Silk Is For Seduction - Loretta Chase [119]
“But what happened?” Leonie said. “It sounds perfect.”
“It looked perfect. I was in a prime position, by the open French windows, and the wind carried their voices beautifully. When she said no, I vow, my mouth actually fell open. I don’t know where she found the strength to refuse him, but she did, in no uncertain terms. They all heard it. The music had happened to stop at that moment, and others near the terrace heard, and word spread at a stunning rate. In a moment, you could have heard the proverbial pin drop. Everyone was straining to hear—and some of them were shoving to get to the windows.”
Marcelline’s shoulders sagged. “Oh, no.”
“No need to worry,” Sophy said briskly. “I saw at once what to do, and I’ve done it, and everything will work out very well. Please go back to bed. There’s nothing on earth to fret about. I expect to have proof in the morning, and then you can see for yourselves. But for now, my loves, I must have some sleep. I’m ready to drop.”
Chapter Sixteen
If, some years ago, our neighbours in sneer, called us a nation of shopkeepers, we think that they must now give us the credit of being shopkeepers of taste: we apprehend, no place in the world affords so great a variety of elegant amusement to the eye, as London in its various shops.
The Book of English Trades,
and Library of the Useful Arts, 1818
Eight o’clock, Saturday morning
Despite having gone to bed only a short time before, Sophy hurried in to breakfast only minutes after her sisters. She had a copy of the latest edition of Foxe’s Morning Spectacle in her hand, and she was grinning.
“I told you I did it,” she said. “Column inch after column inch, all about the gown Lady Clara Fairfax—or ‘Lady C’ as Foxe so delicately puts it—wore to the Brownlows’ ball.” She sat down and read aloud, “ ‘A white satin or poult de soie under-dress, a low corsage, the front square.’ ”
Marcelline paused, her coffee cup halfway to her lips. She needed coffee. She hadn’t slept. “Clearly you gave Tom Foxe what he wanted.”
“And he gave me columns of space,” Sophy said triumphantly.
Leonie snatched the paper from her. “Let me see. ‘Open robe of rose noisette crepe . . . corsage . . . descends in longitudinal folds on each side.’ ” She looked at Marcelline. “It goes on and on, like a fashion plate description. Down to the shoes. Good grief, what on earth did you do for him, Sophy? No, never mind. It’s none of our business.”
“I told you I’d take care of everything,” Sophy said. “Never mind the rest of the description. You know what she was wearing.” She pointed. “Start there.”
Leonie read, “ ‘The reader will wonder at our entering into minute detail regarding the fair attendee’s attire. But no lesser tribute, we feel, would suffice for a dress that inspired its wearer not only with the confidence to decline the addresses of a duke but with the fire of poetry, for no lesser description could properly characterize the speech with which she so unequivocally rejected his offer of matrimony.’ ”
Thence followed Lady Clara’s rejection speech. In this context it read like a scene from one of Lady Morgan’s novels.
Marcelline put down her coffee cup and rubbed her head. “He’s the Duke of Clevedon. She loves him. He’s the world’s foremost seducer of women—and he botched it. Well, goodbye Duchess of Clevedon.”
“Goodbye to the duchess, perhaps,” Sophy said. “It may take him a while to find another. But look on the bright side. Lady Clara will come back to Maison Noirot. She understands what we do for her. You read what she said to him. ‘I’m different.’ ”
“Her friends will come, too,” Leonie said. “Every woman who was at that ball will want to see the creations that could give a woman confidence enough to reject a duke. Sophy, my love, you’ve outdone yourself.”
“Leonie’s right,” Marcelline