“Miss Alden!” the Dowager Duchess chided as she took Isabelle by the arm and pulled her from the pastel fabrics. “You are far too tanned for colors to suit your skin. You must look at the jewel tones.”
Isabelle bit back a sigh, trying to keep her comments to herself. Mama warned her that she must be on her best behavior while living with the Duke of Windham and his family, but she was already finding it to be an impossible task.
Lady Victoria patted a swath of deep blue silk. “This would match the ribbon and your eyes. The men at the ball will be unable to look away.”
The Dowager Duchess clicked her tongue, her pale blue skirts sweeping along the floor as she navigated around the red velvet chaise in the middle of the room. She reached a wall with little boxes of ivory buttons, pulling out ones that resembled miniature pearls.
“These will be perfect,” the Dowager Duchess declared, holding them out to a slender woman in a silk dress patterned with little green leaves and pink flowers.
The woman studied the pearls before glancing at Isabelle. “These are too large. She is a small girl. She requires something more delicate.”
Lady Victoria leaned closer to Isabelle. “Madame Renault was a designer to the Queen of France for several years before coming to England.”
Edith nodded as the modiste took the blue silk from the wall of silks. “We are lucky to have her in our duchy, but she will be travelling to London in a week’s time.”
Only seven days until I see London for the first time and the supposed husband hunt begins.
Perhaps she had taken too many liberties when speaking to the duke, but she would not be finding a husband this season. Not one that she would enjoy. Mama used to speak of how stern and proper the men in England were, and how she had been lucky to find Papa. Mama claimed that Papa was the only man in England with a sense of humor.
Isabelle believed her.
Madame Renault hummed softly to herself as she tilted her head in the direction of a white pedestal before a gilded mirror. “Please stand there and I will take measurements.”
Isabelle crossed the room, dodging Lady Hyacinth and Lady Evangeline as they held stunning patterned poplins against their bodies. She stepped onto the pedestal and it felt as if every pair of eyes in the small modiste shop turned to her.
She took a deep breath and tried to calm her nerves. “Something similar to what I am wearing but more suited to a ball would be lovely.”
The Dowager Duchess tutted, crossing her arms. “Miss Alden’s waistline needs to be raised to sit higher, just below the bust instead of close to the hips.”
Madame Renault put the silk to the side and picked up a length of ribbon with markings on it. “The skirts are too wide as well. And your sleeves are far too long to be considered fashionable.”
Her chest tightened as she looked down at the woman. Isabelle thought her dress was nice. She had seen her mother’s private seamstress nearly a fortnight before her travels and had the dress constructed. The seamstress was certain that the dress followed the latest styles in England.
It was only when Isabelle had stepped off the boat earlier that she noticed her dress was decidedly different, but she knew it didn’t take away from the beauty of it.
In fact, there was nothing wrong with a single dress in her wardrobe, whether the duchess believed that or not. Who was she to decide what was fashionable?
Isabelle’s nails bit into the palms of her hands. “There is nothing wrong with my dress. I rather like it.”
“There is nothing wrong with your dress for anAmerican,” the Dowager Duchess corrected, her tone implying that she considered the word an insult.
Though Isabelle had anticipated the slur from others in society as she progressed through the season, she hadn’t thought that the woman sponsoring her would be the first to malign her.
When she agreed to travel to England, she had believed a new adventure awaited her. It had been a chance to escape New York and spend time immersing herself in the land her father and mother had once called home.
However, instead of finding a warm and welcoming hostess, this woman reminded her of the bite of an icy wind in the middle of December.
Madame Renault fingered the lace at the hem of the sleeves that fell to Isabelle’s inner elbows. “This will not do.”
“No, it absolutely will not,” the Dowager agreed, a smug smile tugging at the corners of her mouth and creasing the faint linesbeside her eyes. “You are to be introduced into society, Miss Alden. You must look the part if you wish to find a husband.”
Isabelle’s cheeks flared with heat, red marks appearing high on her cheekbones. “If I am to change everything else about my dress, then I wish to remain with the cut of the neckline on the dresses I already own.”
“It is much too low!” the dowager was aghast, the color draining from her face. “You must raise the neckline.”
“No.” Isabelle stood still while Madame Renault measured her waist. “It is the one part of my dresses that I truly adore and I wish to see that reflected in the new dresses as well.”
Lady Victoria appeared beside Isabelle clutching a length of lace with white beads that matched the pearl buttons. “I think this would look best with the dress and I agree that you should keep the neckline. It is flattering.”
