A Compromised Lady by Elizabeth Rolls Page A

beautiful—madame!’ She appealed to Lady Arnsworth who had stepped away to examine a dress length in softest blue merino draped over a chair.
    Lady Arnsworth looked up. ‘Excellent, Monique. Precisely what she should wear! With proper stays, of course.’
    ‘But, Lady Arnsworth!’ protested Thea, ignoring the reference to stays. She hadn’t worn long stays in years. They were impossible without a maid. ‘The bodice!’
    ‘Bodice? What about the bodice?’
    ‘It doesn’t have one!’ said Thea. The thought of appearing in such a gown, exposed to the gaze of all—her skin crawled at the thought of people, men, staring at her, leering. Touching her. No. It would be unbearable. But the gown really was very pretty…
    Lady Arnsworth examined the gown. ‘Dreadful the way some females flaunt their charms,’ she said, subjecting the non-existent bodice to keen scrutiny. ‘If charms one can call them when they are exposed to every vulgar gaze!’
    Thea nodded.

    ‘It is of the first importance that you should not draw attention to yourself,’ continued Lady Arnsworth. ‘But…’ She hesitated. ‘As an heiress, there will of course be those only too swift to be spiteful, whatever you do! It is a very lovely gown, Dorothea, but if you do not like it…’
    Thea remained silent. That was the problem; she did like it. Very much.
    The modiste, her mouth primmed in distaste, cast an affronted glance at Thea’s grey dress, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like sackcloth! and issued a stream of voluble instructions to her assistant, along with the pink gown, which was borne away.
    Sackcloth? Thea considered her current wardrobe. Her gowns were all grey…or brown. Discreet, modest, and…dull. No doubt any gowns provided by Madame Monique would be beautifully cut, and the material exquisite…but, did she really want them to be grey?
    Sackcloth? She swallowed. That was the word that came to mind when she thought of her wardrobe. And there were probably some ashes about somewhere as well.
    The old, rebellious spark, dimmed for years, flared. After all, she had never meant to dress in grey for the rest of her life. It was just the way it had turned out after…after Lallerton’s death. There had been no money with which to purchase other clothes after her period of official mourning…
    decreed by her father, and enforced by Aunt Maria…even a pink riband for her hair had been burnt.
    The spark ignited. How was shrouding herself in more grey helping her to enjoy herself? She took a very deep breath.
    ‘If you please, madame—’ she directed what she hoped was a friendly smile at the modiste ‘—that pretty pink gown—I should like to try it on after all.’
    Madame’s eyes brightened. ‘Mais oui! But of course.’ Now beaming, the modiste continued, ‘The colour will be ravissement, of course. It will bring out the pretty colour in mademoiselle’s cheeks.
    We will put away ces robes tristes. One does not wish to cover oneself in sadness. The pink. Oui—
    the pink. And there are others, mademoiselle!’ She rushed away.
    Others? Thea gulped. What had she let loose?
    No. She pushed the doubts away. She might feel alive again in the pink gown. A dangerous thing being alive, but the pink gown beckoned. She would enjoy the pink gown. As for the non-existent sleeves—well, she would be wearing long gloves. It would be concealing enough.
    Madame came back, bearing the pink evening gown as tenderly as a babe. An assistant trailed behind, a rainbow of silks and satins cascading from her arms. Thea viewed it all with intense satisfaction.
    Her gowns. Her choices.
    Her life. To enjoy.
    Lady Arnsworth gave an approving little nod. ‘Excellent. Very sensible, my dear.’

    By the time Thea left the modiste she had ordered an entire new wardrobe from the skin out, and was garbed in a new walking dress and a pelisse of turkey red. She still couldn’t quite believe that she had spent so much money. And she felt