He leaned in close. “You’re perfect.”

She lifted her hand to his face, not caring that ladies did not touch their lords in public. Not caring for anything but him. “Matthew and Sons.” She tilted her head. “It might not be the right name.”

“We can change it,” he said quickly. “If you don’t like it. Matthew doesn’t mind—I think he’s rather chuffed to call it his namesake—but it could certainly be something else.”

“It’s not that.”

He shook his head, and she could see that he was becoming frustrated with her. “Sophie, it doesn’t matter. Don’t you wish to see inside?”

She did, quite desperately, but the moment was too perfect. “I do,” she said, feigning doubt, “But I think it’s important to note that we won’t know for sure what the name of the shop is for a few months.”

“Who cares about the damn—” He stopped. “Months?”

It was her turn to grin.

He stepped closer, and if she were more of a lady, she would have put distance between them. There were benefits, however, to being a Soiled S.

“What might the name be, Sophie?”

She did love that growl.

“Well,” she said, “I cannot be certain, but do you have an aversion to the possibility of Matthew and Daughters?”

When the scandal sheets reported the events of that afternoon, it was not the blindfolded marchioness that dominated the headlines. Indeed, it was the deeply in love marquess, who, in a fit of unbridled adoration, eschewed propriety and kissed his wife in broad daylight, in the doorway of a new bookshop in front of all St. James.

All that before he lifted her in his arms, carried her over the threshold, and slammed the door with one great black boot.