And taking Catherine by one cold hand, she pulled her into the outer room.
Catherine allowed herself to be tugged forward by this intractable little woman and before she had time to think of the audience that lay outside the door, she found herself the center of their attention.
She stood, cheeks high in color, eyes wide and expectant, in her incredibly indecent gown, in the midst of all the strangers waiting in the front room. There was a sudden quiet as she entered. Conversation ceased as they caught sight of the lovely young woman before them. Catherine held her head high and wished to disappear into the ether as she heard the dressmaker, through the pounding in her ears, ask the little maid what she thought the duchess would say. But curiously, the dressmaker’s eyes were not on the little maid, but rather watching the tall blond-haired female she called “La Starr” in the bright amber dress. The blond woman had been posing and turning and posturing in it, showing it off to a gentleman, before Catherine appeared. And the moment that Catherine appeared in the doorway, the gentleman’s eyes left her and did not return to her. She stared angrily at Catherine.
Catherine looked over in their direction and saw the amused gray eyes staring at her insolently. It was incredible how she had not forgotten a detail of his face since that morning in the fog. He stood leaning against a mantel, his long athletic form impeccably clothed in gray again. His face resembled, Catherine thought, a picture she had seen of a red Indian, with his cool angular good looks, high cheekbones, and black hair. But his look held mockery and disdain and an infuriatingly belittling humor.
He glanced over at the dressmaker. “I applaud you, madame,” he drawled, “as I am certain the duchess will. You have turned a little country mouse into a dazzler. Congratulations.”
He walked slowly over to where Catherine stood poised for retreat, although perversely refusing to flee in the face of his impudence.
“I see you found the right place, little one.” He smiled with what was not at all a smile. His eyes lingered at her breasts, and while her hands itched to fly up and cover herself, she only stood stock still and tried to return his stare with all the dignity she could muster. “See if you can make my little Starr something on this order,” he said over his shoulder. “It is a most impressive display of…taste.” And then, with a careless shrug, he turned and went back to the blond female, who was darting glances of the purest dislike at Catherine.
“Who,” Catherine panted, stripping herself out of the hated dress with fever in the curtained alcove, “was that insolent man? That popinjay, that man who spoke to me?”
The dressmaker spoke through a mouthful of pins.
“Who?” Catherine insisted, buttoning herself all wrong in her haste to get back into her good, decent little gray dress again.
“He is the Marquis of Bessacarr,” the dressmaker said placidly. “A neighbor of the duchess’s. I expect that’s how he knows you. And you should be flattered that he did. He doesn’t acknowledge everyone, you know.”
“He need not acknowledge me,” Catherine insisted, setting herself aright again. “He need not ever acknowledge me again.”
Catherine left, with her maid in tow, carrying the few parcels the dressmaker had readied for her. The rest, she promised would be delivered as soon as might be. She had turned a deaf ear to all of Catherine’s protests, telling her she knew well enough what would be a suitable wardrobe for the duchess’s companion.
Catherine swore to herself, on the way home in the carriage with the stony-faced maid, that she would sit up nights if need be, adding on fabric to those indecent bodices. Style or no, she was never again to be ogled in that fashion.
*
Madame Bertrand sipped her tea and chuckled at her work table. It had been worth it, even though it had cost her some trade, just to see the
Catherine allowed herself to be tugged forward by this intractable little woman and before she had time to think of the audience that lay outside the door, she found herself the center of their attention.
She stood, cheeks high in color, eyes wide and expectant, in her incredibly indecent gown, in the midst of all the strangers waiting in the front room. There was a sudden quiet as she entered. Conversation ceased as they caught sight of the lovely young woman before them. Catherine held her head high and wished to disappear into the ether as she heard the dressmaker, through the pounding in her ears, ask the little maid what she thought the duchess would say. But curiously, the dressmaker’s eyes were not on the little maid, but rather watching the tall blond-haired female she called “La Starr” in the bright amber dress. The blond woman had been posing and turning and posturing in it, showing it off to a gentleman, before Catherine appeared. And the moment that Catherine appeared in the doorway, the gentleman’s eyes left her and did not return to her. She stared angrily at Catherine.
Catherine looked over in their direction and saw the amused gray eyes staring at her insolently. It was incredible how she had not forgotten a detail of his face since that morning in the fog. He stood leaning against a mantel, his long athletic form impeccably clothed in gray again. His face resembled, Catherine thought, a picture she had seen of a red Indian, with his cool angular good looks, high cheekbones, and black hair. But his look held mockery and disdain and an infuriatingly belittling humor.
He glanced over at the dressmaker. “I applaud you, madame,” he drawled, “as I am certain the duchess will. You have turned a little country mouse into a dazzler. Congratulations.”
He walked slowly over to where Catherine stood poised for retreat, although perversely refusing to flee in the face of his impudence.
“I see you found the right place, little one.” He smiled with what was not at all a smile. His eyes lingered at her breasts, and while her hands itched to fly up and cover herself, she only stood stock still and tried to return his stare with all the dignity she could muster. “See if you can make my little Starr something on this order,” he said over his shoulder. “It is a most impressive display of…taste.” And then, with a careless shrug, he turned and went back to the blond female, who was darting glances of the purest dislike at Catherine.
“Who,” Catherine panted, stripping herself out of the hated dress with fever in the curtained alcove, “was that insolent man? That popinjay, that man who spoke to me?”
The dressmaker spoke through a mouthful of pins.
“Who?” Catherine insisted, buttoning herself all wrong in her haste to get back into her good, decent little gray dress again.
“He is the Marquis of Bessacarr,” the dressmaker said placidly. “A neighbor of the duchess’s. I expect that’s how he knows you. And you should be flattered that he did. He doesn’t acknowledge everyone, you know.”
“He need not acknowledge me,” Catherine insisted, setting herself aright again. “He need not ever acknowledge me again.”
Catherine left, with her maid in tow, carrying the few parcels the dressmaker had readied for her. The rest, she promised would be delivered as soon as might be. She had turned a deaf ear to all of Catherine’s protests, telling her she knew well enough what would be a suitable wardrobe for the duchess’s companion.
Catherine swore to herself, on the way home in the carriage with the stony-faced maid, that she would sit up nights if need be, adding on fabric to those indecent bodices. Style or no, she was never again to be ogled in that fashion.
*
Madame Bertrand sipped her tea and chuckled at her work table. It had been worth it, even though it had cost her some trade, just to see the
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