Captain Durant's Countess(10)

“I . . . all right.” Maris felt beautifully bullied into agreement. Madame Bernard was skilled beyond her artistry with silk and scissors. “I shall pay you for the sample dress, of course.”

Madame Bernard smiled. “Naturellement.” She followed Yvonne out of the room, chattering in rapid French which exceeded Maris’s schoolgirl understanding.

Maris poured the fragrant tea into two cups and passed one to Betsy. The young maid helped herself to an iced cake, but Maris was much too nervous to eat. She always felt awkward at the dressmaker’s. If she had any skill with a needle and thread she would have preferred to sew her own clothes, but she was hopeless.

“This is a fancy place,” Betsy whispered. “Imagine that captain knowing about it.”

“Captain Durant is a most unusual gentleman. Lord Kelby is anxious that he get started on the inventory as soon as possible. He might be staying with us for a month or so.”

“Ooh. He’s very handsome, isn’t he?”

Maris shrugged. “I suppose. But he’s being hired for his historical expertise, not his pretty face.”

“And it is pretty. He’s ever so much nicer than my John.” Betsy bit into her cake, cheerfully deriding the footman she was carrying on with. Maris should have no knowledge of Betsy’s love life, but her maid couldn’t seem to keep her indiscretions to herself. Sometimes Maris felt like the girl’s mother. She was old enough.

Drat. The female servants would probably be swooning every time Captain Durant strutted through the hallways. But by and large, they were grateful to be working in an earl’s household, knew their place, and would keep to it. Henry was a generous employer, as long as someone didn’t meddle with his library.

The household ran like clockwork under the supervision of Amesbury, the butler, and Mrs. O’Neill, the housekeeper. Maris barely had to lift a finger, which was a good thing. Although she’d been raised at Kelby Hall, the intricacies of being a proper countess sometimes eluded her. She was certain a proper countess would not don breeches and dig through hillsides, sweating under the hot Tuscan sun .

Or solicit sexual favors from a complete stranger to perpetrate a fraud.

No, he wasn’t a complete stranger. She was beginning to know the captain a little, even if he flummoxed her.

Maris drank her tea and did not have too long to wait before the women returned, each carrying three gowns.

Maris objected immediately to the rainbow of colors. “I usually wear gray or brown, Madame Bernard.”

“As if I could keep my clientele with such dismal stuff,” the dressmaker said dismissively. “You are still young, if not in the first blush of youth. Thank heavens, for white would wash you out.”

Maris agreed. Her come-out dresses had made her look like a sickly ghost. The earl had financed her debut, cajoling his now-deceased maiden sister to sponsor her and Jane. At twenty, Maris had already been on the shelf and mortally shy in society. Seventeen-year-old Jane had not taken either. Despite being the daughter of a wealthy earl, she was even more reticent than Maris, crippled with a stutter that made the simplest conversation impossible.

Tails tucked between their legs, the girls had returned to Kelby Hall, swearing never to leave its confines again. Within four years, Maris was unexpectedly its chatelaine. Her friend Jane remained a confirmed spinster until David Kelby seduced and abandoned her.

“We shall try the wine silk first, I think,” Madame Bernard said, scattering Maris’s unhappy memories. “Your skin is fashionably pale, so you need no powder. But some rouge and lip salve would not go amiss. Yvonne, show Lady Kelby’s maid our pots and brushes. Between the two of you, you should find the perfect colors.”

Betsy rose, brushing cake crumbs from her black skirts. She wouldn’t know one pot of paint from the other. Maris didn’t require much from her but to do up her hard-to-reach buttons and brush her mud-brown hair free of tangles. Not a proper countess, she did not have a proper lady’s maid. Betsy had helped Monsieur Richard in the kitchen until she’d dropped one too many platters, and Maris had taken pity on the girl, spiriting her upstairs.

“I’ve told you I like simple things,” Maris said.

“Simple is one thing—ugly is quite another. There is no reason for a lady with your standing in society to appear so plain. You are la comtesse. This dress? Bah! It is not fit even for your little mouse of a maid. Take off that dreadful hat.”

For an instant, Maris wished for Captain Durant’s presence. Surely he would not let Madame Bernard hector her so? But she had no champion, not even her “little mouse of a maid.” Maris pulled the pin from her hair and placed the hat on top of the tower on the drum table.

“Ah. Just as I thought. You are a brunette, Lady Kelby, and fortunate that you can wear bold colors without them overpowering you. The woman should wear the clothes, not the other way around. Garnet, emerald, bronze—these will suit you. No pastels. No blue, although perhaps a deep navy.” Madame Bernard made quick work of Maris’s buttons and Maris found herself in her plain linen underthings, earning a disapproving cluck from the dressmaker.

“Even if no one sees what is underneath, it improves a woman’s confidence to know good quality is next to her skin. I shall get Yvonne to pack up some pretty chemises for you. And a proper corset. This one will not do.”

Any response Maris could have made was blocked by a wash of dark ruby silk over her head. When her face emerged, her arms were being thrust into long tight sleeves. When she was hooked into the dress, most of her bosom was exposed by the low square neckline. The design was simplicity itself—as she had requested—but surely she would not be expected to show so much flesh?

“I see from your expression you are not happy. But does your husband not wish to admire his wife?” asked Madame Bernard.

“He . . . I . . . we lead a very quiet life. He is a scholar, madam, and we do very little socializing. He has not been well.” Henry would not be smitten with this gown or any other.

“Poor soul. All the more reason to cheer him up, n’est pas? Your breasts, they are formidable, even in this sad corset. But if you wish, we might add a little ruffle on the bodice. I have some scraps of the fabric still and it would be a matter of minutes to have Yvonne run something up for your modesty. You will remain in town until tomorrow?”

“I plan to leave early in the morning.”

“Bien. We shall manage. Now the green next, I think.”

Maris endured Madame fitting her into three more dresses. She had to admit she looked uncommonly well in all of them, or would when minor adjustments were made. Betsy returned with Yvonne and watched with concentration while the junior dressmaker applied a subtle hint of color to Maris’s lips and cheeks. Something was done to her hair as well, which made Maris almost reluctant to put her hat back on.

As it happened, she was not given that choice. Once she was measured, Madame decided the violet walking dress and matching coat needed no alteration and Maris would be wearing them out of the shop. A tiny pouf of matching velvet and feathers was found in the back room and affixed to her head. Maris could only blink at her reflection. She had never been so stylish.

Or so very purple.

“Et voila! Now you are fit to take the town by storm. I shall send everything round this evening to your hotel. Your own things as well, although I do hope you will not ever wear them again.”

Somehow Maris agreed to gloves and stockings and a host of other fripperies in addition to the four new dresses. The afternoon would prove costly, and it was utter nonsense to try to make lamb out of mutton. She was four-and-thirty, well past her prime, and no one cared how she dressed.

“Oh, Lady Kelby,” Betsy gushed. “You do look a treat!”

“Handsome is as handsome does,” Maris grumbled. Feeling ridiculous, she swept out of the shop with Betsy at her heels. At least her half boots were still her own and comfortable. She hadn’t gone but half a block when she heard a shrill whistle behind her.

“It’s that captain, my lady!”

Whistling at me on the street? “Keep walking, Betsy, and don’t look back.”

“But he’s running down the street after us!”

Damn. Even worse. Whistling and running. What was the matter with the man? They would attract attention. No one knew her in London, and that was the way she wished to keep it.

Captain Durant was at her elbow in seconds. “I almost didn’t recognize you, Lady Kelby,” he said, smoothly taking her arm and matching her stride. “If it wasn’t for little Betsy here, you might have escaped my notice altogether.”

“Why are you still here?” Maris hissed.

“It takes more than one fussy Frenchwoman to get rid of me. I say, Madame Bernard has outdone herself. You look absolutely magnifique.”

“Oh, do shut up.” Maris could feel a natural blush augmenting the rouge.

“It’s only right that I escort you back to Mivart’s now that I took you out of your way.”