Chapter 10 - Dahlia
CHAPTER TEN- DAHLIA
“Did you truly kiss my brother?"
It was Lily’s turn upon the measurement stool. She met Dahlia’s eyes earnestly in the reflection of the mirror she faced.
"Yes," Dahlia said, even as she slipped the cloth measuring tape around Lily’s middle. "I did."
"What was it like?" she whispered.
"Do you truly want to know? He is your brother, after all."
In truth, Dahlia didn't want to tell. Prior to yesterday, the kiss had felt uniquely hers and hers alone. Now, she was was obliged to share it. It was the emotional equivalent of having a lovely large biscuit to oneself, then having one's sisters crowd into the room and demand pieces of it.
"I suppose not." Lily nibbled her lower lip.
"Is that something you do often?" Claire asked from her position on the couch. "Kiss men you don't know at balls?"
All the ladies had been warm and welcoming, save for the one glaring exception. Even now, Claire frowned at Dahlia.
"Oh, yes," Lily said eagerly. "If you've kissed more than one gentleman, perhaps you could tell me about that instead."
Dahlia wanted to laugh. Lily was sweetness personified, a stunning foil of personality next to Claire's prickly anger.
Dahlia wondered why Claire disliked her so.
She didn't think it was because Dahlia and William had kissed; Claire's dislike went far deeper than that. It was as if she’d made up a story about Dahlia in her mind and was determined to believe it. Dahlia wondered what that story was.
"Unfortunately, I've only had the one kiss. That experience was enough to convince me I didn't wish to repeat it."
"Was it that terrible?" Lily said. "Oh, dear. Don't worry—we won't tell William."
"Won't tell William what?" the man himself said, striding in from the hallway.
"Dahlia didn't like your kiss," Claire said. "It put her off the process altogether."
"Claire," Lily whispered. "We had agreed not to tell."
"You had agreed." Claire leaned forward and placed her angular chin upon her hand. "I certainly did not."
William’s eyes were sharp on Dahlia's face. She pretended not to notice, though the heat of his gaze was like a brand upon her cheek. He gave a low, thoughtful noise in his throat, and she slid her fabric measuring tape around Lily’s waist again to distract herself.
"You've already done that part," Claire snapped.
"Dear heavens, Claire," William said. "I've never known you to be this disagreeable. What on earth is the matter?"
Claire pinched her lips together obstinately and didn't answer. Though Dahlia had started out the morning confident, as time wore on, her uncertainties nibbled at her more and more. What if she couldn’t produce her usual quality of design on demand?
Claire’s silent seething from the couch certainly didn’t help matters.
"All done," Dahlia said, smiling up at Lily.
"It’s my turn." Margaret hurried over to stand upon the stool, nearly knocking Lily aside in her haste. "I’m so excited." She bounced upon the footstool.
Her excitement was infectious; Dahlia grinned at her. “I’m glad.”
Margaret winced a little when Dahlia slid the measuring tape around her waist. "There's more of me," she murmured, "than there is of my sisters. Do you truly think that you can design some gowns that would suit me?"
“Of course."
Her momentary nerves flittered away; she was telling the truth. Even now, while Margaret stood on the footstool and subjected herself to measurements, Dahlia had several new ideas. Her fingers itched for pencil and paper.
"You know," Margaret said, fidgeting a little, "because some have found it a challenge to dress me."
"It's true that you're more voluptuous than your sisters—"
An angry hiss sounded from the couch, interrupting Dahlia's words. Dahlia blinked, glancing over at Margaret’s siblings.
William frowned at her. Claire was nearly snarling. The other two sisters wore mirrored raised eyebrows.
"Good heavens," Dahlia said. "Do you think she hasn't noticed?"
Margaret laughed. Claire started to choke. Dahlia decided to ignore the other inhabitants in the room and focused solely on Margaret—the only one who hadn’t overreacted to her honest appraisal.
"As I was going to say, although you’re more voluptuous than your sisters, you’re no less stunning for it. Your hair, your eyes, your great quantity of curves and décolletage—"
William spluttered across the room; Dahlia soldiered on.
"It all comes together to form a lovely package.
You just need the right fabrics and cuts that suit you and you alone in order to set it off.
No more square necklines." She ignored Claire, who was shooting daggers from her eyes.
"No more colors that suit your sisters and not you.
Claire should be the one wearing green. But you should be wearing light blue, light pink, even butter yellow. "
"Yellow?" Claire hissed, as if it were some sort of anathema. "You're going to put her in yellow?"
Dahlia squared her shoulders and gave Claire a tight smile. "Your brother is paying me a small fortune to design gowns for you because he knows that I’m talented in that area. Perhaps you should wait until you see some of my designs before you decide that he and I are both wrong."
Claire snapped her mouth shut, but her simmering presence in the room was difficult to ignore.
Lily spoke up as if to try and ease the tension. “I wear yellow.”
“Yes,” Dahlia said distractedly, noting Margaret’s bust measurement on her parchment, “but you need to stop.”
“I love yellow.”
“The color does not return the sentiment. It clashes terribly with your skin undertones.”
“My…what?” she said, sounding bewildered.
“Dear heavens, Lily,” Beatrice said. “Winifred has been telling you that for years. You have an olive undertone, which looks better with blues and purples.”
“Exactly.” Dahlia stood from Margaret's hem. "The next step is for you ladies to show me the dresses you already have."
"Why?" Claire asked.
"Because I cannot tell where the deficiencies are if I don't see what you already own." She turned her back to Claire pointedly. "Call your ladies' maids. I need you to try on your dresses."
"All of them?" Beatrice asked.
"Anything that you think you might wear in public during the Season. Is there a place I might sit convenient to your bedrooms in order to expedite the process?"
William nodded. "The upstairs parlor. I'll show you."
There was a laughing clamor upon the stairs. Margaret, Beatrice, and Lily seemed enthusiastic about the idea of a fashion show. Claire followed sedately behind, shooting one last unreadable glance at Dahlia and William.
"Start with the day dresses," Dahlia called after them.
She smiled to herself as she wound her measuring tape up. She’d purchased it only yesterday. Previously, she'd had no cause to measure anyone, but she’d been to Madame Aubert's enough times to know what the process was.
"My sisters seem to like you," William said.
"Claire doesn't."
"Claire is Claire," he said. "She went through a lot trying to keep the family in order.”
“You've made several references to difficulties." She glanced around the exceedingly fine room. "But everything looks well enough."
"Because I returned to England. A year ago, it was a different story altogether. If you’d come to the door then, you wouldn't have made it past the front entry."
"Why is that?"
"Because there was little furniture past the front entry."
Dahlia tilted her head. "I find it fascinating you’d admit as much to me."
"We are already in a pact of mutual destruction. We can say nearly anything, with the assurance that the other won't say a word. We have too much dirt on each other, as they say."
Dahlia refocused on repackaging her satchel. "It isn't just the danger of gossip that makes me surprised you'd tell me such a thing. Most nobility would do anything to hide the fact that they are having financial difficulty."
"We aren't of poor finances now.”
She gave a sly smile. “Obviously not, if you're willing to pay me fifty percent more than Madame Aubert's price."
He grinned, his dimples flashing. "We agreed on thirty."
"It was thirty-five, and you well know it."
They were smiling at one another—how had that happened? Dahlia had gone into this morning resolute. It surprised her that—Claire’s poor attitude not withstanding—she was having fun.
She turned back to the satchel that contained her sketchbook and several sharpened pencils. "How did you earn your fortune, if you don't find it gauche for me to ask? I've heard some scandalous rumors."
"What are the rumors?" William settled himself into the comfortable leather sofa as if in anticipation.
"The most shocking theory is that you’re some sort of pirate." She glanced at his large form, his suntanned face. "I’ll admit now that I've met you, I think you quite fit the part."
"Have you known many pirates?"
"Only in books." She shrugged. "My sisters are forever reading the most shocking Gothic novels. It seems that half of them feature pirates."
"What do these pirates do in these novels?"
"I wouldn't know.” She avoided his eyes. “They're my sisters’ novels, not mine."
"And what do you prefer to read?"
"It will come as no surprise that I enjoy ladies' magazines, anything with an illustration of a dress. But I also read books on adjacents subjects. I brush up on my French just to be able to read fashion plates from Paris."
"So your interest is quite single-minded, then?"
"I suppose. But when you love something, it always runs that direction, don't you think?"
"Indeed," he said.
Though she couldn’t read his expression, for some reason, she felt inclined to blush. It was a stupid emotion. She shoved it down and threaded her satchel over her shoulder.
"Were you to show me to the parlor?" She nodded towards the archway. "Or am I to wander this grand house until I find it myself?"
He laughed. "Follow me."