“I sent him away. Are you finished already?”
“Ma’am?” A woman in a bright yellow dress appeared, her cheeks and lips heavily rouged.
“No. I can’t.”
“Madam?” The woman stood there frowning.
“You can’t what?” Tristan asked.
She shook her head. Her face was pale, and her breathing came in short clips. She was in full panic. Tristan approached her and cupped her elbows. He turned them away from the scowling woman.
“What’s wrong, Flick?”
She blinked at him. “Who is Flick?”
“You—forgive me. It’s a common shortening of Felicity. It slipped out.”
“They want me to undress, and I cannot do that in front of strangers.”
Tristan swallowed. “But they’re women?”
She closed her eyes and shook her head. “She started pulling at my clothes—” She drew in a shuddering breath, and Tristan wanted to pull her close as a cold hollowness spread through his chest at her words.
“Then don’t.”
“She says I must.”
“No. She can take measurements with your garments on.” Tristan turned a glare toward the woman. “Isn’t that correct?”
The woman folded her arms and nodded tightly. “It won’t be precise.”
Felicity gripped his sleeve. “Come in with me, please.”
Tristan turned her back toward the door. “Whatever you need.”
He sat by while the seamstress, Mrs. Montague, took Felicity’s measurements. She chewed her lip, and he could see her hands shaking from time to time, but she made it through the appointment, picking colors for day dresses and evening gowns. Everything she chose was either drab grays and browns or virginal white.
“Green, blue, and burgundy would please Mrs. Dove-Lyon,” Tristan said.
Mrs. Montague nodded. “Indeed. She gave me instructions.”
“Then we’re done here.”
Felicity looked between them.
Tristan nodded toward the door. He wouldn’t take her elbow again. Every time he touched her, it only shook him more. He needed all his wits about him regarding her. He had too much to lose to muck this up.
“Those colors are rather bold,” she muttered as they climbed into the carriage. The horses stamped impatiently.
“Trust that Mrs. Dove-Lyon knows what she’s doing.” He sat back against the seat and tried not to stare at her, but her color was high, better than the ghostly paleness of her cheeks from before. He wanted to ask. His stomach churned with the need to know why she was so upset by undressing. He could probably guess, though knowing for certain would itch at him.Notknowing would eat him alive.
“Miss—” he started.
“Flick,” she corrected.
“What?”
“I like that. Use that instead of Miss Brandon if it is more comfortable.”
