Page 21 of Evie and Louis: The Story so Far

“I was j-just tired of the constant comments. ‘Oh, Evie, you’d be so much prettier if only you’d lose some weight.’ ‘Oh, Evie, I found the most wonderful diet—I’ve lost six pounds, you must try it!’ ‘Oh, Evie, do you think you ought to have another piece of cake? It’s dreadfully fattening.’”

She blinked hard as her vision blurred, startled to hear a volley of furious French as Louis muttered beneath his breath.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said, his voice terse.

She waited as he took a deep breath and let it out again. Despite her best efforts, she felt a tear slide down her cheek. Louis saw it and his jaw set again, but he reached out and wiped it away, his touch gentle.

“Evie, do you trust me?”

“Of course, I do. You know I do.”

He snorted and shook his head. “Oui, far more than you should, ma petite, but if you trust me, you will heed my words and believe them. Do you promise?”

Evie frowned. “Well, I shall try, but I don’t know what they are yet.”

Louis shook his head. “That is not how this works. You will listen, and you will believe me, because I am telling you the truth. You are every bit as beautiful as any woman you wish to compare yourself with.”

Evie let out a huff of laughter. Well, if he was going to be silly about it….

“I am serious,” he said, and her breath caught at the anger in his eyes. “You. Are. Beautiful. Inside and out, and anyone who cannot see that does not deserve a moment of your time, and certainly not your tears.”

It was hard not to believe his words whilst those blue eyes stared at her with such sincerity, but Evie could not help but feel sceptical. She was a practical girl, after all, and aware of her own attributes. That’s not to say she had none. She knew she was fun to be with and could hold an intelligent conversation, and she had pretty eyes and hair, and she’d be an excellent wife and companion to anyone who wished to marry her. But to suggest she could compare to the great beauties of the ton was simply ridiculous. She knew Louis meant she was a beautiful person because he thought she was kind-hearted, but that was not at all the same thing. She simply wasn’t the type who made men wild with desire or prompted them to write sonnets or fight duels. Not that she wanted anyone to fight a duel on her account, for that would be horrible, but it would be nice to see some evidence of desire or jealousy. She had seen the possessive looks on the faces of Arabella’s and Florence’s husbands, the pride and the heat in their eyes as they looked upon their beloveds. It would be nice to think some man might feel like that for her one day, but she felt a little dubious, no matter Louis’ words.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” Louis said, his tone flat.

Evie gave a rueful smile. “I believe you are fond enough of me to see me with a kinder eye than most, and I am grateful for it, but please, Louis, let us speak of something else. What are we to do about this wretched dress?”

Louis sighed, shaking his head. “Very well. Can you stand without swooning?” he asked, his tone a little impatient.

Evie nodded, so he gave her his hand and helped her up. Louis stood back and muttered something that did not sound complimentary about the dress as he walked around her, studying the gown from all angles.

“I hate pink,” Evie said, wishing she didn’t look such a wretched sight.

He shook his head, studying her. “Non, I disagree with that, at least. The colour is good. You have a complexion most women would kill for, all that creamy white skin and here….” He moved closer to touch a finger to her cheek. “The faintest flush of rose,” he murmured.

Evie flushed a deal harder at his words. The way the French rolled the r on rose was rather delicious after all. Louis smirked. “Not so faint.”

“Well, perhaps the colour isn’t to blame, but it’s still dreadful,” Evie grumbled, folding her arms about her middle and feeling increasingly self-conscious.

Louis took her wrists, uncrossing her arms and staring at her bust and midriff with such concentration she wanted to die of embarrassment.

“Louis,” she said, uncomfortable.

“The cut is all wrong,” he said, interrupting her. “This neckline is far too high and unflattering. It does not make the most of your assets.”

“My… what?”

“Your assets,” Louis repeated impatiently.

“Do I have, er… assets?” she asked doubtfully.

Louis tsked, giving her an incredulous glance. “Your bust is magnificent, Evie, and it’s being hidden beneath that high neck when it ought to be on display. I cannot understand what the woman was thinking. Perhaps she was jealous.”

Evie snorted in amusement, too entertained to be scandalised by the comment. “I hardly think—”

“What kind of corset are you wearing?”