The brisk Frenchwoman checked the fit of the latest evening gown she had created for La Belle Hamilton, a resplendent concoction in ice blue silk with a heart-shaped neckline that plunged in the valley between her breasts. There was no mistake about it—this was a gown for a Cyprian.Bel’s gaze followed her hands as she smoothed the high, clean line of the gown’s skirts over her waist and hips. She could not help but muse that by all appearances she was indeed becoming the thing she pretended to be, and yet, in this role, she had unearthed a richer joy than any she had ever known.All she could think of was Robert.“He love this one, mademoiselle,” the woman murmured, her dark eyes gleaming with suave pride in her creation.“Oh, yes,” Bel agreed in admiration of the woman’s skill. She could hardly wait to see the look on Robert’s face when he glimpsed the daring décolletage.“Spezial occasion?”“The Argyle Rooms.”“I thought was for dinner party?”“No, that will be the pink one.
