Almost - Almost A Bride Part 13

"You'll see." He sounded rather grave, but Arabella was learning that when it came to her husband, gravity often masked an underlying amus.e.m.e.nt.

"I've met all the staff," she mused. "I've discussed menus with Alphonse and staff dispositions with Tidmouth. Becky and Louis have managed to share the unpacking without Becky hitting him over the head with a coal shovel, thanks to my intervention, I might add, so what other work is there to do?"

"You," Jack said, guiding her towards the sweeping staircase. "You, my dear wife, are the work in hand . . . oh, and allow me to mention that a d.u.c.h.ess does not in general intervene in staff quarrels, nor does she take active part in devising menus or running the house. That's why I have a French chef and a most excellent maitre d'hotel. You will find Tidmouth well capable of dealing with everything."

Arabella stopped on the stair, twitching her hand from his. She looked at him, her golden eyes narrowed. "You will permit me to tell you, sir, that I am the mistress of this household and I intend to keep its reins in my hands. It will run as I choose. I don't give a fig for what a d.u.c.h.ess in general might do. I am not, as it happens, a d.u.c.h.ess in general. I've been running a large household and estate for the last ten years, and very successfully. If your staff have any difficulties with my methods, then they will change, not I."She turned on that decisive note and stalked up the stairs, the dogs on her heels.

Jack didn't immediately follow her. He couldn't argue with the fact that she knew what she was doing when it came to such matters, but Arabella did not seem to realize that she would have no time now for such mundane matters. She was his d.u.c.h.ess; she had a place to take in his world. She couldn't expect that world to adapt to her peculiarities, even if her husband had done so.

It would not suit his pride to have his wife made a laughingstock. If he'd been able to stick to his original plan and keep her immured in the countryside with a quiverful of children at her skirts, then her peculiarities wouldn't have mattered at all. But since she had managed to twist his proposal to her own specifications, then she must accept the consequences. She was now a Fortescu, with attendant responsibilities. Certainly he wanted her to create a stir, to burst upon the fashionable world in a way that would enhance the pride of a Fortescu. He had seen the possibilities almost from the first moment of meeting her and was deriving considerable amus.e.m.e.nt from his planned transformation. But it was a fine line to walk between being seen as fascinating and different or a laughable oddity.

But maybe now was not the time to challenge her. He started up the stairs in her wake.

Arabella's share of the ducal apartments consisted of her bedchamber, a powder closet, and a boudoir. The bedchamber was enormous, liberally furnished with chairs and sofas for entertaining visitors during her levee. Not that she had any intention of adopting prevailing fashion and allowing cicisbeos to lounge around while she was attired in underdress and negligee for the elaborate business of hair arrangements and choice of gown. Just the thought of it made her lip curl.

She went into her boudoir and stopped in surprise on the threshold. The room was full of people and littered with bandboxes and piles of material. Boris and Oscar growled. "What on earth . . . !" she exclaimed.

"Your grace. Such an honor." A thin man in a striped waistcoat, pink silk suit, and powdered wig stepped forward, bowing low, his wary gaze on the dogs. "Such an honor to be invited to offer my services."

Arabella looked a question over her shoulder to where Jack now stood behind her.

"I'll explain in your bedchamber," he responded. He gave a short nod to the eager occupants of the boudoir and gently eased his wife through the adjoining door. He closed it firmly on the dogs.

"Jack, what is going on? Who are all those people?"

"Well, now . . ." He began to count on his fingers. "There are two modistes, one milliner-but the very best milliner in town-and Monsieur Christophe, an artiste, a nonpareil when it comes to hair." He leaned over and kissed the corner of her mouth, his hand warm on the nape of her neck, as he held her firmly. "Do you remember how I said I wanted to have the dressing of you?" His tongue stroked over her lips, moved in a quick dart to the sh.e.l.l of her ear.

She squirmed against his hold, half laughing as she tried to evade the moist caress that always sent arrows of arousal through her body. "I thought it was the undressing of me that gave you pleasure," she murmured, twisting her head back.

"That too," he agreed, moving his hold so that he held her head captive, before returning to his a.s.sault on her ear.

"Perhaps you should tell them to go away for today," she suggested, surrendering to the a.s.sault. "No, I don't think so." He slipped a hand around to her nape again, letting it linger for a moment before stepping back. "As I said before, antic.i.p.ation only makes the pleasure greater."

He looked her up and down with a slightly exasperated head-shake. Her pale blue cambric gown was smeared with dirt, her fichu twisted, her hair escaping its pins. "This really needs to be done now." He took her hands, turning them over to examine the dirt-encrusted palms, the chipped and grubby fingernails. "From now on, my sweet, you have to wear gloves when you garden."

Arabella looked ruefully at her hands. "I hate gloves. The plants can't feel my hands if I wear gloves.""Talk to them instead," he advised, beginning to unb.u.t.ton her gown. "I do that too," she informed him. "Why are you taking off my gown?""Because you can't otherwise have fittings for a wardrobe," he told her patiently. "There are measurements, and colors to test. You need only wear your chemise."

"I need more than a chemise to try on hats," she retorted, shrugging out of the unfastened gown. "You did say you'd acquired the best milliner in town.""I did. But hats depend upon hair. What's on your body is of little importance." He dismissed the cavil as he poured water into the basin on the washstand. "Wash your hands."Arabella did so, scrubbing beneath the nails. She was quite happy to let Jack have the ordering of this particular business. She knew her limitations, and her knowledge of prevailing fashion was nonexistent because it had never interested her before. But if she was going to take her place in the world of fashion, then she intended to do it properly. "One thing," she said, shrugging into a peignoir. "I refuse to wear either powder or a wig.""Either would be a criminal waste of a natural a.s.set," he said. "I wouldn't permit it if you wanted to."Arabella's fingers stilled on the b.u.t.tons of her negligee. Suddenly she no longer felt quite so charitable towards her husband. "I am willing to accept your advice, sir, but not your orders.""I see little difference," he stated.

"Then you are remarkably blind, sir," she responded steadily.

Jack looked at her, and she saw the little flickering blade in his gray gaze, but she refused to retreat.

Jack knew that he could push this into a quarrel, just as he could have pushed the staff issue, and he wanted to. She was his wife. His possession. That was why they were here in this bedchamber now. It was not his place to yield. And it had never been his intention. He could send her back to Kent and Arabella Fortescu would have no choice but to obey her husband's order. She had ensured herself a degree of financial independence with the marriage settlements, but she had not ensured herself a place at her husband's side.

But he didn't want to do that. Or at least, he amended, he was not yet ready to do that.

"Let's not argue over a mere matter of semantics." He laid a hand on her arm, leading her back to the boudoir. He put his mouth to her ear and whispered, "But don't ever forget that you're my wife, Arabella."

The statement sent a chill down her spine. Her shoulders stiffened but she bit back an angry retort.

In the boudoir, Arabella sat on a chaise longue and listened as the two modistes competed for the d.u.c.h.ess's custom. They laid out silks, damasks, taffetas, muslins. Striped and sprigged, embroidered, and plain. "And this, your grace, is the latest style, worn by her grace of Devonshire at Carlton House only last week," Madame Elizabeth declared with an air of triumph, laying out a gown of gold tissue over a petticoat embroidered with silver thread.

Jack said, "No."

Arabella, who thought the gown remarkably lavish, said, "Why not?"

Jack said, "Because you have the form for the new styles. Panniers and hoops are done with. Except at court, of course." He stood with his back to the hearth, where a fire glowed against the October chill.

"But your grace," protested Madame Elizabeth. "The d.u.c.h.ess of Devonshire herself-"

"I would see her grace of St. Jules in the Directoire style," Jack said, taking snuff.

There was a moment of silence while the two dressmakers looked their client over from top to toe. "Your grace is right," Madame Celeste said thoughtfully. "The bosom, so magnificent . . . Your pardon, madam, if your grace would just stand . . . Thank you, madam." She pa.s.sed her hands over Arabella's b.r.e.a.s.t.s, molding the peignoir against them. "What do you think, Madame Elizabeth?" This issue was too engaging to worry about compet.i.tion.

"And the waist," said Elizabeth, coming over to press the material tight to Arabella's waist. "So small in comparison."

"And the hips," murmured her colleague. "A perfect balance."

"Very well," Arabella said, stepping away from them, flapping her hands in dismissal. "I suggest you work together to create the perfect wardrobe. Exactly what is this Directoire style?" She looked askance at her husband.

"Let me show you." He went over to the secretaire and took up the quill pen. He dipped it in the inkstand and then sketched a few lines on a sheet of vellum. "See . . . the waist is now under the b.r.e.a.s.t.s and the skirt falls straight from a sash at the waist to the ankles."

Arabella looked over his shoulder at the simplicity of the design. It was positively revolutionary. With such a dramatic decolletage, the bodice looked to be no more than three or four inches deep. It would leave little of the bosom to the imagination. "No corsets?"

"No, just the natural form."

"Petticoats?"

"One thin petticoat and a chemise. That's all. Otherwise the line will be spoiled." He returned the quill to its stand.

"But what about the winter? I'll freeze to death," she protested, although already she was beginning to like the idea of this simple, unrestricted garment.

"Oh, no, your grace," Madame Celeste said swiftly. "The style is intended to be worn with shawls and stoles, and we can design an overgown for really cold days."

"Or a tunic," her fellow modiste suggested. "A three-quarter-length tunic over the gown."

"And this is a completely new style?" Arabella asked thoughtfully.

"Oh, yes, your grace. It is beginning to be worn a little on the Continent, but in London it will be le denier cri." She rubbed her plump hands together at the prospect of being one of the first dressmakers to launch the style on fashionable London. She continued to a.s.sess her new client, mentally taking measurements, noting what aspects of her figure should be accentuated and what should be diminished.

Arabella pondered the little sketch and wondered how it was that her husband knew so much about styles that were in vogue across the Channel. Indeed, knew so much about prevailing fashions in general. But then, he was always so immaculately turned out himself, perhaps she shouldn't find it surprising. "Very well," she said with decision. "Do it. Can you work together?"

"Oh, yes, madam," Celeste said, nodding at her fellow. "Madame Elizabeth and I have often done so."Madame Elizabeth smiled and nodded with equal enthusiasm. There was more than enough work for two when it came to creating an entire wardrobe for the d.u.c.h.ess of St. Jules. She produced a tape measure from her ap.r.o.n pocket. "Now, if your grace would allow us . . . ?"

With good grace, Arabella submitted to the measuring, and the murmured comments of the two ladies, most of which were almost embarra.s.singly intimate.

"Now, as to materials," Celeste said, finally putting away the tape measure. She turned to the swatches that lay over the back of every chair.

"Only the simplest," Jack stated. "Muslins, silks, organzas, maybe taffetas. But no heavy damasks or velvets."

"Why not?" Arabella demanded. She rather liked both the proscribed materials. There was a satisfying richness to them.

"In your case the dress should draw attention to the wearer, not the other way around," he told her. "Trust me in this, my dear."

"Why in my case?" She was beginning to find this a most instructive conversation.

"Why, madam, his grace means that your coloring is so unusual, nothing must compete with it,"Madame Elizabeth said, holding up a length of silver-sprigged cream muslin. "This, I think, your grace?"

"Definitely," Jack agreed. "The colors must be cream, gold, ivory, beige, caramel, perhaps . . ."

"But her grace would look very well in a rich dark brown silk," Celeste suggested.

Jack considered, examining his wife with a critical eye. "Yes," he agreed. "But no other color."

"I happen to be very fond of green," Arabella said, deciding she should have some input. She was beginning to feel like the rag doll she'd dressed up as a child.

"Maybe later," Jack said almost absently. "Initially I would have you show yourself only in the colors and materials I've mentioned."

"Her grace will be in the forefront," Madame Elizabeth said. "I foresee every lady in fashionable London will soon wear only those colors."

"Then they'd be fools," Arabella stated. "They won't suit every complexion."

"Fashion breeds fools," Jack told her with a rather derisive smile. "Now, let's talk about your hair. Christophe . . . ?" He beckoned to the small, neat man in the pink silk suit who had been standing silently by the window throughout the discussion with the dressmakers.

"Mais oui, your grace." He came forward with alacrity. "If 'er grace would be seated." He bowed to Arabella and moved an armless side chair in front of a cheval gla.s.s. "Such beautiful 'air, as madame 'as." As soon as she was seated he lifted the heavy ma.s.s of chocolate curls, seeming to weigh it almost reverently in his hands. "No powder, not ever," he declared.

Arabella wondered if the heavy French accent was genuine or merely a.s.sumed to give verisimilitude to his credentials as a fashionable hairstylist. It was probably genuine, she decided. There were enough emigres in London these days trying to make a living.

"I must cut a little first," Christophe said, clicking a pair of long scissors. "For ze cla.s.sical styles, it must be a little shorter. And with ze style of dress your grace 'as chosen-most appropriate, I must agree-then only ze cla.s.sic will do."

"Cut it if you must," Jack instructed, "but not too much."

"I object most strenuously to having my hair cut," Arabella stated. "And Becky is perfectly capable of doing my hair."

"In Kent, maybe," Jack said. "In London, no."

Arabella rolled her eyes. Christophe said earnestly, "Per'aps 'er grace's maid might be instructed in ze cla.s.sical styles when ze 'air is cut properly."

"Certainly she can be," Arabella declared. "Becky has a natural talent for hair." She gave up further protest and watched in the mirror as the Frenchman lifted, twisted, clipped, dark brown tresses raining to the floor around the chair. It seemed to her that he was cutting a great deal more than just a little, but Jack, who was watching equally closely, made no attempt to stop the slaughter. And when she began to see a shape emerging beneath the busy fingers and snapping scissors, she became fascinated rather than alarmed.

"There." Christophe stood back with an air of triumph. "Your grace's maid will be able to copy that. It is tres simple." Curls cl.u.s.tered on her forehead and nested at the nape of her neck; the rich fullness of her hair was drawn straight back into a high chignon, banded with ribbon. It was certainly elegant and made her head look very small and neat.

"And there are several other styles we can do with this cut," he said. "We can draw the curls forward over ze ears, so-"

"Yes, I'm sure my maid will find any number of different ways to dress it," Arabella said hastily, as it looked as if he was about to demolish his present creation and begin again. "I think that's wonderful, M'sieur Christophe, but indeed it will do for today."

He looked disappointed but bowed and stepped aside. Madame Celeste coughed and murmured, "One other matter, your grace."

It was to be a.s.sumed she was addressing Jack, Arabella reflected. Jack certainly seemed to think so. He turned his attention to the modiste. "Yes?"

"The Court dress, your grace. It would be an honor to . . ." She proffered a winning smile.

"Ah, yes, the Court dress." Jack frowned. "I think we'll leave that for the moment. Complete this business and then we'll discuss it."

The two women curtsied and left, barely visible beneath the mounds of materials. "Court dress?"Arabella inquired. "I thought as a professed Whig you wouldn't be invited to Court."

"Oh, Queen Charlotte will summon you to a drawing room, have no fear," Jack said aridly. "She'll want to give you her stamp of approval . . . or otherwise," he added, before turning to the remaining lady, who sat amongst bandboxes. "Hats," he demanded.

"It seems a waste to hide this elegant coiffure under a hat," Arabella observed, patting the nest of curls at her nape with a little air of complacence.

"Oh, your grace will look very well," the milliner declared, opening the first of her boxes. "This is a most beautiful creation." She gazed misty-eyed at a monstrous lavishly decorated wheel of silk and lace.

"Good G.o.d," Arabella exclaimed. "It has a veritable orchard on it." She touched one of the wax apples with a grimace. "I don't care what anyone says, whether it's the height of prevailing fashion or no, I will not put that monstrosity on my head. It's a Lavinia Alsop hat."

Jack couldn't help laughing. The milliner looked discomfited and replaced the hat in its box. "Perhaps her grace would prefer this." She displayed a very large picture hat decorated with dyed ostrich feathers and ornamental flowers. Arabella threw up her hands in horror.

"Yes, that one," Jack said, ignoring Arabella's gesture of dismissal. "It won't work with your hair in its present style, but when it's dressed loosely around your face, the hat will be enchanting."

"I don't think my presence here is necessary," she said tartly.

"Perhaps your grace would prefer the taller hats," the milliner said in haste, afraid her commission was about to come to a premature close. "These are the latest fashion." She held up a tall crowned silk hat with a turned-up brim, decorated simply with a ribbon around the crown.

"Ah, now that's better," Arabella approved, glancing at Jack, who merely nodded. "Well, that's settled, then." Arabella rose to her feet. "Two hats is more than enough for one person. Thank you for your time." She gave the milliner a courteous smile of dismissal.

"I'm afraid two hats is not enough," Jack said, torn between amus.e.m.e.nt and annoyance. "Something in straw, I think."

"Yes, your grace. My thoughts exactly." Relieved, the woman opened more boxes, pulling out natural straw bonnets decorated with ribbons, and flat-crowned straw hats in various colors, with wide picture brims.

Resigned, Arabella left the choices to her husband, who seemed to know what he was doing. Or, at least, seemed very decided about what he wanted. She couldn't imagine finding enough occasions to wear half of what he'd ordered. But if, as he'd promised, she was to turn heads when she made her grand entrance to the world of fashion, then on this occasion she would leave the mechanics to the master.

Chapter 11.

It was another half an hour before the milliner left on the heels of Christophe.

"Thank G.o.d that's over," Arabella said.

Jack regarded her with a slight frown. "Do you really have so little interest in such matters, Arabella?"