“Where is it, then?” Hester demanded, throwing open the curtain of the dressing stall with the flourish of a seasoned actress, nearly smacking Lavinia in the face with a length of striped muslin. “Nancy, if you are hiding in there?—”
From the far side of the partition, Nancy said, “If you must know, it is hideous, and it is not my color. No further questions.”
“Nonsense.” Hester plucked the muslin free and held it up to the gaslight, squinting at the delicate embroidery on the hem. “This is precisely your color. You look as if you were poured into it by some benevolent goddess.”
Nancy emerged, one eyebrow raised and the other in its natural position of withering skepticism. “If so, the goddess has a peculiar sense of humor.”
Fiona, lounging across a velvet-cushioned bench in a way no duchess should, signaled for the modiste’s assistant. “We’ll need the nightwear catalogues,” she called. “And the Irish lace. And the stockings with the daring little patterns at the ankle.”
“Don’t you dare,” said Nancy, sliding back behind the curtain. “I have already bought more of those than I can wear in a lifetime, thanks to my mother’s crusade last week. If I acquire one more item of French silk, I’ll be smothered in it before the ceremony.”
“An excellent way to go,” said Hester, tossing the muslin at Lavinia, who caught it with surprising grace. “Besides, it could be worse. Anna sent me an entire trousseau, all marked ‘modest and practical,’ then swapped out half of it for French chemises she claimed were ‘more atmospheric.’ I didn’t discover the switch until my wedding night.”
Nancy peeked out. “And what did you do?”
“Laughed myself sick. Thomas nearly died on the spot.”
Fiona winked. “But I’m sure it must have been a pleasant surprise, Hester dear. If not for you, for your husband.”
Lavinia smiled, timidly at first, then more confidently as Hester and Fiona began cackling like a pair of unrepentant witches.
“If you don’t want to wear them, Nancy, simply refuse,” said Lavinia, folding the muslin into a perfect square. “It is your wedding, after all.”
“I refuse most things as a rule,” Nancy said, gathering her skirts with military precision and marching out from the stall. “But I will admit, if I must endure the ordeal of matrimony, I would rather do so wearing nothing less than the softest linens money can buy.”
“That’s the spirit,” Fiona approved, patting the space beside her. “Sit, and allow yourself to be pampered by people who have nothing better to do than argue about ribbon colors.”
Nancy sat, glancing sidelong at the pair of them. “Lavinia, you have not said a word in ten minutes. Are you composing a list of my flaws, or simply judging me in silence?”
Lavinia went pink, then managed, “I am thinking that if I ever wed, I will skip the shopping entirely. It’s rather overwhelming.”
Hester grinned. “That is because you have yet to discover the joy of making a shopgirl blush.”
Nancy stretched out her legs. “You could make a bishop blush, Hester. I have seen it.”
“I pride myself on it,” said Hester, unwrapping a package of sugared almonds from her reticule and handing them around.
The modiste herself entered, trailed by three assistants and enough taffeta to clothe a battalion of debutantes. “My ladies,” she cooed, “such a pleasure. The final fitting will be ready in onehour. In the meantime, perhaps a look at the mantles? Or the newest Parisian veils?”
Fiona waved her off. “No need. We’re here for the company, not the wardrobe.”
The modiste, momentarily nonplussed, exited with her minions in tow.
There was a brief, perfect silence, filled with the comfortable chewing of almonds.
Hester, dusting sugar from her lap, said, “I cannot believe you are actually doing this, Nancy. Getting married. You, who once vowed to retire to a nunnery and torment the world with pamphlets about the futility of romance.”
“I still believe in the futility of romance,” Nancy said, popping an almond into her mouth. “But I believe even more in keeping promises.”
Fiona looked at her, really looked, eyes shrewd. “You are nervous.”
Nancy snorted. “Is it so obvious?”
Hester patted her knee. “Only to those of us who know you better than you know yourself.”
“Then you know that if you smother me in sympathy, I will break out in hives,” Nancy warned.
“Not sympathy,” said Fiona gently. “Admiration.”
