Dreaming of You (The Gamblers #2)(92)

Monique welcomed them extravagantly, her dark eyes smiling in her round face. “Voici, the most talked-about couple in London,” she proclaimed, meeting them personally at the front of the shop instead of sending her assistants. “How well you look, the both of you! Everyone wonders why you have gone into hiding, but I tell my clients bien sûr, of course they will keep to themselves at first! That is the privilege of the newly-married, n’est-ce pas?” She regarded Derek speculatively. “You have accompanied your wife here, Monsieur Craven. How generous it is of you to take such an interest!”

Derek gave her a charming smile. “I’m here because my wife has a little problem she won’t admit to you.”

“Oh?” Monique’s gaze instantly dropped to Sara’s stomach.

Derek grinned and winced as Sara dug her elbow into his side. Leaning toward the dressmaker, he said in a confidential tone, “The problem is she’s afraid to spend my money.”

“I see.” There was a flash of disappointment in Monique’s eyes. Clearly she had hoped for a juicy bit of gossip she could spread around London. Her good humor was restored as Derek continued.

“I don’t intend for my wife to waste the afternoon trying to talk you into making gowns with less costly fabric and no trimmings. I want her to have the best, and look as elegant—more elegant than any woman in England. Price is no object.”

The last four words sent the dressmaker’s pulse soaring. “Oh, monsieur…” Monique nearly kissed him in her excitement. “She is such a lovely woman, your wife.”

“Lovely,” Derek agreed, his warm gaze falling on Sara. Idly he picked up a stray tendril that had fallen to her shoulder, and curled it around his finger. “There’s only one requirement I have. Show enough of her, but not too much. I want certain parts kept for my private admiration.”

“I understand,” Monique said with an emphatic nod. “Men are tempted by a beautiful bosom, they lose their heads, et alors…” She shrugged prosaically.

“Exactly.”

Monique touched his arm inquisitively. “How many gowns do you have in mind, monsieur?”

Sara was annoyed that the two were conducting the transaction as if she weren’t there at all. “Four day gowns,” she interrupted, “and two for evening. Six in all. And perhaps a cambric nightgown—”

“Twenty-five,” Derek told the dressmaker. “Don’t forget gloves, slippers, unmentionables, and everything she’ll need to go with the order.” Gently he covered Sara’s mouth with his hand as she sputtered in protest. His sly green eyes met the dressmaker’s over her head, and he winked as he added, “Nightgowns aren’t necessary.”

Monique chuckled and glanced at Sara’s reddening face. “I think perhaps, madam, your husband is part French!”

After interminable weeks of consultations and fittings, Sara found herself in possession of an array of gowns more beautiful than she had ever imagined. They were made of vibrantly hued silks, velvets, and brocades, with small belted waists and flowing skirts worn over crisp petticoats. The deep scoops of necklines were finished with lavish lace borders. Underneath she wore thin, almost transparent drawers that reached only to the knees, and chemises so sheer they could be pulled through her wedding ring. From the milliner she had bought several provocative hats with tiny eye-length veils, bonnets lined with silk, and a turban to which Derek took a violent dislike.

“It covers all of your hair,” he complained, lounging on the bed and watching as she tried it on. “And it looks lumpy.”

Sara stood before the looking glass as she stuffed coils of unruly locks beneath the headdress. “The problem is that I have too much hair. The milliner said if I cut a fringe across my forehead and took several inches off the bottom, the turban would fit better.”

He shook his head decisively. “You’re not going to cut any of it.”

Sara sighed in frustration as a chestnut curl sprang from beneath the turban and fell over her shoulder. “All my new hats would sit more becomingly if my hair were short. Madam Lafleur said that I have just the right bone structure to wear it in a smart crop.”

Derek actually paled. “If you cut all your hair off, I’ll take a crop to you.” Leaping off the bed, he snatched the offending turban from her head before she had time to move.

“Now look what you’ve done,” she exclaimed while her hair tumbled around her. “And I almost had it finished. Give me the turban.” Derek shook his head and backed away, clutching the small bundle. Sara made her voice very patient. “The turban, if you please.”

“Promise me you won’t cut your hair.”

Sara couldn’t believe he was being so ridiculous. “If I did, it would grow back.” She advanced on him and made a quick grab. His arm shot up in the air, holding the turban well out of her reach.

“Promise,” he insisted.

“If you knew the price that had been paid for that turban, you wouldn’t treat it so cavalierly!”

“I’ll pay it a hundred times over, for your promise.”

An incredulous smile flitted across her lips. “Why?” she asked, combing a hand through the wild ripples of her hair. “Does my appearance mean so much to you?”

“It’s not that. It’s…” Derek dropped the turban to the floor and circled her slowly. “I like to watch you braid it…and the way you let a few curls fall on your neck after you’ve pinned it up…and when you brush it out at night I know I’m the only man who sees it loose and long over your back. It’s a part of you that only I can have.” He grinned and added, “Among other things.”