Page 10 of The Best Husband Money Can Buy

“Actually, your ears are quite well-shaped and attractive,” he said thoughtfully. “After your gowns are ordered, we must stop at the jewelers for some earrings that will do them justice.”

As she blushed and pulled on her gloves, he realized that he was looking forward to playing Pygmalion to her Galatea.

* * *

Emma’s mother had spoken enthusiastically of the joys of visiting a London modiste, but that was one of many experiences that poverty had stolen from Emma. She tried not to gawk when Anthony swept her into Madam Chloe’s shop. The luxuriously decorated salon reminded her of the dowager duchess’s boudoir. In such a temple of feminine fashion and frivolity, Anthony’s powerful, broad-shouldered figure looked almost indecently masculine.

Madam Chloe herself, a handsome woman of mature years, came forward to greet them, her expression brightening at the sight of Anthony. With a trace of French accent, she said, “Milord Verlaine! What a pleasure to see you again.”

As Emma tried not to think what other women her husband had brought to the salon, he said breezily, “The pleasure is mutual, Madam. Our visit is something of an emergency. My wife’s trunks were destroyed in a fire at a coaching inn.” He shook his head sadly. “She was forced to borrow clothing from the vicar’s wife, a worthy woman, but not fashionable. Everything must be replaced, from the skin out.”

Chloe may or may not have believed his lie, but she laughed good-naturedly. “You have come to the right place.” Her eyes narrowed critically as she studied Emma. “You have a really lovely complexion, Lady Verlaine. And your figure—magnifique!”

Emma blinked. It was true that her skin was nice, but her figure was altogether too….too much. Definitely not the figure of a fashionable sylph. Meekly she said, “I put myself in your hands, madam.”

Without further ado, she was whisked off to a private alcove. Luckily, Anthony did not accompany them. Chloe gave whispered instructions to an assistant, who darted off. By the time Emma had been stripped down to her shift and measured, the assistant had returned from a nearby shop with a mound of exquisitely sewn under things.

Emma donned a lovely new lawn shift, then allowed herself to be laced into a set of surprisingly comfortable quilted dimity stays. Chloe explained sorrowfully that it would take several days to make proper shifts and other garments, and that she hoped milady was not too offended at having to make do with ready-made items. Emma was hard pressed not to laugh. The unmentionables that the modiste was apologizing for were the finest she’d worn in many years.

Madam Chloe held up a shimmering green garment. “This gown is being made for another client who is of similar size and figure. She will not mind if you try it on for just a moment to get the effect.”

Emma raised her arms, and whispering green silk dropped over her. After the fastenings were secured, she turned to look at herself in the mirror. Her jaw dropped. The image she saw was not of the familiar dowdy governess, but a striking, fashionable woman. Even her eyes were unfamiliar as the green gown made them glow like jade. Voice hushed, she asked, “Is this really me?”

“Indeed, my lady. It is the real you,” Chloe said with satisfaction. “Lord Verlaine will be most pleased.”

Then the modiste swept Emma into the main salon so her husband could survey the results. Emma was tempted to cover the large expanse of bare flesh visible above her décolletage, but managed to restrain herself. The problem was not with the gown, but her unfashionable self.

Anthony was gazing out the window at the afternoon traffic outside, his expression pensive. When she entered the main salon, he turned and became very still. After a long moment, he said softly, “Well, well,well!”

“It’s the stays,” Emma blurted out. “I’m not really shaped like this.”

He grinned as he circled around her. “My dear, no woman is shaped precisely like that, which is why stays were invented. And believe me, you shape up very well.”

She blushed to the roots of her hair. But she was not displeased. She studied herself in the salon mirrors. She was not a delicate fashionable beauty, and she never would be. But she had a kind of forceful splendor that made her a woman who would not be easily overlooked. It was a heady thought.

Emma clung to that satisfaction through a long, tiring afternoon while endless fabrics and patterns were chosen. By the time they left, she was exhausted. In the carriage, she sank back into the velvet squabs seat. “What a very unusual wedding day.”

Anthony chuckled. “It was time well spent. Tomorrow we’ll visit jewelers and find you shoes and stockings and such like. The other important thing is your hair.”

He leaned forward and removed her bonnet, then pulled out the pins that secured the knot on her nape. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders. Gently he brushed the dark waves back, the skim of his fingertips on her ear and throat sending sparks through her. She caught her breath, shocked that such a casual touch could stir her so.

Apparently unaffected, he said, “Tomorrow, a hairdresser. Your maid—Becky, I think?—must come with us to learn how to do new styles.”

It all sounded wonderful, but Emma could not dismiss a flash of concern. “Anthony, can we afford all this?”

He frowned, and for a moment she feared that her question had angered him. But his voice was even when he said, “Your wardrobe will cost a pretty penny, but it’s a necessary expenditure, one that I allowed for when estimating our expenses. You must trust me when I say that I have no desire to live in debt again, Emma.”

She gazed at him, enchanted by his serious expression, the way his attention was concentrated on her. This glorious male creature was now her husband.Hers!“I trust you, Anthony,” she said softly. “Never doubt it.”

She had never been happier in her life.

* * *

The Dowager Duchess of Warrington chose her moment carefully. The Vaughns were just finishing dinner, but it was not yet time to rise. Her gaze went over her beloved family. Her son James, the duke, with his quiet dignity and dry humor. Her daughter-in-law Amelia, a woman of wit and laughing charm. Sarah, her youngest granddaughter, who would be presented to society in the spring.

The dowager’s eyes clouded when she looked at her grandson, Alexander, who would be the next duke, and his wife, Cecilia. Oh, they’d produced two fine boys dutifully enough, but something was wrong between them, and both were too pigheaded to ask advice from those who were older and wiser.

Concealing her thoughts, the dowager said, “I’ve received most of the replies for the Christmas gathering. Besides the usual guests, there will be a few who are less expected.”

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