“Clara!” Her mother’s eyes flew wide. “You should not—”
Another wave from the modiste. “All is well, your ladyship. We are like—how do you say—a father, pére. Priest! We keep all secrets.” She paused and placed her hands on Clara’s shoulders, as if measuring their width. “And he is fair. In his face? Eyes?”
Clara nodded. “Almost sallow. His eyes are pale blue. He’s from the north. Not as far as Scotland but quite close. I do not think he sees much sun.”
“So he is a gentleman with a gentleman’s pursuits.”
“I’m not convinced he has a gentleman’s tastes.”
“Clara!”
Madame Adrienne chuckled. “He has not taken into account your brilliant hair and eyes if he wishes you to wear these colors. And he seems to have missed the shift from pale to bright over the past few seasons.”
“She cannot outshine him!” Honora fidgeted again, an action that took over her entire body this time.
Another wave. “Do not concern yourself with this, your ladyship. We never wish to outshine the peacocks among us until the day of the wedding.” She addressed Clara. “Then your beauty will soar.”
Clara looked down, feeling the words to be a kindness. “You do not have to flatter me, Madame Adrienne. I know I am not lovely.”
Madame Adrienne stilled, her head tilted to one side. “Who has told you this?”
“She has a mirror.” Honora’s lips formed a tight pout.
Clara winced, watching her mother over Madame Adrienne’s shoulder. The scowl on the modiste’s face deepened, and she stepped between Honora and Clara, her voice dropping in both tone and volume. “You should not listen to them, my lady. I dress all ranks of the aristocracy. There is more to beauty than appearance. And yours glows from within. If your duke does not see this, shame on him.”
Without waiting for a response, Madame Adrienne pivoted and addressed Honora. “And you want all of these? Twelve gowns in the next two months?”
The disbelief in her voice was understandable, and Clara almost smiled. She had been allowed one new ball gown a season for the past three years. The remainder of their clothing budget had gone to her younger sisters, with their debuts. They had both found husbands in their first seasons, but Clara’s clothing allowance had not changed. Clara and Radcliff had retooled gowns from her previous seasons in order to keep some variety—and now her newest gown had a lemonade stain across the front.
“Yes.” Honora sniffed, as if the question was beneath her.
The modiste pressed her hands together. “Excellent. I will send over the first sketches for you Monday, with the goal of having the first gown ready the day before the event at the head of that list. The others will follow in short order after that. I will send those dates Monday as well. Once you approve the sketches, we will talk costs and payments. Acceptable?”
Honora stood. “Perfectly.”
Madame Adrienne spun again, facing Clara, and grabbed both her hands. “We will make you shine, Lady Clara. The most beautiful on every occasion.”
Clara could not help but grin. “Then you will be the magician all my friends say you are.”
The modiste’s smile lit the room. “I am honored you trust me with this most vital of tasks.”
“Hmph.” Honora stood and smoothed her skirts. “And you smell the cost of twelve gowns.”
Madame Adrienne’s smile broadened, and she curtsied to Honora. “Of course, my lady. It is, after all, my business. And I am most appreciative of yours. I would be less than forthright to pretend otherwise.”
“Hmph.” Honora marched toward the door. “Come, Clara.”
Clara gathered her reticule from the chair and followed her mother but turned back to Madame Adrienne as she reached the now open door. “Thank you.”
Madame Adrienne clasped her hands in front her, abruptly a demure and calm presence. “You are most welcome, Lady Clara.”
Clara took the three steps from the shop up to the street, where the Beckcott carriage awaited their return. She dodged two small puddles of rain, left over from the previous day’s storm, which had raged over the country, leaving much damage but a brief respite from the heat. The liveried footman stood near the open door, and her mother had already settled on the cushions inside.
She motioned for Clara to hurry. “Do not dawdle, girl. We have more stops to make.”
“Merely trying to avoid any other puddles.”
Honora sniffed. “What does that mean?”
