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Come on, a God’s name; once more toward our father’s.

“ J ustin, it is not necessary for you to accompany me!” Elizabeth expostulated, drawing on yellow kid gloves.

“Indulge me, Bess. It is my intention to make amends for that questionable trousseau I gave you.” He drew her arm through his and led her down the steps before their London town house.

“So you admit to its unsuitability?”

“It was a quixotic gesture, except perhaps for that gray dress,” he said reminiscently, a hint of a smile curving his lips.

Elizabeth dimpled up at him. “It did have a certain charm, didn’t it?”

“I believe it wasn’t its charms that caught my attention,” St. Ryne said drily. “Why haven’t you worn it since?”

She blushed. “It served its purpose,” was all she would answer in return.

St. Ryne laughed and pressed her arm closer to his side.

“So whose establishment are we to grace with our custom?”

Elizabeth’s brow wrinkled in thought. “In truth, I am still considering. I refuse to visit any of the modistes my aunt frequented. They would likely parade before us fabrics and dresses such as my aunt preferred. I desire something very different.”

“May I make a suggestion?”

“You?” she queried archly.

“Aside from my wretched choice for a trousseau, I am aware of the niceties of feminine fashion.”

“Ah, supported the high-flyers, did you?”

His mouth gaped, then snapped shut, his eyes dancing.

“Hush, you silly widgeon! No need to broadcast our conversation to all of Bond Street. As to your supposition,” he continued with mock dignity, “may I remind you I have been on the town for ten years now, and since clothing is something women discuss incessantly, a gentleman is bound to pick up a thing or two.” He waved his free hand airily.

Elizabeth compressed her lips against a laugh. “Just so.”

“My lady, I believe you are laughing at me.”

Elizabeth opened her golden eyes wide and batted her eyelashes in feinted innocence. “I, my lord and master?”

“Ah—ha! Finally she has the right of it.”

She wrinkled her nose up at him in playful disgust. Abruptly she realized she was flirting with her husband. She looked up at his teasing visage, aware that she enjoyed his company.

No, more than that; she loved him. The realization shook her to the core of her being, and a soft blush rose in her cheeks.

She looked away, taking note of their surroundings, allowing her face to cool.

They had been walking in their own private world, oblivious to their location or the people they passed.

Several members of the ton were eyeing them with open curiosity.

Elizabeth laughed gaily, a heady euphoria brightening her countenance.

“Justin!” she exclaimed, tugging on his arm. “Have you noticed, we are the object of close scrutiny and speculation,” she said conspiringly.

St. Ryne looked up briefly, a wry smile twisting his lips “Let them speculate—it is their bread and wine. What matters is what we know.”

“And what is that, Justin?” she asked softly.

For a moment he was bereft of an answer. How can a man tell a wife he has virtually married in jest that he has fallen in love with her? “That you are a siren and I the unlucky creature to hear your call,” he answered lightly.

“Oh—annoying creature!”

He laughed, halting her before a dressmaker’s shop “Here is Mme. Marie Vaussard’s establishment. I’d wage your aunt never shopped here, and I think Mme. Vaussard would appreciate your coloring and could turn it to good effect.” He opened the shop door and led her inside.

The reception room, decorated in the Grecian style, was white and gold with pale green hangings and upholstery.

Tall mirrors in simple gold frames hung on one wall appearing to double the room’s size.

The shop exuded quiet refinement and elegance and not, as Elizabeth had feared, the ostentation of establishments frequented by the Fashionable Impures .

A little woman as neat as wax came through a green-curtained doorway on their left.

“Milord! It has been a long time, no?”

St. Ryne grabbed one of the woman’s tiny hands and guided it to his lips to bestow a courtly kiss. “But I always return, Mme. Vaussard, and manage to make my way into your delightful company.”

She quickly withdrew her hand and wagged a finger at him. “Flatterer. If I listened to a soupcon of what you said, I would never get anything done and would be a poor, broken woman. Now, who is your charmante companion in this hideous attire?”

St. Ryne laughed. “You have never been one to mince words. I think that is one of your charms that has me returning to your side.”

Mme. Vaussard sniffed. “I am waiting.”

“A thousand apologies, but it is my great honor to introduce you to my wife, the Viscountess St. Ryne.”

“Your wife! Oo-lala, I am overwhelmed. I had heard stories—but—but?—"

“Precisely,” St. Ryne interjected, causing Elizabeth to purse her lips in suppressed laughter while her eyes danced gleefully.

Mme. Vaussard did not miss the Viscountess’s reaction, nor the caress in the Viscount’s tone when he introduced her.

It was a wise businesswoman who kept an ear to the society rumor mill, and Mme.

Vaussard was no one’s fool. She had heard of the Viscount’s wedding and knew the reputation of the former Lady Elizabeth Monweithe.

It appeared society was about to have its aristocratic nose put out of joint.

It was an endeavor Mme. Vaussard was glad to aid.

“So, you wish a new wardrobe? One befitting a Viscountess?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth answered, “immediately. I need a ball gown to wear to my sister’s betrothal ball. Unfortunately, her ball is only two days away.”

“Two days? Mon Dieu, what am I? A witch to conjure up a stunning, and of course, totally unusual, for thus it must be, ball gown?”

“More likely a fairy godmother.”

The modiste looked down her narrow nose at him, pursing her lips. “And you, milord, are an arrogant jackanapes. Come, my dear, let us go in the back and see what we have.”

“Where do you think you are going?” Mme. Vaussard asked St. Ryne, as he made to follow them.

“With you.”

"Non. This time you will sit out here and wait while Madame La Viscountess and I consult. You are de trop now,” she relented.

She escorted Elizabeth to a back room filled with jewel-toned materials, partially made gowns, and a scattering of drawings. “You certainly knew how to handle Justin," Elizabeth said once they were in the privacy of the back room.

Mme. Vaussard shifted bolts of material aside.

“All gentlemen are basically leetle boys at heart, so if one talk to them like their old nurse or governess, they just crumble. Now let us see what we can do for you.” She looked up from the piles of fabric and pinned Elizabeth with a considering eye. “Hannah! Hannah! Bring more candles!”

“Yes, Madame,” called a small voice from upstairs, and a moment later Elizabeth heard the clatter of footsteps on the stairs. The creature who appeared at the bottom was a slim young girl of some fifteen or sixteen summers, clutching two candelabra and a fist full of candles to her flat chest.

"Parfait, mon chou. Now, place them high.

One on the highboy, I think, and the other on the pedestal where the plant is.

We will create the feeling of the light at a ball," she explained to Elizabeth. “I have two fabrics here which I wish to drape you in. Here, Hannah, hold this one up against her ladyship like so. It is called Cote de l’Azure for the sea in the south of France.”

Elizabeth stared, spellbound at the cascade of blue material. It was a gloriously rich and vibrant color.

“Too remote,” came a clipped voice from the doorway. The three women in the room turned with a start.

“Milord,” began Mme. Vaussard repressively.

“Dash it, woman, I’ll not sit kicking my heels in your charming little reception room! I’d like some say in how my own wife appears at this ball.” He looked at Elizabeth, his expression softening. “It’s important to us.”

Mme. Vaussard snorted delicately, but made no further argument to his leaving. “You don’t like this material?” she asked instead.

“It’s beautiful, but not for this dress. Dressed in that she’d appear too cold and remote, like some damned doll on a pedestal.”

“Justin, please,” implored Elizabeth, laughingly embarrassed by his forthright language.

Mme. Vaussard tapped her forefinger against her chin. “You want heat, a touch of passion? Perhaps the Italian Rosi— Hannah!”

“Right away, Madame,” the child said, gathering up the blue silk. In its place she draped a rose-colored silk shot with gold thread.

Elizabeth’s eyes opened wide. It was a stunning material, but it made her feel uncomfortable. “I don’t know, Madame,” she said hesitantly.

“It’s beautiful for you,” St. Ryne said. “It reflects the pink of your cheeks and the gold in your eyes.”

“Monsieur le Viscount is correct, cherie .”

“Yes, but I don’t think I care to be quite that—that conspicuous.”

“May I make a suggestion, Madame?” Hannah asked timidly. Mme. Vaussard raised an eyebrow yet bowed her head in consent.

Hannah took a deep breath. “Two days ago I unpacked a new shipment of material, and there was one I think would be perfect for her ladyship. Let me get it—” She scurried over to a cupboard.

“There wasn’t a lot of it, probably only enough for one gown,” she went on, her voice muffled among the fabrics.

“Here.” She pulled out a bolt of gold silk.

With reverent hands, she draped the cloth against Elizabeth.

For a moment, no one said a word. The material shimmered, changing from dull to brilliant gold in the candlelight.

It brought out the gold highlights in Elizabeth’s dark hair and reflected the splendor of her guinea-gold eyes.

Mme. Vaussard nodded solemnly, St. Ryne leaned against the door frame, grinning, and Elizabeth breathed an awed “Yes!”