Page 77 of Surrender Your Grace
Behind them, the muffled storm in the study escalated—punctuated by a bang that made the door rattle on its hinges.
Chapter 23
The snow crunched under their boots as they strolled along Bond Street. Though the air held a lingering chill, the street bustled with energy. Shoppers flocked to the boutiques, perused vendor carts, and paused to exchange pleasantries with their neighbors, enjoying the bright day after weeks of gloom.
Cici tightened her hold on Andrew’s arm as they approached Madame Celeste’s shop. “You’re really coming inside?” she asked, tilting her head with a faint, amused smile.
“Until I find a replacement for Henry, I’m your shadow.”
“I still think he deserved another chance.”
He arched a brow. “Are we shopping for a gown or airing grievances?”
She sniffed, her chin tipping in defiance. “The former, of course. But I’m not finished with the latter.”
“I didn’t think you were,” he replied, maddeningly calm.
Inside the boutique, chaos reigned. Assistants darted between fitting rooms, juggling bolts of fabric, while shopgirls raced to take orders and appease impatient customers. Cici immediately noticed two older ladies, eyes sharp with judgment, like hawks in lace, trained on Andrew as they whispered behind gloved hands.
“You’re scandalizing every matron in here with your presence,” she murmured.
“It must be a slow day for gossip if I’m their sole entertainment,” he drawled.
“Seen toting parcels for your wife, they’ll claim you’re under my slipper.”
He dipped his head, lips near her ear. “I’d rather be under you in our bed.” Standing, he continued, “But you need a dress, so here we are.”
She laughed—too loud—and promptly buried it beneath the weight of their stares. “You know what you are, husband?”
“Besotted? Hopelessly so?” he asked, deep affection glinting in his eyes.
Warm, tingling inside, and completely besotted herself, she proclaimed, “Incorrigible.”
“Ah, yes. You’ve mentioned that before—often,” he teased, smiling.
They moved deeper into the showroom, past fabric samples, sketchbooks, and finished gowns on display. She paused before a blush silk.
“This is lovely.”
Andrew peered over her shoulder. “It’s… fine.”
She turned, arching a brow. “Why does fine sound dangerously close to ‘adequate.’”
“Because it is.” He stepped around her, plucked a sketch off an easel, and lowered his voice. “But this—in green—would require a warning label.”
She examined the sketch: a daring neckline, a clinging silhouette, and a skirt that flared into elegance. It was bold, and regal.
“I couldn’t pull that off,” she murmured.
He slid an arm around her waist, drawing her close. “Sweeting, in that gown, you’d be criminal.”
Flushed and flustered, she tried for composure. “Now who’s being scandalous?”
“I’m imagining us at the ball, making small talk and dancing while every man in the room imagines undressing my wife.”
“Andrew, stop,” she warned, trying not to laugh.
He didn’t, of course, adding in a hushed tone, “But only I will know the truth beneath the silk.”
