Lenore blinked, but when Agatha nodded, complied, hesitantly at first, then with more confidence as she returned to where Madame waited.
“Eh bien. I see now what monsieur le duc means.” Stepping close, Madame peered up into Lenore’s eyes. “Yes—greens and golds, with nothing pink, white or pale blue. M’moiselle is twenty-four, yes?”
Dumbly, Lenore nodded.
“Très bien. We do not, then, need to be cramped in our choice.” The little modiste’s face relaxed into a smile of approval. Her eyes narrowed as she walked slowly around Lenore before nodding decisively. “A merveille—we will do very well, I am thinking.”
Taking this to mean Madame had found that elusive something in her, Lenore felt some of her tension evaporate.
Abruptly, Madame clapped her hands. To Lenore’s surprise, a young girl put her head around one of the wall hangings. A torrent of orders delivered in staccato French greeted her. With a mute nod, the girl disappeared. A bare minute later, the wall hanging was pushed aside to admit a procession of six girls, each carrying a semi-completed outfit.
Under Madame’s supervision, Lenore tried on the garments. Madame fitted them expertly, extolling the virtues of each and the use to which she expected each to be put, gesticulating freely to embellish her words. The ground was littered with pins but her advice could not be faulted. Agatha sat regally on one of the chairs, actively interested in all that went on.
It was not until she was trying on the third outfit, a delicate amber morning gown, that the truth dawned on Lenore. She was unusually tall and slender yet the dresses needed only marginal adjustments. Her head came up; she stiffened.
“Be still, m’moiselle,” hissed Madame Lafarge from behind her.
Lenore obeyed but immediately asked, “For whom were these dresses made, Madame?”
Lafarge peered around to stare up at her face. “Why—for you, Miss Lester.”
Lenore returned her stare, recalling that Madame had not even bothered to take her measurements. “But…how?”
Lafarge’s black eyes blinked up at her. “Monsieur le duc gave me an…” Her hands came up to describe her meaning. “An understanding of your comportment and your taille, you understand? From that, I was able to fashion these. As you see, his memory was not greatly at fault.”
A shiver travelled Lenore’s spine but she was unsure of the emotion behind it. Agatha had been right—Eversleigh was far too used to organising all as he wished. The idea that her wardrobe would bear the imprint of his hand, rather than hers, was far too much for her to swallow.
Parading before the glass and admiring the way the long amber skirts swirled about her, Lenore made up her mind. “I should like to see these other gowns you’ve made up.”
Besides the three gowns she had already tried on, a green muslin walking dress, a teal carriage dress and the amber creation, Lafarge had made up three evening gowns. Trying on the first of these, Lenore felt a definite qualm. Studying her reflection, the way the fine silk clung to her body, emphasising her height, her slimness and the soft swell of her breasts, she wondered if she would ever have the courage to actually wear the gown. The neckline was cut low, barely avoiding the indecorous. Aside from the tiny puffed sleeves, her arms were entirely bare; she could already feel gooseflesh prickling her skin. The other two gowns were in similar vein.
“You wish to view the rest as well?”
Turning, Lenore stared at Lafarge. “Madame, what, exactly, has His Grace ordered?”
Lafarge spread her hands. “A wardrobe of the very finest—all the materials to be the very best as suited to your station. Dresses, gowns, coats, cloaks, nightgowns, petticoats, chemises, peignoirs.” Lafarge ticked the items off on her fingers, then spread them wide. “Everything, m’moiselle, that you might need.”
Even Agatha looked stunned.
Lenore had had enough. “Have any of these items been made up?”
Sensing that her hopes for the soon-to-be duchess were teetering on some invisible precipice, Lafarge hurriedly summoned her girls with all the items thus far created on His Grace of Eversleigh’s orders.
Lenore ran her fingers over the delicate materials. As she held up a chemise, a peculiar thrill went through her. The garment was all but transparent.
Watching her client closely, Lafarge murmured, “All was created at monsieur le duc’s express orders, m’moiselle.”
Lenore believed her but did not understand. Eversleigh had ordered a wardrobe that tantalised—for her. She frowned, laying aside the chemise to pick up a peignoir with a matching nightgown. As the long folds unravelled, her breathing seized. Slowly, deliberately, she turned so that Agatha was granted a full view of the gown. “Surely this is not what other women of the ton wear?”
Agatha’s face was a study. Not knowing whether to be scandalised or delighted, she grimaced. “Well—yes and no. But if Eversleigh’s ordered them, best take ’em.” When Lenore hesitated, she added, “You can argue the point with him later.”
When I’m wearing them? Lenore quelled another distracting shiver.
“They are not, perhaps, what I would create for all my young ladies, but, if you will permit the liberty, m’moiselle, few of my young ladies could appear to advantage in these. And,” Lafarge added, a little hesitantly, “monsieur le duc was very definite—he was very clear what he wished to see on you, m’moiselle.”
Lenore had gathered as much but was still unclear as to his motives. Leaving such imponderables aside, she wondered what to do. As Agatha had noted, Eversleigh’s organisational habits left very little room for manoeuvre. More than half the items were at least partly made up; Lafarge must have had her workrooms operating around the clock. Idly fingering a delicate silk chemise, Lenore made her decision. “Madame, did His Grace give permission for me to add to this collection?”
Lafarge brightened perceptibly. “But yes.” She spread her hands. “Anything you wished for you were to have, provided it was in a suitable style.”