* * *
AGATHA’S CARRIAGE pulled up outside a plain door wedged between two shops on Bruton Street. Above the door hung a simple sign—“Mme Lafarge, Modiste”.
Handed down from the carriage, Agatha shook out her skirts and eyed the door shrewdly. “Lafarge only makes for a select few. Hideously expensive, so I’ve heard.”
Joining her hostess on the pavement, Lenore turned to stare. “Isn’t she your dressmaker?”
“Heavens, no! I might be well-to-do but I’m not that rich.” Agatha straightened her straight back and headed for the door. “No—Eversleigh arranged it.”
Of course. Lenore’s lips tightened momentarily. She permitted herself a frown, then shrugged and followed her mentor up the steep stairs beyond the plain door.
Madame Lafarge was waiting in the large salon on the first floor. The room was elegantly furnished, gilt chairs upholstered in satin damask set in a tight circle facing outwards from the centre of the floor. Mirrors were discreetly placed around the walls, interspersed with wall hangings in a soothing shade of pale green. Madame herself proved to be a small, severely neat, black-haired Frenchwoman who stared unblinkingly at Lenore throughout the introductions.
These completed, she reached for Lenore’s hand. “Walk for me, Miss Lester,” she commanded in heavily accented English, drawing Lenore clear of the chairs. “To the windows and back.”
Lenore blinked, but when Agatha nodded, complied, hesitantly at first, then with more confidence as she returned to where Madame waited.
“Eh bien. I see now what monsieur le duc means.” Stepping close, Madame peered up into Lenore’s eyes. “Yes—greens and golds, with nothing pink, white or pale blue. M’moiselle is twenty-four, yes?”
Dumbly, Lenore nodded.
“Très bien. We do not, then, need to be cramped in our choice.” The little modiste’s face relaxed into a smile of approval. Her eyes narrowed as she walked slowly around Lenore before nodding decisively. “A merveille—we will do very well, I am thinking.”
Taking this to mean Madame had found that elusive something in her, Lenore felt some of her tension evaporate.
Abruptly, Madame clapped her hands. To Lenore’s surprise, a young girl put her head around one of the wall hangings. A torrent of orders delivered in staccato French greeted her. With a mute nod, the girl disappeared. A bare minute later, the wall hanging was pushed aside to admit a procession of six girls, each carrying a semi-completed outfit.
Under Madame’s supervision, Lenore tried on the garments. Madame fitted them expertly, extolling the virtues of each and the use to which she expected each to be put, gesticulating freely to embellish her words. The ground was littered with pins but her advice could not be faulted. Agatha sat regally on one of the chairs, actively interested in all that went on.
It was not until she was trying on the third outfit, a delicate amber morning gown, that the truth dawned on Lenore. She was unusually tall and slender yet the dresses needed only marginal adjustments. Her head came up; she stiffened.
“Be still, m’moiselle,” hissed Madame Lafarge from behind her.
Lenore obeyed but immediately asked, “For whom were these dresses made, Madame?”
Lafarge peered around to stare up at her face. “Why—for you, Miss Lester.”
Lenore returned her stare, recalling that Madame had not even bothered to take her measurements. “But…how?”
Lafarge’s black eyes blinked up at her. “Monsieur le duc gave me an…” Her hands came up to describe her meaning. “An understanding of your comportment and your taille, you understand? From that, I was able to fashion these. As you see, his memory was not greatly at fault.”
A shiver travelled Lenore’s spine but she was unsure of the emotion behind it. Agatha had been right—Eversleigh was far too used to organising all as he wished. The idea that her wardrobe would bear the imprint of his hand, rather than hers, was far too much for her to swallow.
Parading before the glass and admiring the way the long amber skirts swirled about her, Lenore made up her mind. “I should like to see these other gowns you’ve made up.”
Besides the three gowns she had already tried on, a green muslin walking dress, a teal carriage dress and the amber creation, Lafarge had made up three evening gowns. Trying on the first of these, Lenore felt a definite qualm. Studying her reflection, the way the fine silk clung to her body, emphasising her height, her slimness and the soft swell of her breasts, she wondered if she would ever have the courage to actually wear the gown. The neckline was cut low, barely avoiding the indecorous. Aside from the tiny puffed sleeves, her arms were entirely bare; she could already feel gooseflesh prickling her skin. The other two gowns were in similar vein.
“You wish to view the rest as well?”
Turning, Lenore stared at Lafarge. “Madame, what, exactly, has His Grace ordered?”
Lafarge spread her hands. “A wardrobe of the very finest—all the materials to be the very best as suited to your station. Dresses, gowns, coats, cloaks, nightgowns, petticoats, chemises, peignoirs.” Lafarge ticked the items off on her fingers, then spread them wide. “Everything, m’moiselle, that you might need.”
Even Agatha looked stunned.
Lenore had had enough. “Have any of these items been made up?”
Sensing that her hopes for the soon-to-be duchess were teetering on some invisible precipice, Lafarge hurriedly summoned her girls with all the items thus far created on His Grace of Eversleigh’s orders.
Lenore ran her fingers over the delicate materials. As she held up a chemise, a peculiar thrill went through her. The garment was all but transparent.
Watching her client closely, Lafarge murmured, “All was created at monsieur le duc’s express orders, m’moiselle.”
Lenore believed her but did not understand. Eversleigh had ordered a wardrobe that tantalised—for her. She frowned, laying aside the chemise to pick up a peignoir with a matching nightgown. As the long folds unravelled, her breathing seized. Slowly, deliberately, she turned so that Agatha was granted a full view of the gown. “Surely this is not what other women of the ton wear?”
Agatha’s face was a study. Not knowing whether to be scandalised or delighted, she grimaced. “Well—yes and no. But if Eversleigh’s ordered them, best take ’em.” When Lenore hesitated, she added, “You can argue the point with him later.”
When I’m wearing them? Lenore quelled another distracting shiver.
“They are not, perhaps, what I would create for all my young ladies, but, if you will permit the liberty, m’moiselle, few of my young ladies could appear to advantage in these. And,” Lafarge added, a little hesitantly, “monsieur le duc was very definite—he was very clear what he wished to see on you, m’moiselle.”
Lenore had gathered as much but was still unclear as to his motives. Leaving such imponderables aside, she wondered what to do. As Agatha had noted, Eversleigh’s organisational habits left very little room for manoeuvre. More than half the items were at least partly made up; Lafarge must have had her workrooms operating around the clock. Idly fingering a delicate silk chemise, Lenore made her decision. “Madame, did His Grace give permission for me to add to this collection?”
Lafarge brightened perceptibly. “But yes.” She spread her hands. “Anything you wished for you were to have, provided it was in a suitable style.”
The caveat did not surprise her. Lenore nodded. “Very well. In that case, I wish to double the order.”
“Comment?” Lafarge’s eyes grew round.
“For every article His Grace ordered, I wish to order another,” Lenore explained. “In a different style, in a different colour and in a different material.”
Agatha burst out laughing. “Oh, well done, my dear,” she gasped, once she had caught her breath. “An
entirely fitting reaction. I had wondered how you would manage it, but that, at least, should set him back on his heels.”
“Quite,” Lenore agreed, pleased to have Agatha’s support. “I could hardly be so insensitive as to not appreciate his gift, but neither will I be dictated to in the matter of my own wardrobe.”
“Bravo!” Clapping her hands, Agatha raised them to Lenore in salute. “Heavens! But this will take an age. Are you free, Madame?”
“I am entirely at your service, my lady.” Shaking her head at the incomprehensible ways of the English, Madame summoned her assistants. Far be it from her to complain.
The following hours were filled with lists, pattern cards and fabrics. As she argued the rival merits of bronzed sarcenet over topaz silk, and cherry trim over magenta, Lenore felt some of Trencher’s excitement trip her. Agatha encouraged her to air her views. In the end, Lafarge paused to say, “You ’ave natural taste, m’moiselle. Strive to retain it and you will never be anything but elegant.”
Lenore beamed like a schoolgirl. The appellation “elegant” was precisely what she was aiming for. It seemed only fitting if she was to be Eversleigh’s bride.
At last, having duplicated the long list approved by His Grace, they paused to refresh themselves with tiny cups of tea and thinly sliced cucumber sandwiches.
Suddenly, Lafarge set her cup aside. “Tiens! Fool that I am—I forgot the bridal gown.”
She clapped her hands, issued a stream of orders and the repast was cleared. The curtains at the back of the shop parted to permit her senior assistant to enter, reverently carrying a gown of stiff ivory silk covered in tiny seed pearls.
Lenore simply stared.
“That’s Georgiana’s wedding gown—or part of it, if m’memory serves.” Agatha looked at Lafarge.
The modiste nodded. “Monsieur le duc’s mama? Mais oui. He asked for the gown to be re-made in a modern style. It is exquisite, no?”
All Lenore could do was nod, eyes fixed on the scintillating gown. As she climbed into it, she shivered. The gown was unexpectedly heavy. Lafarge had exercised her own refined taste in its design; the high neckline with its upstanding collar and long tightly fitting sleeves met with Lenore’s immediate approval. The long skirts fell from just below her breasts straight to the floor, the long line imparting a regal elegance most suitable for a ducal bride.
Once the gown had been adjusted and removed, Lafarge hesitantly brought forward a silk confection. “And this, monsieur le duc ordered for your wedding-night.”
Resigned, Lenore shook out the shimmering folds and held them up. Agatha stifled a chuckle. “I dare say,” was all the comment offered. She handed the scandalously sheer, tantalisingly cut nightgown and matching peignoir back to Lafarge. “I expect you had better send them with the rest.”
It was after two when they descended once more to the carriage. The first of the gowns, three day dresses and one evening gown ordered by Eversleigh, would be delivered that evening, along with some chemises and petticoats. As she followed Agatha into the carriage, Lenore heaved an unexpectedly satisfied sigh.
Agatha heard it and chuckled. “Not as boring as you expected, my dear?”
Lenore inclined her head. “I have to admit I was not bored in the least.”
“Who knows,” Agatha said, settling herself back on the seat. “You might even come to enjoy town pleasures. Within reason, of course.”
“Perhaps,” Lenore replied, unwilling to argue that point.
“Tell me,” Agatha said. “Those gowns you ordered—not in the usual style but not in your usual style, either. Don’t tell me Eversleigh has succeeded where your aunt, myself and my sisters all failed?”
A subtle smile played on Lenore’s lips. “My previous style was dictated by circumstances. Situated as I was, going about the estates alone, with my brothers bringing their friends to stay, it seemed more practical to wear gowns that concealed rather than revealed, dampened rather than excited. As you know, I did not look for marriage.”
Head on one side, Agatha studied her charge. “So you don’t mind Eversleigh’s choices?”
“I wouldn’t go quite so far as some of the styles he favours, but…” Lenore shrugged. “I see no reason, now I’m to be wed, to hide my light under a bushel any longer.”
Agatha chuckled. “And you wouldn’t get any bouquets from my nephew for attempting to do so.”
Lenore smiled and wondered how long it would be before Eversleigh came to see her.
* * *
HE CAUGHT UP with her the next day. On her way to convey a shank of embroidery silk left in the upstairs parlour to Agatha in the morning-room, Lenore was halfway down the stairs before she heard the rumble of Eversleigh’s deep tones below. After a fractional hesitation, she continued her calm descent.
Jason turned as she gained the hall tiles, his grey gaze sweeping from her hair, neatly braided and coiled, over her modish amber morning gown with its delicate fluted chemisette, to the tips of her old-fashioned slippers peeking from beneath the dress’s scalloped hem. Seeing his gaze become fixed, Lenore had no difficulty divining his thoughts. She went forward with her usual confident air, her hand outstretched. “Good morning, Your Grace. I trust I see you well?”
With a slight, questioning lift to his brows, Jason took her hand and, without preamble, raised it to his lips. “I apologise for not being here to greet you. Business took me to Dorset and thence to Salisbury, as I hope Agatha explained.”
Quelling the now familiar sensation that streaked through her at his unconventional caress, Lenore retrieved her hand. “Lady Agatha has been most kind.” Turning to lead him to the morning-room, she added, “You will, no doubt, be happy to know that yesterday she and I visited a certain Madame Lafarge, who is, even now, endeavouring to create a wardrobe fit for the Duchess of Eversleigh. We plan to visit the shoemakers, glovers and milliners tomorrow. Tell me, my lord, do you have any particular makers you wish to recommend?”
The airily polite question was more than enough to put Jason on his guard. “I’m sure Agatha will know who is best,” he murmured.
Agatha was delighted to see him, promptly informing him of a ball to be given by her sister, Lady Attlebridge, the following evening. “Mary’s agreed to use the event to puff off your engagement. A select dinner beforehand, so you’d best be here by seven. My carriage or yours?”
Jason frowned. “I’ve sent the main Eversleigh carriages to be refitted, so it had better be yours, I imagine.”
Lenore noted his slight constraint and, after years of tripping over her brothers’ secrets, wondered if he had intended the refit as a surprise for her.
“I had thought to take Miss Lester for a drive in the Park.” Jason smoothly turned to Lenore. “That is, if you’d like to take the air?”
There was, in fact, little Lenore would have liked better. Buoyed by the bracing effect of Agatha’s encouragement, she was determined to make a start gaining experience dealing with her husband-to-be while she still had his aunt behind her. “You’re most kind, Your Grace. If you’ll wait while I get my pelisse?”
Jason merely nodded, sure she would not keep his horses waiting.
Making an elegant exit from the morning-room, Lenore hurried upstairs. The day was unseasonably cool; she was eager to try out the new cherry-red pelisse delivered from Lafarage’s this morning. It was an item Eversleigh had ordered; she was determined to give him no warning of her other purchases prior to Lady Attlebridge’s ball. Ringing for Trencher, she tidied her hair, fastening it with extra pins given she as yet had no suitable bonnet; she refused to have it cut nor yet to wear a scarf. Shrugging into the pelisse and buttoning it up, Lenore turned this way and that before her cheval glass, admiring the soft merino wool edged with simple ribbon and trimmed at collar and cuffs with grey squirrel fur. The pastel
amber of her gown did not clash with the deep cherry. Then she noticed her slippers.
Grimacing, Lenore turned to Trencher. “My brown half-boots and gloves. They’ll have to do until I can get something to match. Perhaps tomorrow?”
Descending the stairs busy with the last buttons on her gloves, Lenore did not see Eversleigh at their foot.
“Commendably prompt, my dear.”
Lenore looked up, straight into his grey eyes and found them warm with appreciation. She smiled but did not deceive herself that he had not noticed her gloves and boots.
“That shade of red suits you to admiration,” Jason murmured as, taking her hand, he led her to the door.
Lenore bit back her impulsive rejoinder, to the effect that it was hardly surprising if his taste found favour in his eyes. Letting her lashes fall, she replied, “It’s not a colour I have previously had a chance to wear. I must admit I rather favour it.”
The gleam of pride in his eyes as he lifted her to the box seat of his curricle filled her with a curious elation.
The drive to the Park was accomplished swiftly, the traffic in the more fashionable quarters having markedly decreased. It was the first of July and many of the ton had already quit the capital. Nevertheless, there were more than enough of the élite left to nod and whisper as His Grace of Eversleigh swept past in his curricle, an elegant lady beside him.
Lenore revelled in the speed of the carriage, bowling along at a clipping pace. She had been driven in curricles before, but never on such smooth surfaces. Jason’s matched greys were, she suspected, Welsh thoroughbreds; the carriage, sleek and perfectly sprung, was no great load for them. Above their heads, the sun struggled to pierce the clouds; the breeze, redolent with the scents of summer, whipped her cheeks.
Rules of Engagement: The Reasons for MarriageThe Wedding PartyUnlaced (Lester Family) Page 15