Anne's Perfect Husband. Gayle Wilson

her guardian continued, interrupting that foolish notion, “has recommended a modiste. On his advice I have sent for her to come here and make the preliminary measurements for your gowns. Of course, we shall be in London in time for the fittings.”

      “In London for the Season,” Anne said faintly, feeling more and more as if she had wandered into some bizarre dream. “We are going to London?”

      “Within the month,” he said, smiling at her again, “if you are willing to trust me to convey you safely there, considering your first unfortunate journey under my guardianship. I promise to take better care of you in the future.”

      She truly doubted anyone could have taken better care of her that terrible night than he had. And he had done so at a cost to himself that he would not even acknowledge. Or allow her to.

      “I would trust you with my life, Mr. Sinclair,” she said.

      And watched his eyes change again, the gentle teasing fading from them as they held a long heartbeat on hers. For the first time since she had entered the room, self-absorbed with what she wanted to say, she allowed herself to study his face.

      If one looked past the rather obvious effects of the fight, which included a fading bruise around his right eye, and an almost healed gash along his left cheekbone, the marks of his recent illness were there as well. And according to Mrs. Martin, that was never to be a topic for conversation. In truth, Anne could not but admire him for that.

      “Thank you,” he said with the smile she had learned to value for its kindness, even in the brief time she had known him. “I am delighted by your trust, Anne. May I call you Anne?”

      She had never been called anything else, not even by the youngest girls in the school. Given the difference in their ages and his position in her life, it seemed natural somehow that he should call her by her Christian name.

      “Of course,” she said. “But…should I continue to call you Mr. Sinclair?” And realized belatedly, again by watching his eyes change, that she had made a mistake. “I suppose anything else would be improper. I didn’t mean to be forward,” she said, stumbling for an explanation. “Perhaps—” She stopped, cutting the words off because it seemed this, too, might give offense.

      “Perhaps what?”

      “I’m sure that…That is…”

      “My name is Ian,” he said.

      “Then…Uncle Ian?” she suggested hesitantly.

      His eyes widened slightly, just as they had when Margaret’s trembling finger had identified Anne as his ward.

      “Do you know,” he said, his voice suddenly full of an amusement she didn’t understand, “I really don’t believe I should be able to endure it if you do.”

      “I beg your pardon,” Anne said, bewildered and embarrassed.

      “Forgive me, Anne. You may call me Ian, or even Mr. Sinclair, if you are more comfortable with that. But when I think of my brother’s reaction to your calling me Uncle Ian…Truthfully, I beg you, that I am not willing to endure. Not even for my ward.”

      “Too ornate,” the Countess of Dare said, her blue eyes lifting from the drawing in the fashion book she and the dressmaker were perusing, their fair heads very close together. “Something more classic, I think, given her height and coloring.”

      Anne was still standing where they had placed her, on a stool in the middle of her bedroom, dressed only in her chemise and petticoat. She had been humiliated by the rather threadbare appearance of those garments, especially when confronted with the cool, blond elegance of the Countess of Dare.

      Neither she nor the modiste had commented on the patches and darns, however, seeming to be far more concerned with thumbing through the pictures in the books the woman had brought from London. Pictures which Anne had not yet been allowed to see. It seemed she was merely a bystander to this process.

      “This perhaps,” the dressmaker suggested, and the eyes of both women surveyed Anne’s form again, moving from head to toe.

      “Only if the color is changed. And I don’t like the trim,” Elizabeth Sinclair said. “Braided ribbon is not exactly au courant.”

      “I couldn’t agree more,” said the dressmaker. “In green?”

      “Of a certain shade. We shall probably have to shop for it in London. There is nothing in the samples you’ve brought that is quite right for her,” the countess said, her eyes falling to the swatches of fabric scattered about the floor and draped over the room’s furnishings.

      “I have others. Your brother-in-law’s message was not suggestive of the scope of what he wants.”

      “What does he want?” Anne asked, hoping to at least be informed as to the occasion on which the dress they were discussing should be worn.

      “A wardrobe,” Elizabeth explained, smiling at her.

      “Without any cheeseparing,” the modiste said, her pleasure obvious.

      “A wardrobe?” Anne repeated. Which seemed to imply… “I am to have several dresses?”

      “Dozens,” the countess agreed. Her eyes met Anne’s again before they fell to the pattern book as she turned the page. “Your father was very fortunate in his choice of guardian.”

      “I understand they were great friends,” Anne said.

      When Elizabeth Sinclair’s eyes came up this time, there was something in their blue depths Anne didn’t understand. Some emotion there that she couldn’t quite read. Almost as quickly as it had formed, however, it was controlled.

      “Indeed?” the countess said. “I didn’t know.”

      Anne didn’t either, of course. She had simply made that assumption, based on the fact that her father had chosen Ian Sinclair to be her guardian. And she couldn’t imagine any reason for that other than friendship.

      However, whenever she had attempted during the past week to introduce any topic that might lead to a recounting of the days they had served together, she had sensed a reluctance on her guardian’s part. She had finally been forced to conclude that he was as reticent to discuss his military career as his health. And probably for the same reasons.

      “This?” Elizabeth questioned the dressmaker.

      Again both pairs of eyes focused on Anne, whose arms were beginning to grow gooseflesh from being bare so long. She didn’t complain, however. She stood where they had placed her, the light from the windows of her bedroom illuminating her every feature, good and bad she supposed, and wondered what she had glimpsed so briefly in the eyes of Ian Sinclair’s sister-in-law.

      “What do you think?” Ian asked, watching from his chair by the fire as Elizabeth pulled on her gloves.

      “I think you are going to need a great deal of help.”

      “Besides that,” he responded with a smile.

      “She’s completely unspoiled. And quite lovely, of course, but…Frankly, Ian, she hasn’t much training in the deportment that will be expected of a debutante.”

      “If you mean blushing and simpering, then I’m not sure I would view skill in those behaviors as an advantage.”

      The tone of his reply was sharper than he had intended, but the implied criticism bothered him. While he had been confined to his room by the maddeningly lingering effects of his illness, he had had almost too much time to examine his feelings for Anne.

      Although it was true that he had, of necessity, been celibate since he’d been wounded, he didn’t believe that completely explained the strength of his attraction. Nor did his admiration of her courage or of the way her eyes met his with an honesty and openness that was unheard of in a woman of his class.

      “She does have a tendency to speak her mind,” Elizabeth said, softening her reproach