waltz around a grand ballroom or take tea with a duchess. The simple circlet of her braided hair seemed queenly rather than quaint. Her gold locket glowed serenely against the fine fabric, and the fashionable cut of the dress accentuated her curves. She had not realized quite how slender her waist could appear, or how full her hips.
She felt, in a word, beautiful. Breathless delight ran through her. She, Clara Becker, looked beautiful. How shocking. How wonderful.
“It’s splendid.” She turned to Madame Lamond, her voice warm with gladness. “I cannot thank you enough.”
“Well now.” The woman smiled like a cat who had been in the cream. “You are made to wear such gowns, Miss Becker. I have a hundred clients who would pay a king’s ransom to look as well as you do.”
“Indeed!” Mr. Dubois approached, with the modiste’s girl trailing behind. “She looks exquisite. Madame Lamond, you have worked a miracle. I, of course, expected no less.”
Madame Lamond blushed. “Mr. Dubois, you are too kind. We had excellent material to work with. Please tell Master Reynard the rest of Miss Becker’s wardrobe will be dispatched the moment everything is complete.”
“Good, good. Come along, Miss Becker. The maestro and your brother await.”
With a final, grateful smile at the modiste, Clara followed Mr. Dubois out of the fitting area. She kept her back very straight, as befitted her new gown. He led her to a side room equipped with a handful of chairs, where Nicholas and Master Reynard waited; Nicholas sitting patiently while the master paced.
“Gentlemen!” Mr. Dubois announced. “Allow me to present Miss Clara Becker.”
“I say.” Nicholas rose abruptly from his chair. “Clara, you look…”
“Magnificent!” The valet set his hands on his hips and nodded. “I knew Madame Lamond was the right choice. She is always the right choice.”
Master Reynard strode up to her, then halted. Their gazes locked, and her pulse magnified to a heady, rushing rhythm. The surprise in his face turned to something more considering, as if he saw in her the woman she had glimpsed in the modiste’s mirror. Lovely. Elegant. Desirable.
“Miss Becker.” He slowly looked her up and down, and she felt a tingle in the wake of his gaze. “Quite a transformation.”
“Turn, turn.” Mr. Dubois made a twirling gesture with his hand.
Clara untangled her gaze from Darien Reynard’s and spun, skirts and petticoats swishing about her. Then she spun again for the pure joy of being beautiful and admired and dressed in something that was gorgeously new.
“The rest of her wardrobe will follow, monsieur,” Mr. Dubois said. “Everything is arranged.”
“So it appears.” Master Reynard’s gaze drifted over her once more. “And now, with your permission, Henri, I think it’s high time we departed London.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
W hen they exited the modiste’s Dare was relieved to find there was no gaggle of women waiting to pounce. At least there was some benefit to the drizzle spattering from the gray clouds overhead. His black coach waited; the driver, Samuel, hunched in his greatcoat, the luggage well-girded against the weather. At last, they were ready to set off.
Although—he slanted a look at Clara Becker—he could no longer begrudge the delay. She had turned out to be remarkably pretty, and he felt a twinge of remorse for overlooking it. Had he not, himself, been the victim of being judged by his appearance? When he was younger, passersby in the piazza had not even deigned to glance at him, until he’d begun to play. Then the ragged boy was suddenly valuable, although nothing inside him had changed.
His valet made to clamber up on the box with the driver, and Dare snagged his arm.
“No, Henri, you will not ride up front. It’s five hours to Brighton, and it’s raining.”
“But, monsieur, your dignity—”
“Will suffer even more if you fall ill and are unable to dress me satisfactorily.”
She felt, in a word, beautiful. Breathless delight ran through her. She, Clara Becker, looked beautiful. How shocking. How wonderful.
“It’s splendid.” She turned to Madame Lamond, her voice warm with gladness. “I cannot thank you enough.”
“Well now.” The woman smiled like a cat who had been in the cream. “You are made to wear such gowns, Miss Becker. I have a hundred clients who would pay a king’s ransom to look as well as you do.”
“Indeed!” Mr. Dubois approached, with the modiste’s girl trailing behind. “She looks exquisite. Madame Lamond, you have worked a miracle. I, of course, expected no less.”
Madame Lamond blushed. “Mr. Dubois, you are too kind. We had excellent material to work with. Please tell Master Reynard the rest of Miss Becker’s wardrobe will be dispatched the moment everything is complete.”
“Good, good. Come along, Miss Becker. The maestro and your brother await.”
With a final, grateful smile at the modiste, Clara followed Mr. Dubois out of the fitting area. She kept her back very straight, as befitted her new gown. He led her to a side room equipped with a handful of chairs, where Nicholas and Master Reynard waited; Nicholas sitting patiently while the master paced.
“Gentlemen!” Mr. Dubois announced. “Allow me to present Miss Clara Becker.”
“I say.” Nicholas rose abruptly from his chair. “Clara, you look…”
“Magnificent!” The valet set his hands on his hips and nodded. “I knew Madame Lamond was the right choice. She is always the right choice.”
Master Reynard strode up to her, then halted. Their gazes locked, and her pulse magnified to a heady, rushing rhythm. The surprise in his face turned to something more considering, as if he saw in her the woman she had glimpsed in the modiste’s mirror. Lovely. Elegant. Desirable.
“Miss Becker.” He slowly looked her up and down, and she felt a tingle in the wake of his gaze. “Quite a transformation.”
“Turn, turn.” Mr. Dubois made a twirling gesture with his hand.
Clara untangled her gaze from Darien Reynard’s and spun, skirts and petticoats swishing about her. Then she spun again for the pure joy of being beautiful and admired and dressed in something that was gorgeously new.
“The rest of her wardrobe will follow, monsieur,” Mr. Dubois said. “Everything is arranged.”
“So it appears.” Master Reynard’s gaze drifted over her once more. “And now, with your permission, Henri, I think it’s high time we departed London.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
W hen they exited the modiste’s Dare was relieved to find there was no gaggle of women waiting to pounce. At least there was some benefit to the drizzle spattering from the gray clouds overhead. His black coach waited; the driver, Samuel, hunched in his greatcoat, the luggage well-girded against the weather. At last, they were ready to set off.
Although—he slanted a look at Clara Becker—he could no longer begrudge the delay. She had turned out to be remarkably pretty, and he felt a twinge of remorse for overlooking it. Had he not, himself, been the victim of being judged by his appearance? When he was younger, passersby in the piazza had not even deigned to glance at him, until he’d begun to play. Then the ragged boy was suddenly valuable, although nothing inside him had changed.
His valet made to clamber up on the box with the driver, and Dare snagged his arm.
“No, Henri, you will not ride up front. It’s five hours to Brighton, and it’s raining.”
“But, monsieur, your dignity—”
“Will suffer even more if you fall ill and are unable to dress me satisfactorily.”
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