Chapter 11
The modiste arrived from London two days later, bringing with her an army of assistants and enough fabric samples to outfit half the ton. Madame Phillipe was French, formidable, and took one look at Arabella before declaring that she had been "criminally under-dressed" for far too long.
"This figure!" she exclaimed, circling Arabella like a general surveying a battlefield. "This colouring! And you have been hiding in country fabrics? C'est un crime!"
"I haven't been hiding..." Arabella began.
"Silence! I must think. The ball is in four days, non? We must create something magnifique. Something to make all the other ladies weep with envy."
"I don't want anyone weeping..."
"Silence! Marguerite, bring the sapphire silk. No, wait—the midnight blue. It will match Monsieur le Comte's dark eyes."
"How do you know what colour my husband's eyes are?" Arabella asked.
"I dressed his mother for twenty years. I know everything about this family." Madame Phillipe's expression softened slightly. "She would be so happy to know her son has finally married. And to such a belle femme!"
Over the next two hours, Arabella was measured, draped, pinned, and transformed. The midnight blue silk was proclaimed perfect, and Madame Phillipe designed a gown on the spot that was both elegant and slightly daring.
"The neckline, perhaps a bit lower?" the modiste suggested.
"It's already quite low."
"Pah! You are married now. You can show a little more... how do you say... confidence."
"I think you mean bosom."
"That too."
Lucien chose that moment to enter, took one look at Arabella standing on a stool in her undergarments while three seamstresses worked around her, and immediately turned to leave.
"I apologise. I didn't realise..."
"Non!" Madame Phillipe commanded. "You stay. You must see the colour against her skin. Tell me it is not perfect."
"Madame, I hardly think..."
"Look at your wife, monsieur."
Lucien turned back, and Arabella saw his eyes darken as he took in the silk held against her, the way it made her skin glow.
"It's... indeed. Perfect."
"You see? A man knows when his woman looks beautiful. Now go. We have work to do."
But Lucien lingered a moment longer, his gaze meeting Arabella's with a heat that made her blush all the way to her toes.
"Four days?" he asked.
"Four days," she confirmed.
"We'll be ready," Madame Phillipe declared. "She will be the most beautiful woman there."
"She already is," Lucien said quietly, then left before Arabella could respond.
"That one," Madame Phillipe said with satisfaction, "is completely épris. How do you say... smitten?"
"We've only been married a week."
"Pah! Time means nothing. My husband fell in love with me in thirty seconds. We were married for forty years." She adjusted the silk around Arabella's shoulders. "This dress will make him fall in love all over again."
"It's just a dress."
"Non. It is armor. It is a weapon. It is a declaration." The modiste stepped back, studying her creation. "That Lady Velott, will be so distressed."
"You know about Cassandra?"
"I know everything, chérie. She tried to redecorate when she thought she would be mistress here. Wanted everything in white and gold. Like a tomb!"
"What happened?"
"The young lord ended the betrothal. Very dramatic. She threw a vase, a very valuable one. It missed him but destroyed a portrait of the third Earl."
"The one who cheated at cards?"
"Oui. Perhaps it was meant to happen." Madame Phillipe began packing up her supplies. "The dress will be ready in three days. The underthings too."
"Underthings?"
"Of course! You cannot wear such a gown with ordinary chemise. I will create something special. For after the ball, non?" She winked outrageously.
Arabella blushed furiously. "That's not necessary."
"It is entirely necessary. Trust me my Lady. I have been dressing ladies for thirty years. I know what makes a marriage happy."
After the modiste left, Arabella found Lucien in his study, glaring at what appeared to be dance instructions.
"What are you doing?"
"Remembering how to waltz. It's been years."
"You don't have to dance if you don't want to."
"If we're going to this infernal ball, we're going to do it properly. That means I dance with my wife."
"Just one dance would be sufficient."
"Three."
"Three?"
"The opening, to show we're united. The supper dance, so we can eat together. And the final waltz."
"That's very specific."
"I've been making plans." He showed her a piece of paper covered in notes. "I've also arranged for Julian to attend. He's good at managing Cassandra."
"Managing her how?"
"Distraction, mostly. He'll flirt outrageously, which she won't be able to resist."
"You've put a lot of thought into this."
"You wanted to face society. I'm making sure we do it on our terms."
"Our terms?"
"We arrive exactly fifteen minutes after the stated time; fashionable but not insultingly late. We stay for exactly two hours. We dance, we mingle briefly, we leave before anything dramatic can happen."
"You really have thought of everything."
"I told you—I don't like surprises."
"You didn't plan for me."
"No," he agreed, pulling her onto his lap. "You were the ultimate surprise. But I'm adapting."
"Is that what we're calling it?"
"Would you prefer 'surrendering'?"
"Surrendering implies defeat."
"Or wisdom in knowing when you're outmatched."
"Am I? Outmatching you?"
"Completely." He kissed her, slow and thorough. "I never stood a chance."
"From the moment I fell into the lake?"
"Dived," he corrected automatically, then smiled. "Yes. From that moment."
A knock interrupted them. Morrison entered with his usual gravity.
"My lord, Mr. Ashford has arrived."
Julian sauntered in, looking immaculate despite having ridden from London. "Lucien! And the lovely Lady Blackthorn. How delightful to see you both looking so... married."
"What does that mean?" Lucien asked suspiciously.
"It means you're both glowing with matrimonial bliss. It's quite nauseating, actually." But Julian was smiling as he said it. "I hear we're attending the Desclaire ball?"
"Against my better judgment, yes."
"Brilliant. I haven't had a good scandal in weeks." Julian accepted the brandy Morrison offered. "So, what's our battle plan?"
"Battle plan?" Arabella asked.
"My dear lady, any event with Cassandra Velott requires military-level strategy. She's probably been planning this since she heard of your marriage."
"Planning what?"
"Your humiliation, of course. It's her specialty."
"Julian," Lucien warned.
"What? She should know what she's walking into. Cassandra will have allies, carefully placed rumours, and at least three contingency plans for social destruction."
"You're trying to scare me," Arabella said.
"I'm trying to prepare you. There's a difference." Julian's expression grew serious. "Cassandra doesn't like to lose, and in her mind, your marriage is her loss."
"But she ended things with Lucien years ago."
"No, I ended things," Lucien corrected. "Rather publicly."
"After the vase incident?"
Julian brightened. "You know about that? Brilliant! Did you know she also set fire to his letters?"
"Julian..."
"In the rose garden. Very dramatic. The gardener had to put her out with a watering can."
"She set herself on fire?" Arabella asked, trying not to laugh.
"Just her skirts. Slightly. It was more smoke than flame, really."
"You're making that up."
"Ask Mrs. Fielding. She was there."
"Can we focus?" Lucien interrupted. "The ball is in four days."
"Right." Julian set down his glass. "Here's what we do. I'll arrive early, gauge the room, identify Cassandra's allies. You two arrive exactly on time..."
"Fifteen minutes late," Lucien corrected.
"That's my boy, learning society's ways. You make an entrance, but not too grand. Confident but not arrogant. Arabella, you'll need..."
"Madame Phillipe is creating something."
"Perfect. She dressed my mother for years. Knows exactly how to make a statement without saying a word." Julian began pacing. "You'll need to be prepared for comments about the speed of your marriage."
"We were compromised. It's not exactly a secret."
"No, but Cassandra will have embellished. The story she's spreading is quite colourful."
"What story?" Lucien's voice had gone dangerous.
"Oh, the usual. Secret lovers, staged rescue, trapped into marriage. Very Gothic novel."
"That's ridiculous," Arabella protested.
"Of course it is. But scandal doesn't require truth, just imagination." Julian studied them both. "Though I must say, the two of you present a most convincing picture of being desperately in love. That will serve admirably."
"We're not..." Arabella began, then stopped, unsure how to finish.
"Not desperately in love?" Julian's eyebrow rose. "My dear lady, Lucien hasn't taken his eyes off you since I arrived, and you're sitting in his lap in the middle of the afternoon. If that's not desperate love, it's a very good imitation."
Arabella realized she was indeed still in Lucien's lap and hastily stood. "We're just... adjusting."
"Is that what we're calling it?" Julian grinned. "How modern."
"Don't you have somewhere else to be?" Lucien growled.
"Not at all. I've cleared my schedule to help with your social resurrection. It's my gift to you both."
"We didn't ask for a gift."
"Which makes it all the more precious." Julian helped himself to more brandy. "Now, let's discuss dancing. Lucien, when did you last waltz?"
"Before Matilda died."
The words fell like stones into the conversation. Julian's smile faded.
"Ah. Well. That's... considerably longer than ideal."
"I can waltz," Lucien said stiffly.
"Can you waltz without looking like you're being tortured?"
"Doubtful."
"Then we practice." Julian moved the furniture to clear a space. "Arabella, if you would?"
"Now?" she asked.
"No time like the present."
Lucien stood reluctantly, offering her his hand with the expression of a man approaching the gallows. But when she stepped into his arms, something shifted. His hand at her waist was warm, certain and his other hand held hers with surprising gentleness.