“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 heatedly added. It was not a role with which she was acquainted. Although, what provoked her most-disobedient jealousy defying reason-were the looks of longing on the faces of all the pretty seamstresses gazing at her husband. To which he was profoundly indifferent.

A lesson there.

If her task wasn’t so formidable, Mrs. Aubigny might have enjoyed the power struggle she was witnessing. She glanced at Lennox, wondering if she dared interfere. Perhaps not, she decided. She’d seen him like this before when he was out of patience with one of his inamoratas.

“I didn’t realize you felt that way,” Oz quietly said, his jaw set.

“Then you didn’t listen to me this morning. Or did and chose to ignore me.”

“I must have misunderstood.” The faintest twitch slid along his jaw.

“No, you didn’t. But I’ve had enough of this charade,” Isolde waspishly said. She turned to Mrs. Aubigny. “Unpin me.”

“Would you excuse us for a moment?” Oz spoke with exquisite courtesy, his glance at the dressmaker barely perceptible. “One of the footmen will show you to the conservatory. Tell him to bring you tea.”

He might have been God himself for the speed with which the room emptied.

He waited silently until the door closed. “What seems to be the problem?” he asked with a cool and deliberate civility, hoping to appease his wife before the situation turned into open warfare.

“The problem,” she caustically said, “is you giving me orders and your obsequious dressmaker pretending you’re not, and the fact that I’m opposed to all of this as you well know! I want to go home!” Partial truths. The rest having to do with all the wistful seamstresses didn’t bear closer reflection. Since yesterday she’d come to understand that Oz didn’t pursue women; it was the other way around. And stupidly, it irritated her.

“We went over this before,” he said with restraint. “You can’t go home just yet.”

“I certainly can. Just as soon as I’m unpinned from these bloody yards of velvet,” she pettishly muttered, plucking out pins.

Oz blew out a breath, his exasperation showing for the first time; Josef and everyone else were moving mountains to see to this night’s work. “Don’t be a child. You can go home tomorrow.”

She glared at him in the midst of her unpinning. “Since when did God appoint you his authority on earth?”

His smile was impudent. “It’s been a while. Any other questions?”

“Tell me honestly, how can any of this possibly matter?” she said, lowering her voice, trying to match his restraint. “Compton’s going to believe what he wants to believe regardless of this spectacle.” While I’m going to have to watch all your lovers stalk you tonight, like the breathless little seamstresses gazing at you with such hope. She jerked out a handful of pins.

“We’re going to change his mind tonight.”

She paused in her unpinning. He was speaking to her softly as he would to a recalcitrant child, damn his bloody composure! “I don’t happen to agree with you,” she snapped, her effort at restraint melting away. “Do you hear me!”

His nostrils flared. “The entire household heard you. Let’s not argue, though,” he smoothly said, focused on achieving success tonight. “I apologize for anything I’ve done to offend you.”

“I don’t want your apology. I want to go home! Don’t look at me like that. And don’t speak to me like I’m a bloody child. I’m not obliged to agree with you on everything. For one thing I think I know my cousin slightly better than you. And more importantly, you can’t tell me what I can or cannot do.”

He didn’t blink or move so much as a muscle. “You’re tired,” he said, his voice level. “I’ll tell Mrs. Aubigny to finish without you.”

“She can’t. Handle that by imperial fiat,” Isolde spat, sullen and pugnacious.

Rather than rise to the bait, Oz shrugged. “Mrs. Aubigny must have your measurements; she can do her best.” He was paying her enough; she’d have to manage. “Here, let me unpin you,” he calmly added, coming to his feet and moving toward her.

“Don’t touch me!”

He stopped, drew in a breath, and slowly exhaled. “You’re my wife.” An act of excessive charity on his part, he rather thought. “I’ll touch you if I wish.”

“You’ll do no such thing!” His air of command was exasperating to someone who laid claim to an equal authority in her own life.

He stopped before her and smiled, a faint, humorless twitch of his lips. “Is the honeymoon over?”

“It certainly is! But I’m sure you need only lift your finger and any of Mrs. Aubigny’s seamstresses would be more than willing to accommodate you. Perhaps Mrs. Aubigny would herself.”

Oz lowered his lids faintly. “Is that what this is about?” “No, it’s about me going home!” A half truth, a lie, her own tangled web of emotions beyond comprehension.

Now that Oz understood their argument wasn’t exclusively about Isolde going home, in the interests of conjugal peace and the two hundred guests arriving in a few hours, he set out to cajole. “I promise you can go home at the crack of dawn,” he said, soft-spoken and conciliatory. “The minute the last guest leaves tonight if you prefer. Be reasonable, sweetheart. Think of all Josef’s work.”