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“I have never shaken hands,” the dowager remarked, “but I have no particular dislike of the idea. We must all change with the times, eh?” She took Mrs. Quimby’s hand and moved it up and down vigorously.

“May I introduce two of my seamstresses, Mrs. Peebles and Miss Prewitt?”

The women dropped into curtsies, while Stella practiced the gracious nod she’d copied from her friend Merry.

“As an unmarried lass, my daughter-in-law relied on modistes,” the dowager said. “Just look what that did for her.”

Everyone stared at Stella’s gown. The bodice was formed from red and white vertical ruffles extending from a high neckline to a high waist. The modiste had posited that vertical ruffles would add height and disguise Stella’s bosom.

From Mrs. Quimby’s dubious expression, she was as unconvinced as Stella.

“She looks like a barber’s pole,” the dowager added.

All eyes moved to Stella’s chest.

“I am not straight up and down like a barber’s pole,” Stella acknowledged. “I should like a new wardrobe that takes account of my curves. The Duchess of Trent assures me that you will be more observant to my figure than to fashion.”

“I can’t be too particular about fashion when I have to make every leading lady look her best, can I? They come in all shapes and sizes.” Mrs. Quimby gave Stella an impish smile. “Although I do assure you that I see the illustrations that La Belle Assemblée will publish before anyone else in London.”

“If you would be so kind as to take that blue gown out of the window and put it on my daughter-in-law, Mrs. Quimby,” the dowager announced. She walked over to the couches without waiting for an answer.

Stella smiled ruefully. “You needn’t tell me that the gown is designed for someone much taller and slimmer. Perhaps we might look at some illustrations?”

“Actually, the gown is fashioned with a simple lacing in the back,” Mrs. Quimby said. She waved at one of her seamstresses. “We create a few gowns hoping to inspire theater folk, without knowing which actress might wear it. If you wouldn’t mind retiring with Mrs. Peebles, Your Grace, I can have the gown off the mannequin before you’re down to your chemise.”

Once Stella was in the curtained enclosure, it was no more embarrassing undressing with Mrs. Peebles than with her maid. Back in the anteroom, the dowager was demanding a gown covered with tin stars.

“This gown is designed for a theatrical performance, to catch the attention of an audience member in the back of the theater,” Mrs. Quimby said doubtfully.

“I shall enjoy that,” the dowager stated. “I am a duchess, after all. Why shouldn’t I be visible from the other side of the ballroom?”

Mrs. Peebles pulled the lacing in the back of the blue gown until pleated silk clung to Stella’s body. The bodice was so low that Mrs. Thyme—

She pushed her aunt’s opinion out of her head yet again and walked out of the dressing room.

“Exquisite,” Mrs. Quimby cried, darting over to tweak her skirts after Stella climbed on the wooden box. “We call this color azure. What do you think of the pearl ornament?”

The neckline came to a point between Stella’s breasts, ending in a brooch with three dangling pearls.

“Those aren’t real,” the dowager observed. She was walking around Stella, peering at her from all sides. “We can’t have a duchess in sham jewels.”

“We can certainly substitute real ones,” Mrs. Quimby said, standing back, arms crossed over her chest. “The white edging sets off Her Grace’s freckles in a charming fashion.”

“She looks taller with her neck and bosom bared,” the dowager said. “Will you be able to make up the fabric in the back?”

Humiliatingly, Stella could feel cool air where the sides of the gown didn’t meet, although the lacing held it in place. The skirts were too long, and cloth puddled around her feet.

“I shall remake the gown for Her Grace,” Mrs. Quimby said, looking offended. “While the Emporium creates costumes, we also pride ourselves on being as exclusive as any modiste in London, if not better. Her Grace may be assured that no other lady in all society will have a gown made to this pattern.”

“Or on the stage either,” the dowager said. “I don’t want to see Juliet entertaining Romeo in my daughter-in-law’s gown.”

“Certainly not,” Mrs. Quimby assured her.

“In that case, you’d better make three or four in this shape, in different colors, of course,” the dowager said, waving her hand.

Stella plucked the folds clinging to her body. She thought Silvester would love the gown, as it wasn’t unlike his favorite chemise. It had little resemblance to the airy concoctions that ladies wore to drift around the ballroom floor.

“You’re a duchess now,” her mother-in-law said, apparently guessing what she was thinking. “You may wear whatever you wish. You look delicious in that gown. Can’t you see it?”