A red ribbon strewn through the empire waist completed the outfit.
That one red piece flowed all the way down her back and disappeared into the skirts.
“Perfect.” Isabelle breathed when Sofia twirled.
The dressmaker began to weep.
Ash swore violently.
And then silence.
“Are you sure?” Sofia turned again. “It isn’t too much?”
“For royalty?” The dressmaker sniffed. “Oh, my dear, it is… my greatest creation.” More eye dabbing. “You shall be famous.”
“She’s already a princess,” Ash grumbled.
“What was that, Ash?” Isabelle turned. “Is the dress not to your liking?”
His green eyes heated as he scanned Sofia from head to toe, his lips pressed together, a reflection of the frown furrowing his brow. “It’s passable… for a dress.”
Sofia’s stomach clenched.
Silly of her to think he’d say anything more in front of Isabelle and a stranger, but would it kill him to smile? A simple compliment would do.
“Perhaps a different dress, then?” Sofia forced herself to sound cheerful, even though she was ready to burst into tears. Why was it so important that she gain Ash’s approval? Two kisses.
They’d shared two kisses.
Hardly anything worth mentioning.
Except… it was all she could think about.
She was drawn to him, even though, most of the time, he had manners of a complete ass.
“Gloves!” The dressmaker clapped. “She’ll have red gloves.”
“Isn’t red the color of scandal?” Sofia asked.
Red gloves were pressed against her hands. Silk whispered against her palm — it would be the height of decadence to wear them.
“These will suit you beautifully!” the dressmaker gushed.
The gloves fit perfectly, resting just above her elbows.
The red matched the sash.
“Bloody hell,” Ash muttered.
“What was that?” Isabelle asked loudly.
“She’ll be the bell…” Ash sighed. “…of the ball.”
Sofia squinted at herself in the mirror. The dress was divine, the gloves shockingly scandalous. “Are you sure?”
“Russians—” Isabelle pulled Sofia in for a kiss. “—are not forced to restrict themselves to English society rules. You, my dear, are a princess. You need to stand out, and stand out you will, because every single unattached gentleman will know your name by the end of the evening.”
Sofia smiled in the mirror.
Ash’s expression was cold as he stared back at her through the glass, as if the idea of her wearing the dress was about as exciting as drinking a cup of bitter tea.
“Very well.” Sofia nodded. “If you say so.”
“I do.” Isabelle squeezed her again. “Now, let’s find a few more dresses for Madame to work on this week. We’ll need them finished as fast as possible.”
“Of course, Your Highness!” The dressmaker curtsied then hurried off in another direction while Sofia made her way back to change.
She should have kept walking.
She should have ignored Ash’s hand as it tugged on her arm.
Just like she should have ignored the fluttering in her belly.
But she didn’t.
Because she craved his attention — his touch. For no reason other than he’d shown her searing passion in a lifetime filled with cold indifference.
“Is it so horrible?” Sofia whispered, keeping her head down.
Ash’s hand remained on her arm as he led her deeper into the store where she’d changed earlier.
“Ash?”
He held his fingertips to her lips.
She jolted at the touch.
Once they were as far as they could go without clamoring through the wall and into the next store, Ash stopped and faced her. “The dress… you cannot mean to wear it in public.”
“Where else would I wear it?” She crossed her arms self-consciously.
He inhaled sharply. “Please, refrain from crossing your arms.”
“Why?”
“Why?” He sneered. “She asks why!” He looked away, complete disgust morphing his features into something angry and hard.
Sofia shrank back.
“Why?” He tilted her chin toward his mouth. “Because I can see your breasts, not just a tease of your breasts, but the entire damn front of your chest. One tiny slip, and I’d have but a handful.”
Sofia gasped but didn’t step away.
“One false move,” he whispered, his eyes heating, “and I’m able to see all the way up your calf to… your thigh.”
Her breath hitched.
“And it makes a man want… Sofia. I may have self-control, God knows I haven’t exactly been exercising it these past few days, something I’m going to remedy, you have my word… but do you truly want to captivate the attention of men who’d rather seduce you than marry?”
He likely had no idea how his words hurt. Because even though the dress was scandalous, she’d felt pretty. After getting her long ebony hair cut off, she hadn’t felt pretty for a while. After running for her life — after finding Peter in bed with her stepmother — pretty wasn’t something she believed in anymore. Pretty was a fairytale… and this dress made her believe that it was possible again.
Hot tears threatened to fall. She held them in, desperate not to show weakness. Ash appreciated strength, not weakness.
“No.” Her lower lip trembled. “I just want to be loved. But that’s silly, you’ve said as much.” She jerked away from his touch. “And if I can’t be loved, I may as well try, as hard as I am able, to marry myself off. After all, anything is better than being dead. Apologies that my looks repulse you so much.”
She tried to sidestep him, but Ash caught her arm again, this time pressing her back against the wall until his legs were pressing into hers, the entire length of his body pulsating with heat.
“Listen to me closely,” he whispered hoarsely, his lips tickling her ear. “You will always be the most beautiful woman in the room… whether or not you wear this dress.” His hand slid down her sides, tickling the flesh. “Or even if you attire yourself in servants’ clothing, you make the dress, not the other way around. Now push me away before I do something we’ll both regret.”
She didn’t push him away.
And he didn’t move.
Not at first.
His lips left her ear, grazing her cheekbone.