Fabric. Fabric everywhere.
Bolts of silk, velvet, linen, brocade—and not a single one seemed worthy of dressing her charming, infuriating husband. Lady Isabella stood in the middle of the largest textile house, swamped with fabrics that gleamed like morning dew and others that sulked like a stormy sky. The room smelled of lavender, dye, and expensive decisions.
"This shouldn't be this hard," she muttered, running a hand over a bolt of sapphire-blue velvet. It was beautiful, yes, but it didn't scream Leofric. Ugh! She should have paid more attention to her mother and her governess.
Her gaze shifted toward Robert, and her brows drew together. The fool was supposed to be helping her! Instead, he was perched on the edge of a display table, shamelessly flirting with a wide-eyed maiden who had clearly forgotten her purpose in the shop.
"Of course, you have the eyes of a fawn," He was saying with a dramatic sigh. "But your beauty makes the moon weep."
