“Yes, they are.” Marina watched her as if reading her thoughts.
“But they can become a prison,” Elspeth said slowly. She raised her chin and squared her shoulders before she met Marina’s penetrating black gaze. “I’m ready to be free.”
“Brava, ragazza.” Marina smiled at her, then turned to open a door that led to a dressing room. “We have work to do, Sandra.”
Marina’s Italian maid, as stylish as her mistress in a gray ensemble banded with black velvet, emerged. She carried a pile of clothing which she tossed over the back of a pretty sofa, upholstered in flowered blue brocade.
“Those are all my dresses,” Elspeth said in shock.
“I hope you don’t mind.” Marina made an apologetic gesture. “I thought first we’d see if any of your clothes are worth altering. Sandra worked for my modiste in Florence. When I decided to move to the wilds of Scotland, I invited her here to be my dresser. She’s a genius with a needle.”
“Buongiorno, signorina,” Sandra said, dipping into a graceful curtsy. “We make you bellissima.”
Elspeth had just enough Italian to understand and to cringe at the plan’s impossibility. But she bit back any word of protest. The first step toward claiming self-assurance was acting like she already had it. She turned to Marina and spread her hands in bewilderment. “I thought you were just going to lend me a dress.”
Marina smiled. “We’re not at all in the same style, or I would.”
“You’re much slimmer than I am,” Elspeth said, before she remembered that she meant to pretend to be confident. She spared a fleeting regret for all the shortbread she’d eaten over the years, to cheer herself up over her failure to win Brody Girvan.
“You have a magnificent figure. You’re a true pocket Venus.” Before Elspeth could grasp hold of such an extravagant—and astounding—compliment, Marina’s tone turned practical. “Although only il buon Dio would know it under those schoolgirl frocks.”
Elspeth shot the drab pile of dresses a doubtful look. In this lovely room and in comparison to the modish clothes the other women wore, her outfits looked duller than ever. “Do you think you can rescue any of them?”
“A snip here. A dart there. You’ll be surprised. That’s not all we’re going to do. You need to change the shades you wear. Basta, no more browns and beiges and everything dull. No wonder you disappear into the wallpaper in dresses the color of mud. You should be in reds and blues and pinks and yellows. Strong shades to bring out your white skin and your sparkling eyes. I have some bolts of fabric from Milano and Firenze, that we can use for a few new gowns. But those won’t be ready for tonight.”
Amazed, daunted and touched in equal measure, Elspeth stared at Marina. She couldn’t remember anyone taking this trouble over her before. “You’re far too generous.”
Marina laughed and rubbed her hands together with unmistakable enthusiasm. “I’ll enjoy turning you into a beauty. It’s an artistic project. And Sandra was becoming bored, with just me to fuss over.” She turned to the maid with a volley of rapid Italian that Elspeth assumed was a translation of what they’d both just said.
Sandra surveyed Elspeth with that same steely focus Marina had devoted to her, then broke into a snaggle-toothed smile that added layers of charm to her bony features. She responded in the same language, and all Elspeth could make out were stray words like bella and pronto.
“Si, si, certo,” Marina said, and turned back to Elspeth. “Now, let’s take off that ugly rag and see what we have to work with.”
Before Elspeth could protest—although Marina was being so kind, what could she say?—Sandra started tugging at the hooks down the back of her dark brown merino. Elspeth clutched the sagging bodice to save her modesty. “It’s not that bad, is it?”
Marina’s smile was kind, too. “I’m afraid it is.”
“Oh.” Elspeth had come here because she wanted to change, but facing up to her frumpishness was no fun. She caught another glimpse of Marina’s smile as Sandra hauled the dress over her head.
“Cheer up. Faint heart never won fair laird.”
At least she could blame her blush on the fact that she now stood in the middle of the room, wearing nothing but her undergarments. “I told you—I’m not interested in Brody.”
Marina’s expression was suspiciously innocent when she circled Elspeth, as if she inspected a statue from every angle. “Brody Girvan isn’t the only laird in the world.”
Until now, for Elspeth, he might as well have been. She straightened her spine and told herself to stop being such a wet flannel. She’d already decided she wanted to make some changes. The way she looked was part of that. “No, he’s not.”
“Brava.”
Sandra stood back, her dark eyes never shifting from Elspeth. When she burst into more Italian, Marina looked thoughtful, before she moved closer to unpin Elspeth’s tight arrangement of plaits.
“Magnifico,” Sandra said, as a wealth of dark brown hair tumbled down about Elspeth’s shoulders. For once, no translation was needed.
“What beautiful hair you have,” Marina said, lifting a thick hank of shining hair and letting it drift through her fingers. “Why on earth do you tie it away so tightly? Per l’amor di Dio, why on earth do you tie everything away so tightly?”
Overwhelmed with the confusing mixture of praise and criticism, Elspeth glanced down at herself. Her full breasts pushed wantonly against her white linen shift, and she felt stunted next to Marina and Sandra, both so tall and elegant. In a defensive pose, she wrapped her arms around her middle. “I’m not the right shape for the current fashion.”
The hint of fondness in Marina’s laugh removed any sting. “We can fix that.”