“Aye,” the woman said. “And now I see I shall be making yers. Circle of life, and all that.” She clapped her hands briskly. “What do ye like, me lady.”
“Everything,” Ariella admitted, cheeks warming.
“Excellent answer,” the modiste said. “We shall narrow it down. Try this.” She pulled down a bolt of soft heather colored wool and spread it out. The fabric fell in a gentle, flattering line.
Ariella stroked it. “It is beautiful.”
“What does the laird think?” Mistress Kinnaird asked, eyes glinting with friendly mischief.
Ariella turned, following that question. Maxwell stood very still, gaze fixed on her rather than on the fabric.
She saw his throat work once. “It is fine,” he said because his tongue, apparently, had abandoned him.
“Fine,” Ariella repeated. “Nae exactly high praise.”
“It will suit ye,” he added, somewhat stiffly.
Which, from him, was nearly poetry.
She smiled to herself and drifted on, letting her fingers wander over other bolts. Some were far too grand, all embroidery and shimmer. Some too plain. It was a strange, heady pleasure to realize that whatever she chose would be made for her, cut to her shape, not someone else’s old seams.
Then she saw it.
A deep blue silk, the color of stormy sky and river water combined, rich and luminous without shouting. It practically hummed beneath her hand when she touched it.
Her breath stopped. “Oh.”
Mistress Kinnaird followed her gaze. “Ah. That one.”
“It is…” Ariella shook her head, words failing.
“Pricey,” the modiste said frankly. “Too dear for most.”
Ariella swallowed. “How much?”
The number, when given, made her blink. Her hand fell away from the fabric.
“It is only a gown,” she said lightly. “There are many others.”
She almost felt Maxwell’s attention sharpen from across the room. She kept her eyes trained firmly on lesser bolts.
“I think this one,” she said, choosing a good sturdy green wool instead. “And perhaps a softer brown. I daenae need silk.”
“It is a fine choice,” Mistress Kinnaird said, though her expression said she had seen the longing.
Ariella pushed the blue silk from her thoughts. She was here, she reminded herself, not as some grand lady with a bottomless purse, but as a woman whose brother had done his best with little coin. Maxwell might be laird, but she had no wish to be greedy.
“Now, let us measure ye,” Mistress Kinnaird said. She gestured to a standing screen. “Behind there, if ye please.”
Ariella went, cheeks already heating at the thought of stripping down to her chemise. The screen shielded her from view of themain shop, but she was suddenly, painfully aware that Maxwell was mere steps away.
She stepped out of her gown and shawl, folding them neatly over a chair, then stood straight as the measuring tape wrapped around her bust, her waist, her hips.
“Hold still,” Mistress Kinnaird murmured. “Ye are a fine shape, me lady. The laird will have cause to be grateful.”
Ariella spluttered. “Mistress.”
The woman only chuckled. “I speak the truth. Lift yer arm. There. Good.”
