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And being a Noirot, she needed to be thinking with her head—and not the soft bit, either.
He had to marry Lady Clara. All Marcelline’s plans had one objective: making the Duchess of Clevedon her loyal client. If this marriage didn’t take place, who knew how long it would be before he found someone else? It could be days. It could be years. And regardless how much time it took, how many other women in London could provide as splendid a framework for Marcelline’s dresses?
Furthermore, that framework wouldn’t provide nearly as good advertising were Lady Clara to marry a lesser being than the Duke of Clevedon.
In any case, she’d already cultivated Lady Clara and was grooming her to be a leader of fashion. Marcelline had already won her loyalty. In spite of all the rumors and scandal. In spite of Lady Warford.
In fact, Lady Clara had a fitting this afternoon.
A nursemaid walking with a little girl stopped to admire Lucie’s doll. She obligingly stopped the baby carriage and took out Susannah for inspection.
“What a pretty dress!” the little girl exclaimed.
“My mama made it,” Lucie said. “She makes dresses for ladies and princesses.”
She put Susannah back and the nursemaid led the little girl away. The latter dragged her feet, looking back over her shoulder at Lucie’s doll.
“You ought to give Lucie business cards to hand out,” Clevedon said. “Have you thought of adding a line of doll dresses?”
“No.”
“Think about it.”
She had too much to think about as it was. “Lady Clara is coming for a fitting later today,” she said. “A dress for Friday night. One of the Season’s most important balls, I understand.”
“Friday?” He frowned, thinking. “Damn. That must be Lady Brownlow’s do. I suppose I’d better attend.”
“Of course you’ll attend,” she said. “It’s one of the high points of the Season.”
“That doesn’t say much for the Season.”
“What is the matter with you?” she said. “I know you like to dance.”
“In Paris,” he said. “In Vienna. In Venice.”
“Do you know how many men and women would give a vital organ to be invited to that ball?” she said.
“You?” he said. “Wouldn’t you like to be there, showing off one of your creations?” A smile caught at the corner of his mouth and devilment danced in his eyes. “I should like to see you get into that party, uninvited.”
She wanted to scream.
“Are you not paying attention?” she said. “You need to court Lady Clara. What you don’t need is the woman everybody thinks is your latest liaison calling attention to herself. And what I don’t need is to alienate precisely the people I want to come into my shop. How many times must I explain this to you? How can you be so thick?”
He looked away. “I was picturing you at the ball, and it amused me. Well, I’ll imagine it while I’m there. That should allay the tedium.”
She could picture herself there, too—not the self she was, but the self she might have been, a gentleman’s daughter. But then, if she’d been welcome to that ball, she wouldn’t have Lucie. She would never have learned how to make clothes. She would never have truly found herself.
Not to mention she’d look like the rest of them.
Her life wouldn’t be so hard but it wouldn’t be nearly so much fun. One need only consider how bored he was, the great, spoiled numskull! Lady Brownlow had recently been elected a patroness of Almack’s. She was one of Society’s premier hostesses. Her parties were famous. And he acted as though he was forced to attend a lecture in calculus or one of those other horrible mathematical things.
“You will attend,” she said. “And you will not arrive late. You’ll make it clear that you want only to see Lady Clara, to be with Lady Clara. You’ll act as though no other woman in the place exists for you. You’ll act as though you haven’t known her for ages, but have only now truly discovered her. It will seem as though she has suddenly appeared to you, like a vision, like Venus rising from the sea.”
She wished Sophy were here to offer less clichéd dramatic imagery.
“You’ll sweep her off her feet,” she went on. “If the weather allows, you’ll lure her out onto the terrace or balcony or someplace private, and you’ll make it very romantic, and you’ll make it impossible for her to say anything but yes. It’s a seduction, Clevedon. Do keep that in mind. This isn’t your dear friend or your sister. This is a woman, a beautiful, desirable woman, and you are going to seduce her into becoming your duchess.”
Countess of Brownlow’s ball
