Except for herself. And she would have—challenged him, that was—if he’d not invoked her cousin into the situation. She could not very well contradict Greystone’s instructions. Not when it meant this lady’s business and her employees would benefit from the purchase.
“Very good.” The esteemed dressmaker circled Violet, eyeing her as though she could take her measurements by sight alone. “Such a lovely figure. You will be a dream to dress if you don’t mind my saying so, Miss Faraday.”
“Nothing too elaborate, please—”
“The marquess insists on the latest fashions,” Mr. Cockfield asserted.
“Oh, but no,” Violet protested. “Please, I’m only a chaperone.”
“Oh, but yes,” Posy interjected. “My uncle insists.”
“Step up here, Miss Faraday. Lady Posy and the gentleman may have a seat and wait, if they wish. Or they can go. It matters not to me.” She pointed toward a settee across the room. “The Season is well underway already, non? We haven’t any time to waste.” Madam Chantal’s smile was a uniquely French one, her lips curving but her eyes looking rather stern.
Before Violet could summon any further protests, she was standing on a short pedestal in the center of the room feeling considerably self-conscious. Two assistants appeared from behind the drapes and began taking all manner of embarrassing measurements while the other held various swatches of fabric near Violet’s face.
“The demi-gigot sleeves, I think. Gauze,” one of the assistants declared, whereby Violet realized a third young woman had entered as well and was taking notes. “Let’s avoid the full gigot, but with such a lithe figure, a la giraffe will not overwhelm her.”
“Please, I far prefer simplicity,” Violet said. She hadn’t completely bought into this puffed sleeve trend, but she knew that a la giraffe was a ridiculously ornately styled sleeve, with several bands affecting a series of puffs from her shoulder to her wrist. “I’m too old for those—"
“And as to fabrics…” The woman flipped through a collection of fabrics organized like a rainbow. “This one?” She pointed to a burnt umber. “Autumn colors.”
“No,” a deep voice inserted, “no autumns.” The room fell silent at Mr. Cockfield’s contradiction. “Miss Faraday’s complexion demands cooler tones—peacock or cyan—with small prints. She’d also be beautiful in a rich indigo or juniper, I think. But keep the size of the sleeves within reason. The lady is a rather industrious person and would never abide feathers in her puffs.”
Madam Chantal blinked in Mr. Cockfield’s direction and then curtsied. “I didn’t realize it was you, Your—”
“But steer away from warmer tones.”
“But of course… er…” Madam Chantal looked unusually flummoxed.
“Mr. Cockfield,” he supplied.
The dressmaker had curtsied to a butler, lending even more of the absurd to this outing.
Violet stared at him, dumbfounded. Posy, of course, gazed at him adoringly—an expression that was coming to be all too familiar and could only mean trouble for Violet’s innocent niece.
Ladies did not allow themselves to become infatuated with servants—not even those who seemed infallible—who exhibited impossible arrogance and possessed an abundance of charisma along with a penetrating gaze that sent shivers down a lady’s spine.
In fact, those were precisely the sorts of manservants a proper lady ought to go out of her way to avoid.
Not that she’d ever come across a servant quite like Mr. Cockfield. Not only did he speak with more knowledge than any butler ought to have of ladies’ fashion, but most astonishingly, she feared he was right.
Because Violet could not, in fact, suffer sleeves that required feathers to keep them from collapsing. That would drive her positively batty.
“A vee-styled bodice for the ballgowns—off the shoulder, showing varying degrees of décolletage,” he instructed.
“Oui, monsieur. You have an excellent eye for fashion.”
Violet considered protesting but held her tongue instead. Arguing would be somewhat hypocritical of her, because she had admired that particular style on Lady Chaswick earlier that week…
“Lady Posy.” Another seamstress had appeared. “If you’ll follow me to the back, I can adjust the fit of your canary muslin. It’s nearly finished.”
“I would be delighted.” Posy hopped up, tossing a grin in Violet’s direction. “I’ll return shortly, so don’t even think of trying to escape.”
Violet shuffled her feet, feeling guilty. She very well might have attempted to do just that but doubted Mr. Cockfield would allow it.
How had this happened?
Madam Chantal eyed Violet up and down and then stepped backward. “I’ve several fabrics newly arrived from France. They are magnifique, but dear.” At Mr. Cockfield’s nod, she added. “I’ll return shortly with samples for you.”
