. Aubigny’s schedule, interfered with Isolde’s warming passions. “I actually came here on a bit of business, my dear, for which I beg your indulgence. It seems the jeweler will be here at three. I know, another appointment to ruin your day,” he added at her frown. “It won’t take long. What do you think? Sapphires with that gown or would a contrast be more appropriate?”

“If I might make a suggestion,” the Frenchwoman smoothly interjected. “Pearls would be the perfect complement.”

Oz held the modiste’s gaze for a fleeting moment before turning to his wife, Mrs. Aubigny’s perception acute. Pure white, matchless pearls resting on those soft mounded breasts, the contrast discreet, erotic, was a perfect symbol of marriage-romantic and carnal love in harmony. He wondered if Mrs. Aubigny had heard Compton’s rumors. “It’s up to you, of course, my dear.”

“Is it really? I doubt it. Nothing has been so far,” Isolde tartly said, bristling at her husband’s artful pretense when nothing about this entire occasion was up to her. “I’m not your pawn to be moved hither and yon,” she