She escorted Elizabeth to a back room filled with jewel-toned materials, partially made gowns, and a scattering of drawings. “You certainly knew how to handle Justin," Elizabeth said once they were in the privacy of the back room.
Mme. Vaussard shifted bolts of material aside. “All gentlemen are basically leetle boys at heart, so if one talk to them like their old nurse or governess, they just crumble. Now let us see what we can do for you.” She looked up from the piles of fabric and pinned Elizabeth with a considering eye. “Hannah! Hannah! Bring more candles!”
“Yes, Madame,” called a small voice from upstairs, and a moment later Elizabeth heard the clatter of footsteps on the stairs. The creature who appeared at the bottom was a slim young girl of some fifteen or sixteen summers, clutching two candelabra and a fist full of candles to her flat chest.
"Parfait, mon chou.Now, place them high. One on the highboy, I think, and the other on the pedestal where the plant is. We will create the feeling of the light at a ball," she explained to Elizabeth. “I have two fabrics here which I wish to drape you in. Here, Hannah, hold this one up against her ladyship like so. It is calledCote de l’Azurefor the sea in the south of France.”
Elizabeth stared, spellbound at the cascade of blue material. It was a gloriously rich and vibrant color.
“Too remote,” came a clipped voice from the doorway. The three women in the room turned with a start.
“Milord,” began Mme. Vaussard repressively.
“Dash it, woman, I’ll not sit kicking my heels in your charming little reception room! I’d like some say in how my ownwife appears at this ball.” He looked at Elizabeth, his expression softening. “It’s important to us.”
Mme. Vaussard snorted delicately, but made no further argument to his leaving. “You don’t like this material?” she asked instead.
“It’s beautiful, but not for this dress. Dressed in that she’d appear too cold and remote, like some damned doll on a pedestal.”
“Justin, please,” implored Elizabeth, laughingly embarrassed by his forthright language.
Mme. Vaussard tapped her forefinger against her chin. “You want heat, a touch of passion? Perhaps theItalian Rosi—Hannah!”
“Right away, Madame,” the child said, gathering up the blue silk. In its place she draped a rose-colored silk shot with gold thread.
Elizabeth’s eyes opened wide. It was a stunning material, but it made her feel uncomfortable. “I don’t know, Madame,” she said hesitantly.
“It’s beautiful for you,” St. Ryne said. “It reflects the pink of your cheeks and the gold in your eyes.”
“Monsieur le Viscountis correct,cherie.”
“Yes, but I don’t think I care to be quite that—that conspicuous.”
“May I make a suggestion, Madame?” Hannah asked timidly. Mme. Vaussard raised an eyebrow yet bowed her head in consent.
Hannah took a deep breath. “Two days ago I unpacked a new shipment of material, and there was one I think would be perfect for her ladyship. Let me get it—” She scurried over to a cupboard. “There wasn’t a lot of it, probably only enough for one gown,” she went on, her voice muffled among the fabrics.“Here.” She pulled out a bolt of gold silk. With reverent hands, she draped the cloth against Elizabeth.
For a moment, no one said a word. The material shimmered, changing from dull to brilliant gold in the candlelight. It brought out the gold highlights in Elizabeth’s dark hair and reflected the splendor of her guinea-gold eyes. Mme. Vaussard nodded solemnly, St. Ryne leaned against the door frame, grinning, and Elizabeth breathed an awed “Yes!”
“You have sound instincts, my child,” Mme. Vaussard finally said to her assistant. Hannah glowed pink with pleasure. “Now, as to style,” Mme. Vaussard went on, “I think simple with just some gold embroidery and knots of love ribbons. We will dispense with therouleauxorbouffants.For a headdress, may I suggest a toque?—”
“No,” St. Ryne said, straightening. “Not a toque.” Elizabeth looked at St. Ryne in surprise. “But gentlewomen wear such hats.”
“We didn’t spend all this time choosing material just to have you look like every other blasted female at the ball and join the dowager set. I think anaigrettewith some beads or flowers would be appropriate, not some enveloping toque.”
Mme. Vaussard shrugged. “It will do, and mayhap give you your own style. Now, milord, I really must ask you to leave. We are to measure her ladyship and get to work if you wish a gown to be made in two days!Sacre Bleu!What am I about in promising such things?” She shook her head dolefully while she shooed him through the curtain.
Elizabeth looked uncertainly at Mme. Vaussard. “Can you have this dress finished in two days?”
“It will be my pleasure, milady. But you must promise to come see me afterward and tell me all about this ball. Me, I think it will be the affair of the leetle season and keep tongues wagging until Spring.Non?”
Elizabeth held out her arms and turned, obedient to the gentle nudges of the little dressmaker. “I hope so, Mme. Vaussard, I sincerely hope so.”
True to her word,Mme. Vaussard finished the ballgown in two days and had it delivered to St. Ryne’s town house the afternoon of the ball. It was with slightly trembling fingers that Elizabeth lifted it out of its nest of tissue and laid it upon the daybed in her dressing room. Her maid cooed with delight and babbled on about how her mistress would be the belle of the ball. Elizabeth scarcely heard her, her own thoughts drifting into dreams filled with anticipation. Absently she requested her maid to draw a bath and scent it with jasmine. The ball might be in her sister’s honor, but to Elizabeth it was her own debut as the Viscountess St. Ryne and the official burial of the 'Shrew of London.'
Since coming to London, she and St. Ryne had become closer, sharing an easy camaraderie, and sometimes exchanging touches that bordered on caresses. Their manner toward each other raised eyebrows when they went for a drive in the park or a walk in the metropolis, yet they assiduously refused invitations to parties or group jaunts, preferring each other’s company. Nevertheless, though virtually living in each other’s pocket, there remained a reserve between them, a formal courtesy that precluded more than a chaste kiss. It was as if each was afraid of the other, afraid their feelings would not be matched, and therefore they were denied.
Ruefully, Elizabeth saw this and recognized it for what it. was. It was her fervent hope that while this ball was her debut as the Viscountess St. Ryne, it would also mark a new turn in their relationship. Many times at night she’d look across thewide empty bed in which she slept, wistfully desiring to become acquainted with the mysteries of marriage. Her mind conjured up the image of Justin as he stood in his bedchamber without a shirt, her hands remembered the rough texture of the hair on his chest, and a warm blush would suffuse her face.
