What didn’t she know?
“Well, I suppose he will get to it in due time.”
“But, Duchess,” Miss Bretagne piped up from her side of the room, “I haven’t brought a dress for the occasion.”
“You shall manage, my dear. The young and determined always do.”
Eva twisted in her chair. “Miss Bretagne, any dress can be made festive with a few touches here and there.”
“Oh?”
Eva snapped her fingers. “There is nothing to it. You see this dress I’m wearing?” She stood and waved an arm as if to demonstrate its many fine qualities.
Miss Bretagne nodded slowly, eyes wide, reconsidering her new step-mama’s sister.
“I have remade it three times.” She pointed at Isabel. “And her dress? Five times.”
“Are you so very poor?” inserted Lady Bertrand, but no one paid her any mind. Not while Eva held the floor.
Miss Bretagne exclaimed over Eva’s fine needlework, clearly having decided she liked this new aunt of hers. “You are quite the excellent seamstress.”
Eva went stiff, and a dark look entered her eye. Before Eva’s inevitable hot retort could blaze forth, Isabel shot to her feet. “Actually, Eva is a dressmaker.”
Eva drew herself up to her fullest height. “Not a seamstress.”
“Oh.” Miss Bretagne appeared quite crestfallen.
“The difference is that Eva designs the dresses she constructs,” continued Isabel.
“Mrs. Gardiner,” Miss Bretagne began, contrite, “would you consent to applying your talents to reworking one of my dresses for the dance?”
Isabel kept a nervous eye on Eva. These last several months, the sister she’d once known better than herself had become inscrutable to her. This Eva was calculated and measured. Why was she inserting herself into this family? A game was afoot, and Isabel wished she knew what it was.
Eva’s face broke into a sudden, delighted smile. “I shall.”
“And, possibly,” Miss Bretagne continued, “you would do one of Mina’s dresses, too?”
Nose buried in her book, Miss Radclyffe called out, “Entirely unnecessary,” without looking up.
Miss Bretagne’s features went stormy as she released a blustery sigh, signaling her frustration. The girl had more of her father in her than she knew.
“It doesn’t matter what dress I wear,” Miss Radclyffe continued, “as long as I am warm on a cold day and cool on a warm day. Or on a sweltering day, as the case might be.”
Eva smiled knowingly, and Isabel saw her true sister emerge. “Ah, but this is where you are wrong, Miss Radclyffe. The clothes we wear are so much more than functional.” She all but spat the word. “They are your armor against the world, not just the elements. Your clothing conveys a message about who you are, and you want that message to be clear. There is very little we have actual control over in our lives, but in this we do. I advise you to use it to your advantage.”
During Eva’s speech, Isabel noticed movement at the door and glanced up. Her stomach gave a lurch. Before them stood Lord Bertrand Montfort, returned.
So soon. Too soon.
She’d made no headway with Lord Percival.
Well, that wasn’t precisely true. But it was the wrong headway.
“You kiss like a virgin.”
Butterflies fluttered through her stomach, and it was all she could do to keep her hands at her sides and not touch her lips.
She wouldn’t be telling Montfort about her first kiss. She’d hardly even allowed herself to think on it, stuffing the memory into an unused portion of her brain and turning the key in the lock. Too bad for her the door had cracks that the kiss insisted on slipping through.
Following Montfort into the room was a barrel-chested, red-faced gentleman and a slight young woman whose sharp gray eyes cast about, never settling on a single object for long. Isabel knew the moment Eva spotted Montfort, for she stopped talking mid-word. Isabel reached for her sister’s hand and squeezed tight, attempting to quell the tremor she detected there. It wasn’t one of fright, but of an anger so deep and dark no one could touch it. Isabel had tried and failed.
“Oh, Bertie,” exclaimed Lady Bertrand, fanning herself, “you’ve arrived with friends. Have you brought a cooling breeze with you as well?”
“If it isn’t the Baron Cheswick!” exclaimed the Duchess, rushing across the room to greet her newest guests. “And I see you’ve brought Miss Fox with you.” The young lady gave a shallow curtsy. The Duchess clasped her hands before her in delight. “Now our little party shall come alive. A party was never not made better by Cheswick. One bit of business first.” She crooked her finger at Isabel, who released Eva’s hand with great reluctance. Eva’s eyes hadn’t left Montfort.
“It isn’t yet common knowledge,” continued the Duchess, “but our Percy has taken a bride. Lady Percival, may I introduce Lord Cheswick and his daughter, Miss Fox, to you?”
“I am delighted to make your acquaintance.” Isabel felt very certain those were the correct words for English aristocratic introductions.
Cheswick bent low over her hand and pressed damp lips to the back. She remained very still and didn’t snatch it away. On the rise, he winked. “Lord Percival always did have an eye for a fine filly.”
This drew a delighted rebuke from the Duchess. “Oh, Cheswick, you are incorrigible as ever.”
A snort carried across the room, courtesy of Miss Bretagne, Isabel knew without looking. For her part, Miss Fox held Isabel’s gaze as she dipped into a shallow curtsy. The watchfulness of Miss Fox’s eye didn’t allow one to relax.
Cheswick exhaled a blustery breath and gave his protuberant belly a few pats. “Duchess, I am not what I used to be. A short lie-down might be in order.”
“Who amongst us is, Cheswick?” The Duchess signaled a servant. “Show the baron to Cowslip.”
“Cowslip?” asked the observant Miss Fox.
“The bedrooms are all named for flowers, my dear. We’ll put you in Primrose.” Miss Fox’s lips might have twitched with amusement. “Might you be in need of rest, too?”
Miss Fox shook her head. “I already feel enlivened by the good company of this room.”