“Who knows? Perhaps he’s miffed that I didn’t ask his permission to marry you.”
She leaned weakly against the desk. “His permission?”
Colin sighed, tossing the summons onto the surface with a flick of his wrist. “As a peer of the realm, ancient law says I’m obligated to obtain the king’s approval. But no one actually asks—not even his own brother James before his secret marriage to Anne Hyde.” With the heels of both hands, he rubbed his forehead, as though a massive headache had just arisen. “It’s archaic; I’m certain no one has asked for a century. Still, Charles has always been like a big brother to me.” He squinted, and his eyes turned a glazey dull color. “I don’t know.”
“Can’t you just send him a note? Tell him you’re busy and I’m with child?”
Colin’s laughter was immediate; his eyes cleared and turned to her, a glittering emerald green. “No, we cannot just send a note, love.” He caught her hand and pulled her onto his lap. “When the king calls, one answers. It’s off to Whitehall for us, I’m afraid.” He was silent a minute, his fingers absently twirling one of her long ebony ringlets. “We’ll leave first thing in the morning, to arrive at the town house by noon. You can nap before the evening festivities.”
“I’m sure I won’t sleep a wink tonight.” She groaned softly and moved her hand to cover where their child registered his own protest, in the form of a particularly violent kick.
“It’s nothing to be worried about. Charles is an affable sort.”
“But there will be all those people…” She imagined hordes of svelte ladies, all dressed in the latest fashions. And haughty lords, beribboned and bejeweled, looking down their aristocratic noses at her bloated form.
“You already know some of them,” he reminded her patiently, “from your shop.”
“As customers. Oh, Colin, look at me! You’re going to be sorry you married me, I just know it.”
His fingers stilled in her hair, and he said very quietly, “I will never, ever be sorry I married you, Lady Greystone. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”
When his hand moved to the back of her neck, and he pulled her toward him and kissed her lightly, she almost believed him. “And you’re beautiful, as beautiful as ever. I swear it.” He kissed her again, this time long and deep, his mouth warm and possessive, and she did believe him.
For two seconds, at least.
SEVENTY-ONE
“AND WHEN Harry kisses me…” Lydia shuddered expressively. “Oh, I cannot think how to put it.”
“Ooh la la?” Madame Beaumont suggested, putting the finishing touches on Amy’s face.
Lydia laughed. “Ooh la la exactly!”
“Ooh la la?” Amy echoed distractedly.
Madame Beaumont helped her to stand. “You’re a million miles away, my lady.”
“What? Oh…yes, I’m afraid you’re right.” Sighing, Amy set down the amethyst necklace she’d brought from Greystone. The deep violet pear-shaped gems glistened on the dark wood of the dressing table, beckoning her to hold them again. She flexed her hands and forced a smile. “I was daydreaming about wax and knives.”
“Pourquoi?”
“Lady Greystone used to be a jeweler,” Lydia explained, hiding a smile of her own.
“Oh, I see.”
Madame looked as though she didn’t see at all, but she didn’t seem shocked or disapproving, either. Amy gave the older woman’s hand a quick squeeze. “I cannot thank you enough for coming.” Having received her frantic messengered note yesterday, Madame had been waiting at the London town house this morning, gown in hand. “You saved my life.”
“Surely you exaggerate.” Amusement twitched on the seamstress’s lips as she drew off Amy’s dressing gown and laid a gentle palm on her abdomen.
Amy jumped a bit, then relaxed. Of late, she’d noticed everyone thought they had a right to touch her, as though her body had become public property since she’d swelled with the child.
Madame slipped a lacy new chemise over Amy’s head, and Lydia held out the gown. “I never exaggerate.” The blond maid giggled. “Lud, my Harry is so…so virile.”
“Pray tell, Lydia, where did you find this amour?” Madame set the curling iron to heat in the glowing embers of the fire. “This paragon of masculinity?”
Amy grinned. “In our stables. Colin recently hired him to relieve Benchley of some duties. Your dream man, is he, Lydia?”
“Hmm,” Lydia murmured noncommittally. Hiding her face, she made herself busy adjusting the gown over the bulge of Amy’s stomach. “When he kisses me, yes, but…all is not perfect with Harry.”
The seamstress eased Amy onto a chair and set to work on her hair. “Have you talked to your amour about your problems?”
Lydia puttered around the room, sighing as she folded Amy’s dressing gown. “I’ve tried. I suppose I should try again.”
“I wish you luck.” Amy frowned into the dressing table mirror. “Men don’t care to discuss our problems. They always think they know what’s best.”
As Madame’s eyes met Amy’s reflection, her hands plaited faster.
“It’s true,” Amy muttered defensively. “When I talked to Papa about how I didn’t want to marry our apprentice, he disregarded my feelings entirely.”
“Not all men are like that.” Madame’s fingers caught and pulled at her hair. “Not my François.”
“Surely not the earl?” Lydia’s face appeared beside Madame’s in the mirror, puzzled. “You confide in him, don’t you? He loves you so.”
Did he really? Amy bit her lip. It was pointless to confide in Colin, anyway; he’d made it clear before they wed that a countess would never run a shop. And he’d become more and more closed and distracted over the months.
Lydia and Madame were still staring at her. “Oh, I suppose you’re right,” she said. “It’s just one of my silly notions.”
“She’s breeding,” Madame said knowingly.
“That doesn’t make me a nimwit,” Amy said with a huff.
Lydia nodded, ignoring her outburst. “I’ve seen five different ladies through five different pregnancies. They’re all this way.”
“Hmmph.” Looking down to her crossed arms, Amy glimpsed her cleavage exposed in the purple dress’s low neckline. “Dear
