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“It is. I believe it provides one with the opportunity to build character.”
“Such an undertaking requires change.”
“It does.” Felicity beamed.
“Do these notions apply only to contrived holidays? Or might they apply to fashion, for instance?”
Felicity paused with her fork halfway to her mouth. “Fashion?” A rustle moved through those attending, and Bates took it in turn to clear his throat. “As in clothing?”
“As in following fashion, the ways in which the ladies of thebeau mondeare devoted to its dictates.” The duke gestured in her general direction, and the crowd muttered amongst itself.
“I do not find myself unnecessarily following fashion and have my reasons for doing so when I do, which have nothing to do with blind devotion,” she babbled. Did she not appear improved in this gown? Was that what he was implying?
“What reason could anyone have in following styles and modes that do not celebrate a particular form to its fullest expression?”
“You sound quite like my dear friend, Lady Jemima Coleman,” Felicity said. She would not infer the worst in this line of conversation; she would not assume he referred to her shape—she would not. “Her Ladyship is a clandestine dressmaker, sub rosa due to her station in life, but more than that, she is an artist with fabric and texture. She is forever exhorting me to break away from the standard and claims to have designed and sewn an entire wardrobe for me.”
The duke nodded at Bates, who rose and headed for the door.
“Informal, indeed.” When she had become such a stickler for manners, she had no idea.
“Bates.” The duke’s tone stopped him in his tracks.
“I take my leave of you, Miss Templeton, and will return anon.” Bates bowed and waited upon Felicity’s nod before he once again made for the door. A heavy silence followed his departure. Her little dream of the duke’s response to her new clothing disintegrated, and she found that this made her not a little bit furious.
She cleared her throat. “I find myself thinking to follow in Miss O’Mara’s footsteps. Trousers look to be a comfortable way of going about.”
“No.” The duke’s fingers flexed around the stem of his all but untouched wine glass.
“I would very much like to investigate this mode of dress.”
“I repeat, no.”
“You are not in a position to dictate to me.”
“There are trunks of well-kept clothes in the attics, many never having been worn.”
“You are apprised of the contents of ladies’ trunks in the attics, Your Grace? How astonishing.”
“They are at your disposal.”
“I doubt they will suit me as my figure is not what is considered fashionable.”
“Any one of the females in this house is nimble enough with a needle to do whatever it is needs doing, should there be a need for letting them out to make them larger—”
A piercing wail rang out from the one of the witnesses, accompanied by the explosive upset of O’Mara’s wine glass and the rush of Mrs. Birks and Mr. Coburn to the table. Thanks to the chaos, the duke ceased his disquisition on the size of clothing she might require. A swarm of footmen cleared, and Mrs. Birks fussed, and Mr. Coburn ordered, and the servants rushed hither and yon, and Felicity was a still, calm center in the tumult, staring down the duke, daring him to pass another comment regarding her figure. She raised her eyebrows.
He shook his head and raised his brows in return.
She tilted her head at the crowd; he threw up his hands, bewildered. “I wonder,” she said, changing the subject, “that there are no vegetables to accompany these delicious courses.”
A small, wiry man burst into the room. “What is this mess that these louche footmen have brought into my kitchen? What has become of myglacée du venaison?”
“Out, Louveteau,” hissed Mr. Coburn, flapping his arms. “Back to your spits and your pans.”
“Louveteau,” the duke said, “Her Grace was just commenting on the lack of vegetables in the meal.”
“The wonderful meal,” Felicity assured him. “The most extraordinary meal I have ever eaten. What a glorious way you have with a sauce, Monsieur.”
