Charlotte circled Eleanor slowly, head tilted. “She is narrower than I thought.”
Eleanor kept her face smooth.
“She has always been narrow,” Lord St. George said. “Like her mother. Always half-starved, by choice, even when there is food on the table.”
Heat climbed Eleanor’s throat. She lowered her gaze, focusing on the seamstress’s shaking hands.
“We will need to add a bustle,” Charlotte decided. “And sleeves that do not make her arms look… common.”
Arabella’s voice sounded from the doorway. “Eleanor’s arms look fine.”
Charlotte glanced over her shoulder, mildly surprised. “I did not ask you.”
Arabella stepped into the room anyway, though she did not meet Charlotte’s eyes. “I am only saying–”
“You are interfering, at best, and so very under foot…again,” Lord St. George snapped.
Arabella fell silent.
Eleanor watched her sister’s fingers curl around the edge of her shawl, knuckles whitening.
“Now,” Charlotte continued, waving a dismissive hand. “Take her measurements. Quickly. I have no patience for fussing.”
The seamstress began. Eleanor stood still as tape slid around her waist, across her shoulders, and down her arms. Pinpricks of pressure, the quiet humiliation of being measured like a parcel.
When it was done, Charlotte pointed at the fabric spread over the sofa. “That lace is too plain. We need something finer.”
The seamstress swallowed. “We can–if we send to–”
“You will send to wherever necessary,” Lord St. George said briskly. “And you will have it by tomorrow.”
The seamstress looked as though she might faint.
Charlotte’s eyes glittered. “The gown must be completed in four days.”
“That is impossible,” the seamstress whispered.
Lord St. George’s gaze sharpened. “Nothing is impossible when a duke is involved.”
Eleanor drew in a slow breath. “I will just wear the white that I already have.”
Charlotte laughed softly. “How modest. How predictable.”
“You will wear ivory,” Lord St. George said, voice flat. “And you will not embarrass me again.”
Eleanor held her tongue.
Charlotte moved toward the side table where a tray of tea had been set. “The invitations must be written today.”
“I can do them,” Eleanor said, because if she did not volunteer, Charlotte would choose someone else and Eleanor would still be made to carry the consequence.
Charlotte blinked. “You?”
“I have neat handwriting. They are formywedding.”
Lord St. George looked pleased. “Then you shall do them. A useful task, at last.”
Charlotte stamped a foot. “Her?Father, you are going to letherdo them?Iwanted to do them!”
