Regency Rogues and Rakes: Silk is for Seduction / Scandal Wears Satin / Vixen in Velvet / Seven Nights in a Rogue's Bed / A Rake's Midnight Kiss / What a Duke Dares. Loretta Chase
resisted the temptation to roll her eyes. Lady Clara was as oblivious as Clevedon. They noticed nothing about a dress until one forcibly called their attention to it.
“This isn’t half what you would have seen in Paris,” Marcelline said. “There I was obliged to exert myself, because I was competing with the most stylish women in the world, who’ve made a high art of attracting men. That is your ladyship’s true rival: Paris. I’m nothing. If the gentleman is bored and remote, it’s because the women about him at present don’t know how to get his attention.”
She let her gaze slide from the top of Lady Clara’s dull bonnet, over the white crepe dress trimmed in black—mainly ribbon and a little embroidery but not a stitch of lace in sight—and downward, with a small, despairing sigh, to the hem. The style was—well, it hadn’t any style. As to the craftsmanship: In a drunken stupor, the least talented of Marcelline’s six seamstresses could do better than this.
Sophy and Leonie drew nearer to Marcelline, their gazes moving in the same pitying way over the dress.
“The Court has been wearing mourning for the Emperor of Austria, then the Prince of Portugal,” Lady Clara said defensively. “We’ve only recently changed from black.”
“You cannot wear this shade of white,” Marcelline said. “It ruins your complexion.”
“Such a complexion!” Sophy said. “Translucent. Women would weep and gnash their teeth in envy, were you not wearing a white that drains away all the vitality.”
“The black trim can’t be helped,” said Leonie. “But must it be so heavy?”
“It isn’t required to be crepe, certainly,” said Marcel-line. “Where is the rule that says one may not use a thinner ribbon, of satin? And perhaps some knots—so. Or a jet lozenge. And a little silver, perhaps here and here, to brighten it. But above all, never this shade of white!”
“You’re not making the most of your figure,” said Sophy.
“I’m big,” Lady Clara said.
“You’re statuesque,” said Leonie. “What I should give to have your height. What I should give to be able to look a man in the eye.”
“Mainly, I’m looking down at them,” said Lady Clara. “Except for my brothers and Cl—the gentleman.”
“All the better,” said Sophy. “A man ought to look up to a woman, literally or figuratively, because that is the proper mode of worship, and worship is the very least he can do. It doesn’t matter what her height is. You’re the most beautiful young woman in London—”
“That’s doing it too brown,” said Lady Clara. She drank more brandy. “You’re wicked, the three of you.”
She was not wrong.
“Perhaps one might see at the theater a whore who seems prettier,” said Sophy. “But that’s only because she makes the most of herself and of certain cosmetic aids. You, however, have a deep, true English beauty that will only make you handsomer as time passes. It’s disgraceful and ungrateful of you not to make the most of the gifts with which you’ve been blessed.”
“You look big,” said Marcelline, “because the dress is matronly. You look big because it’s carelessly cut and ill sewn. Puckers! My six-year-old daughter can sew better than this. I say nothing of the overall design, which seems to have been adopted from fashions current in Bath among the grandmother set. The analogy is fitting, since so many drink the waters for their health, and this shade of white makes you look bilious. Let me show you the shade of white you ought to wear. Sophy, fetch a hand mirror. Leonie, the soft white organdy.”
“I did not come here to buy a dress,” Lady Clara said.
“You came because you want to bring the gentleman back from wherever it is he’s gone to,” said Marcelline. “We’re going to show you how to do it.”
We have seen some robes of white crape prepared for the change of mourning; the corsages drooped, and retained in the centre of the bosom, and at the sides by knots of black satin riband, with a jet lozenge in the centre of each.
La Belle Assemblèe, fashions for the month of April 1835
Warford House Tuesday afternoon
Her ladyship is at home, your grace, but she is engaged,” Timms the butler said.
“Engaged?” Clevedon repeated. “Isn’t this Tuesday?”
The Warfords were not at home to visitors on Tuesdays. That was why he’d called today rather than yesterday or tomorrow. On Tuesday he need not make his way through the scrum of Clara’s beaux, the infatuated puppies who swarmed about her at social events. Whenever he approached, he was disagreeably aware of casting a pall over the activities, whatever they were: fellows composing odes to her eyes and such, he supposed. Squabbling over who had which dance. And competing, no doubt, in point of fashion—which was amusing, since Clara didn’t care about fashion. She could not tell one lapel from another, let alone evaluate the quality of a waistcoat.
Still, he might have mistaken the day. He had drunk more than agreed with him last night, and his head still ached. Perhaps it would be better to come back on the correct day. Maybe the damned sun wouldn’t be shining so brightly then.
After confirming that this was indeed Tuesday, Timms apologetically led Clevedon to the small drawing room to wait while he sent a footman to inform Lady Clara of his grace’s arrival.
Unaccustomed to be made to wait when he called anywhere, least of all at Warford House, Clevedon grew restive.
It was exceedingly odd, Clara being engaged on a Tuesday afternoon. He was sure he’d told her—on Saturday, wasn’t it?—he’d take her for a drive today.
He needed to settle this marriage business today. Already a week had passed since he’d decided to put his life in order and make his formal offer. After that, they’d put all in train for a wedding at the earliest opportunity.
The trip to the dressmaker’s had thrown him off balance. Seeing Noirot again…and the child…
He’d been unable to collect his thoughts, let alone remember what he’d meant to say to Clara. The time hadn’t felt…right. He and Clara needed to get used to each other again, he’d told himself. Hadn’t Longmore said so?
But now it seemed they’d have to get used to each other after they were married. Now a formal—and short—engagement seemed the best way to put an end to speculation and gossip.
He’d heard rumors of a mad tale that had traveled from Paris, and would, he knew, reach Warford House before long. Last week he’d confided in Clara—to a point. He knew she was too sensible a girl to fret over idle gossip. In her letters, hadn’t she ridiculed one after another piece of scandal making the London rounds? Her mother, though, was another matter altogether.
When Lady Warford heard the rumors, she’d throw one of her fits. She’d say nothing to Clevedon directly. Instead, she’d harass her family, carrying on about the shame of Clara’s being ignored in favor of a dressmaker, a milliner, a common shopkeeper! She’d grow more and more hysterical until one of the men took Clevedon to task.
In Paris, only last month, he’d borne one awkward visit from Longmore—instigated, no doubt, by Lady Warford. Clevedon doubted his friend was any more eager than he to repeat the experience.
He had nothing to feel anxious or guilty about, he told himself. He’d done nothing improper since he’d returned to London. Before that didn’t