Page 11 of The Earl’s Scarred Bride (Taming the Gillets #2)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

" I assure you, my lord, this is entirely unnecessary," Elizabeth protested as Cecil handed her down from the carriage before an elegant shop front on Bond Street. The gold lettering on the window proclaimed "Madame Laurent's Fine Modiste" in sweeping script.

"On the contrary," Cecil replied, his hand lingering at her waist a moment longer than strictly proper. "My countess requires a proper wardrobe."

"I have perfectly serviceable gowns?—"

"'Serviceable' is not the word I want associated with my wife." His eyes held that dangerous glint that made her pulse quicken. "Besides, I find myself rather looking forward to seeing you in something of my choosing."

Before Elizabeth could formulate a suitably cutting response, the shop door opened to reveal a striking woman of middle years, her silver-streaked dark hair arranged in an elegant coiffure.

"My lord Stonefield!" The modiste's French accent was pronounced but warm. "What an unexpected pleasure. And this must be your new countess?"

"Madame Laurent." Cecil executed a small bow. "May I present my wife, Lady Stonefield?"

The modiste's eyes widened slightly at Elizabeth's scar but, to her credit, she recovered quickly. "Enchantée, my lady. Please, come in. I have just received the most exquisite silks from Lyon..."

Inside, lengths of fabric in jewel tones and delicate pastels draped the walls. Elizabeth found herself running her fingers over a bolt of emerald silk before she could stop herself.

"Ah, you have excellent taste, my lady," Madame Laurent approved. "This shade would complement your coloring beautifully."

"The emerald," Cecil decided, his voice brooking no argument. "And that sapphire as well." He gestured to another bolt of fabric that shimmered like deep water. "Both with necklines that show her throat."

Elizabeth's hand flew to her scar instinctively. "My lord, surely?—"

"Why do you insist on hiding your most intriguing feature?" Cecil moved closer, his fingers brushing her neck where her hand covered the mark. The touch sent shivers down her spine. "The scar makes you unique, wife. Like a rare diamond with a distinctive flaw that only enhances its value."

"I hardly think?—"

"And that's precisely the problem." His smile held a wicked edge. "You think far too much about what others might say, rather than embracing what makes you extraordinary."

Madame Laurent cleared her throat delicately. "If I may suggest, my lady, the emerald gown could be cut to emphasize your elegant neck while remaining entirely proper for evening wear. Perhaps with some strategic ruching here..." She gestured to her own collar.

As Madame Laurent fluttered around with measuring tape and pins, Cecil lounged in a velvet chair, his predatory gaze following Elizabeth's every movement.

"A nightgown as well, I think," he announced casually, making Elizabeth nearly choke. "Something in ivory silk."

"My lord!" Elizabeth hissed, her cheeks flaming. "That's hardly?—"

"Appropriate?" His smile was pure sin. "I'm merely being a considerate husband, ensuring my wife has proper attire for all occasions."

"Including occasions where I might wish to maintain some dignity?"

"Dignity?" Cecil's laugh was low and dangerous. "Is that what you're thinking of when you lie alone in your bed at night, wife?"

Elizabeth jabbed him with her fan, forgetting herself entirely. "You are absolutely insufferable."

"And yet you haven't run away screaming." He caught her wrist, his thumb brushing over her pulse point. "In fact, I'd say you rather enjoy our little exchanges."

"Enjoy being scandalous?" But she couldn't quite suppress her smile. "You clearly don't know me at all, my lord."

"No?" He released her wrist but his eyes still held hers captive. "Then perhaps you'll indulge my curiosity. Do you dance, wife?"

Elizabeth shifted under his intense scrutiny. "I...know the steps."

"That's not what I asked." Cecil rose from his chair with fluid grace. "Do you dance, Elizabeth?"

"I haven't had much occasion to practice," she admitted. "Being a chaperone usually involves watching from the sidelines rather than participating."

"And before that?" He moved closer, lowering his voice so Madame Laurent couldn't hear as she sorted through lace samples. "Surely during your own season..."

"My season was rather abbreviated." Elizabeth lifted her chin, refusing to show how much the memory stung. "Young lords tend to lose interest in dancing when they notice certain...imperfections."

Cecil's expression darkened. "Fools, all of them."

"Careful, my lord. That almost sounded like a compliment."

"Perhaps it was." His fingers traced the air above her scar, not quite touching but close enough to make her shiver. "We have Lady Morrison's ball tomorrow night. I look forward to seeing if you're as skilled at dancing as you are at wielding that sharp tongue of yours."

"I never said I was skilled," Elizabeth protested. "Merely that I know the steps."

"Then I suppose I'll have to hold you very close," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear, "to ensure you don't stumble."

"My lord," Madame Laurent interrupted, holding up a length of delicate lace. "Perhaps you might approve the trim while your lady tries on the first gown?"

"By all means." But Cecil's eyes remained fixed on Elizabeth. "Though I doubt any amount of decoration could improve upon what nature has already provided."

Elizabeth escaped behind the dressing screen, her pulse racing. As her maid helped her into the emerald silk, she tried to steady her breathing. The neckline was indeed daring—not scandalously low, but cut in a way that drew attention to her throat rather than hiding it.

When she emerged, Cecil's expression made her breath catch. He'd risen from his chair again, his eyes darkening as they traveled over her form.

"Turn," he commanded softly.

Elizabeth complied, the silk rustling around her ankles. The mirror showed her reflection—a woman she barely recognized, elegant and almost exotic with her scar displayed like an ornament rather than a flaw.

"Perfect." Cecil's voice had dropped to that dangerous register that made her skin tingle. "Though something seems to be missing..." He approached the modiste's jewelry display and selected a delicate gold chain with a single emerald drop. "This, I think."

Before Elizabeth could protest, he was behind her, his fingers brushing her nape as he fastened the necklace. The emerald came to rest precisely where her scar began.

"There." His fingers lingered at her neck. "Now you look exactly as a countess should."

"Like a possession to be decorated?" Elizabeth meant it to sound sharp, but her voice emerged breathless.

"Like a treasure to be displayed." He met her eyes in the mirror. "One that grows more intriguing with each passing day."

The heat in his gaze was too much. Elizabeth stepped away, her heart thundering against her ribs. "I should...I should change back."

"Running away again, wife?"

"Merely being practical." She forced lightness into her tone. "Unless you intend for me to wear this home?"

"I intend for you to wear it tomorrow night," he corrected, "when every man in that ballroom will curse himself for not seeing your true worth sooner."

"And you'll enjoy their envy, no doubt."

"Immensely." His smile was wolfish. "Almost as much as I'll enjoy having you in my arms during the waltz."

"Bold of you to assume I'll accept your invitation to dance."

"You will." The certainty in his voice made her shiver. "If only to prove me wrong about your skills."

Elizabeth retreated behind the dressing screen, grateful for the temporary escape from his intense regard. "Perhaps I'll accept Lord Ashworth's invitation instead. I hear he's an excellent dancer."

Cecil's laugh was dark and rich. "Now who's being bold, wife?"

"Merely practical," she called back, proud that her voice remained steady. "Since my own husband seems determined to question my abilities."

"Oh, I question nothing about your abilities, Elizabeth." The way he caressed her name made heat pool in her belly. "I simply look forward to discovering them...intimately."

Elizabeth was grateful for the screen hiding her flaming cheeks. She needed to escape before she did something foolish—like beg him to kiss her right there in the modiste's shop.

"I believe we're finished here," she announced, emerging in her original gown. "Unless you'd like to scandalize Madame Laurent further with talk of nightgowns?"

"Another time, perhaps." But his eyes promised that discussion was far from over. "Though I do hope you'll remember this conversation when you're alone in your bed tonight."

Elizabeth fled to the waiting carriage, her body humming with awareness. The worst part wasn't his outrageous flirtation—it was how much she'd begun to enjoy it.

Lady Morrison's ballroom blazed with hundreds of candles, their light reflecting off gilded mirrors and crystal chandeliers. Elizabeth touched her emerald necklace nervously as she and Cecil were announced, acutely aware of the whispers that followed their entrance. The new gown felt both magnificent and terribly exposed—she couldn't remember the last time she'd attended a ball as anything other than a chaperone.

"My lady Stonefield!" Dinah's familiar voice cut through Elizabeth's anxiety. Her friend approached with a warm smile, though her eyes widened slightly at Elizabeth's daring neckline. "You look absolutely stunning."

"As do you," Elizabeth replied, grateful for the friendly face. Dinah wore pale blue silk that complemented her fair coloring perfectly.

"Indeed," Cecil agreed smoothly, bowing over Dinah's hand. "Though I confess myself rather partial to emerald these days."

Elizabeth felt a flush creep up her neck at his words, remembering their charged encounter at the modiste's shop. She was about to respond when a striking blonde in lavender silk approached their group.

"Lord Stonefield!" The woman's voice was breathy with admiration. "We missed you terribly at Lady Rutledge's musical evening last week."

"Lady Pembrooke." Cecil's smile held that devastating charm that Elizabeth had come to know so well. "I assure you, the loss was entirely mine. Though my wife's company has made such absences rather more bearable."

Lady Pembrooke's perfect features arranged themselves into a pout. "You must allow him some amusement, Lady Stonefield. We've grown quite used to his wit enlivening our gatherings."

"I assure you, madam," Elizabeth replied with careful politeness, "my husband is free to seek whatever amusements he desires."

But something twisted in her chest as she watched Lady Pembrooke lay a gloved hand on Cecil's arm, laughing musically at something he'd said. Within moments, three more ladies had joined their circle, each seeming to vie for Cecil's attention.

"Your husband cuts quite the figure," Dinah observed quietly. "Though I daresay he's met his match in you—that gown is causing quite a stir."

"The stir is hardly positive," Elizabeth murmured, noting the sideways glances and whispered comments behind fans. "I fear I've given the gossips fresh fodder by displaying my...imperfection so boldly."

"Nonsense." Dinah squeezed her arm. "You look regal. Though I must say, your lord husband seems to have developed quite the possessive streak. He's watching you even now."

Elizabeth glanced up to find Cecil's dark blue eyes fixed on her over Lady Pembrooke's shoulder, his expression holding something that made her breath catch. Even surrounded by society beauties, his gaze remained locked on her.

"He's probably ensuring I don't embarrass him," Elizabeth said, but the words lacked conviction. There was nothing of criticism in that heated look—only a promise that made her skin tingle with awareness.

The first set of dances began, and Elizabeth noticed Cecil engaged in conversation with a group of gentlemen near the far side of the ballroom. He seemed entirely disinterested in dancing, despite being one of the most sought-after partners.

"I'm surprised the earl isn't dancing," Dinah observed, following Elizabeth's gaze. "Usually, he's the center of attention."

"Perhaps marriage has tempered his social appetites," Elizabeth replied, though her voice held a hint of uncertainty.

"I thought you said your marriage was one of convenience," Dinah ventured carefully. "Yet you sound almost?—"

"Don't say it." Elizabeth tore her eyes away. "I'm merely observing."

"They think," Dinah said gently, "that the Earl of Stonefield can't keep his eyes off his wife, even while conversing with others. He's looked your way at least four times during this set alone."

"Probably ensuring I haven't fled in embarrassment." Elizabeth touched her scar unconsciously. "I've noticed the stares, Dinah. The whispers behind fans. They all wonder what sort of spell I must have cast to trap London's most eligible rake into marriage."

"Or perhaps they wonder why he looks at you as though he'd like to devour you whole, protocol be damned."

Elizabeth's cheeks flamed at her friend's frank observation. "Dinah!"

"Well, he does. In fact—" Dinah's eyes widened slightly. "He's heading this way now."

Elizabeth turned to find Cecil approaching, his expression holding that dangerous intensity that never failed to make her pulse race.

"My lady wife," he said, executing a perfect bow. "I believe this next set is mine."

"I wouldn't want to interrupt your conversations," Elizabeth said, a slight challenge in her voice. "You seemed quite engaged with your companions."

Cecil's smile held a hint of mischief. "There's nowhere I'd rather be than with you."

Cecil's fingers tightened around hers as he led her onto the floor. "Jealous, wife?"

"Of your popularity? Hardly." But she couldn't quite meet his eyes as they took their positions for the waltz. "I'm well aware of your reputation for charm."

"And yet," he pulled her closer than strictly proper as the music began, "you're the only woman in this room wearing my mother's emerald necklace."

Elizabeth's breath caught at his proximity. Despite her earlier protests about knowing the steps, her body followed his lead naturally, as if they'd danced together a hundred times before. His hand at her waist burned through the silk of her gown, making it difficult to concentrate.

"I didn't realize it was your mother's," she managed, trying to focus on the conversation rather than the way his thumb traced small circles against her back.

"It suits you." His voice dropped lower, meant for her ears alone. "Though I must say, the gown itself is proving rather distracting. I've spent most of the evening imagining how it would look pooled at your feet."

"Cecil!" She nearly missed a step, heat flooding her cheeks. "There are people watching."

"Let them watch." His smile held a wicked edge. "Let them see how their dignified countess flushes so prettily when her husband whispers in her ear. Let them wonder what other sounds I might draw from those perfect lips when we're alone."

Elizabeth's heart thundered against her ribs. "You're being deliberately shocking."

"I'm being honest." He guided her through a turn that brought their bodies flush together for a moment. "Though I notice you haven't stepped on my toes yet. Perhaps you weren't entirely truthful about your dancing abilities?"

"I never claimed to be incompetent," Elizabeth retorted, though her voice lacked bite. "Merely...out of practice."

"Then we shall have to practice more often." His hand splayed possessively across her back. "Though preferably somewhere more private, where I won't have to maintain such rigid propriety."

A couple dancing nearby shot them a scandalized look, no doubt noting their intimate proximity. Elizabeth felt her earlier insecurities resurface as she caught fragments of whispered conversation.

"Did you see her scar?"

"—can't believe he married ? —"

"Must have been desperate for an heir ? —"

"Stop," Cecil commanded softly, his fingers tightening on hers. "I can practically hear you retreating into yourself."

"I'm merely being realistic." Elizabeth forced a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Your reputation may survive dancing with your scarred wife, but mine has already caused quite enough gossip for one evening."

Cecil's expression darkened. "Shall I tell you what I see when I look at you tonight?"

"My lord?—"

"I see a woman who outshines every diamond-draped debutante in this room. I see grace in every move you make, fire in every word you speak." His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "I see the way that gown clings to your curves, making me want to?—"

"Now who's being improper?" But her voice emerged breathless, betraying her.

"Improper would be telling you how that dress makes me want to?—"

"My lord!" Elizabeth cut him off, though her pulse raced at the heat in his voice. "You promised to teach me to dance, not scandalize me entirely."

"Are you quite certain those goals are mutually exclusive?" His hand at her waist drew her imperceptibly closer. "Because I find myself rather enjoying the combination."

Elizabeth tried to summon a suitably cutting response, but something was happening to her heart—something terrifying and wonderful that made it difficult to remember why she'd ever tried to resist this man.

Oh God. She was falling in love with her husband.

The realization hit her with such force that she nearly missed a step, saved only by Cecil's sure grip.