Later that week,Emma cast her eyes around Madame Rousseau's changing room and whispered, "Are you certain about this, Marianne? I don't need a French dressmaker; I can sew my own dresses. If you take me to the nearest draper's—"
"When it comes to shopping, I amalwayscertain." Marianne cut off further protest with the wave of her hand. "Do not worry about the cost, dear. Your job is to concentrate on cultivating your style."
"My style?" The girl's smooth forehead lined as she looked down at her patched and shapeless undergarments. "I am not sure I have one."
"Precisely. 'Tis the problem we are here to remedy."
On cue, the modiste bustled back through the curtained doorway, bolts of fabric clasped in her thin arms. "Je les ai trouvés!The muslins that I was telling you about." Setting the lot down on her work table, she unrolled a length of white fabric patterned with china blue stripes. "What do you think of this one?"
Emma's eyes widened. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
"Unfortunately, many agree with you. I've seen that print on everyone from milkmaids to dowagers," Marianne said. "We'll need something more unique."
Amelie gave a brisk nod. "Alors, here is another choice. A sprigged lilac: understated yet with a touch of sophistication."
"It's the most beautiful thing—" Emma began.
Marianne wrinkled her nose. "Rather dull, I should say."
"I have it somewhere—" Rummaging through the pile, Amelie pulled out a bolt. "Voilà.The perfect choice."
Marianne examined the selection. The eggshell muslin was simple, yet it had a subtle, glowing sheen to it. The effect was both pragmatic and spirited. In the week that she'd spent with Emma, she'd come to admire the girl for just those qualities.
"Not bad," she conceded. "What do you think, dear?"
"It's the most beautiful thing... er, isn't it?" Emma said.
Marianne exchanged rueful looks with the modiste.
"Charmant." The modiste's lips twitched. "The girl suits the frock,n'est-ce pas?"
"We'll start with this one, then. What do you have in mind for the passimeterie, Amelie?"
"The what?" Emma interjected.
"The trimmings, dear," Marianne said. "Madame Rousseau is renowned for her cleverness in ornamentation."
Amelie preened. "We keep it simple,non?Rosettes, composed from the same muslin... perhaps with a few amethyst beads sewn in the center. And vines embroidered along the hem."
"Fresh and delightful. Just like Emma," Marianne said, smiling.
Emma flushed. "'Tis terribly generous of you, my lady. But the expense—"
"Is not your concern," Marianne said firmly. "Now do hold still for Madame to take your measurements."
After the fitting, Marianne and Emma left the boutique. They decided to walk the few elm-lined blocks to Gunter's Tea Shop, where they were to meet up with the others. Helena and Percy had volunteered to act as guides for the other Kents whilst Marianne took Emma on the much-needed shopping expedition.
One thing I can take off my list. Pleased with the results of the morning, Marianne flicked open her parasol. Now that Emma's countrified facade was on its way to becoming a thing of the past, Marianne planned to tackle Harry next. With his fit figure and intelligent wit, the lad had the makings of a proper gentleman—if only he would stop blowing things up. Harry was the scientist of the family, and, as Polly had confided, he went by the philosophy that "every failure is a step toward success."
Clearly, Harry was taking the long road to triumph when it came to his experiments. Marianne hoped the sacrifice of her Dresden pitcher had been worth it. In truth, she couldn't feel anything but warm amusement toward Harry; his earnest charm reminded her too much of his older brother. Just thinking of Ambrose made her chest go soft like the center of a perfectly boiled egg.
Her skin prickled as she recalled being awakened by Ambrose's kiss this morning, by the slow, filling thrust of his body. His patience had driven her wild, and nothing she'd done—her pleas, her kisses—had dissuaded him from taking her in the manner of his choice. With a raffish grin, he'd turned her over, and her cheeks heated even now as she recalled how she'd sung her release into the pillow.
"Are you getting overheated, Marianne? You look flushed."
Emma's concerned voice reeled her back. Made her face burn even more.
"'Tis the heat," she said, clearing her throat. "An ice at Gunter's will be most refreshing. Your siblings will enjoy it, I think."
