She’d wondered if somehow she’d blundered at the dinner, but when they got home, he rushed her upstairs and barely got her behind a closed door before he started pulling her clothes off. His passion had contained an edge that was breathtakingly exciting. No leisurely, sensual exploration, but fireworks and overwhelming pleasure, and the two of them collapsing in exhaustion.
He’d turned to her twice more, once in the early hours, then just as the sun came up, he’d taken his time to drive her mad with need before he took her on a journey to the stars. That encounter had extended into the morning and afterward, they’d both tumbled into a deep sleep. She’d had to hurry to be ready for Helena at two.
Now with weariness and satisfaction weighting her limbs, she had trouble concentrating on what her new friend said. Her new friends. Fenella had joined them at Madame Lisette’s, where Jane had spent the last hour, struggling to differentiate between hundreds of fashion plates, each more beautiful than the last.
Jane had been grateful to see Fenella. Not only was she the least intimidating Dashing Widow, she wasn’t Morwenna Nash’s sister-in-law.
Fenella laughed, as with unflagging enthusiasm, Helena opened yet another album. “You’re making the poor girl dizzy, Hel. You’re used to wading through all these choices. Jane isn’t.”
Helena looked up in surprise, then laughed as well when she saw Jane’s expression. “Do you feel like you’re drowning?”
“Yes,” Jane said faintly, stepping back from a table littered with books and magazines and falling into a chair upholstered in pink velvet. Madame Lisette, a petite bird-like Frenchwoman, loved pink. The shop was festooned in every shade of that color.
“And each time she comes up for air, you push her head under again,” Fenella said.
“Zut, I am too excited at the chance to make milady Garson un succès fou.” With a decisive snap, the modiste closed the album she w
as poring over on the other side of the table. “Would you like to see tout and choose for yourself? Or would you like milady West et moi to guide you through this forest?”
Jane gave a tired laugh. “I put myself in your hands, Madame.”
“And mine,” Helena said.
Fenella placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “I’m here for moral support, if these two get too bossy.”
Madame Lisette gestured for Jane to stand up—Jane had already noted that the Frenchwoman treated her clients with scant deference. “In that case, let’s look at you.”
“Trust Madame, Jane. She’s a genius,” Helena said. “I owe all my social cachet to her brilliance.”
“C’est vrai,” Madame Lisette said, her gaze running over Jane as if assessing every inch. “That is a très jolie dress, but too young and too staid for a milady in the first stare of fashion.”
Helena pushed Jane in front of a cheval mirror, as Madame continued her inspection. Reflected back, Jane saw a tall girl with red hair and uncertain eyes. She wore the ensemble she’d put on after her wedding, one of the two dresses Susan had brought down from London. The soft lavender was a flattering color on her pale skin and suitable for someone coming out of mourning.
But when she compared it to Fenella’s blue walking dress or Helena’s figure-hugging aubergine merino, she saw what Madame meant. The dress was pretty, certainly prettier than her other clothes, but dull.
“Milady has a superb figure. Clever cutting will show that off. And good skin—but you need strong colors, like crimson and fuchsia and peacock blue.”
“I’m not…” Jane began, afraid that she’d end up looking like a fairground monkey.
Madame ignored her and produced a tape measure from her pocket. “That bosom. Ooh la la. A woman with such a bosom shouldn’t dress like a nun.”
Helena laughed at Jane’s nonplused expression. “Well, she’s right.”
“And that hair. True Titian red. Magnifique. Quelle couleur. Not a lady in London has hair to rival this.” The delight in Madame’s face made Jane feel jittery, even as she soaked up the praise. She’d come to accept that Hugh liked how she looked, but it had never occurred to her that anyone else might share her husband’s eccentric tastes in feminine beauty.
“You’re too kind,” Jane said.
Madame made a very French sound of contempt and waved away Jane’s thanks. “Kind? Non, non, non. I am honest. The English never give praise to what they should and always with the tucking away of their pleasure in their own beauty. You are lovely, milady. I know it. Your friends here know it. Undoubtedly, your husband, the so ‘andsome Lord Garson knows it. Put yourself into my hands, and soon the whole world will know it. There will be no more hiding your light under a thicket.”
“Bushel,” Helena said.
Madame scowled. “Bushel? Thicket? What do I care? What I care about is making this retiring violet the tiger lily she was born to be—and turning her into the toast of London.”
Jane stifled a hysterical giggle. Dealing with Madame Lisette was like trying to hold a firecracker in her hand. Before this, her experience of London modistes was confined to Susan’s Mrs. Haines, who had exuded a grandmotherly air as she’d measured Jane up.
Then she gave you clothes worthy of a grandmother, a nasty little voice reminded her.
“Do you want to be the toast of London, Jane?” Fenella asked.