“A serviceable gown will do just fine, thank you,” she cut in quickly. She’d look like a ridiculous cream cake if she allowed herself to be put into such finery.
“You do not need to have many bows or many decorations, but choose a bold color, Your Grace. A hint of silver or gold. You are not ordinary. Why pretend that you are?” The modiste waggled her dark brows. “You have the body of a Grecian goddess. You are not a nymph, and you should dress appropriately. Do Greek goddesses cower in the corner, wearing boring frocks? Non.”
She blinked at her modiste. The argument was sound. And powerful.
“Besides,” Madame Claudette continued, whipping out a needle and brandishing it. “You like those pretty things. Why not wear what you like?”
Why not wear what she liked?
It should not have been a novel concept, and yet she found it was. Ever since she’d realized she was not beautiful, she’d deliberately chosen clothes to match her features.
Madame Claudette was proclaiming she did not have to.
Did she dare? Would she be laughed at?
She gasped in horror as she realized that some small part of her was making choices based off the opinions of the frivolities of the ton.
Gaping at Madame Claudette, she could not form words. No, she was overcome with emotion, realizing how she had denied herself the pleasure of pretty things over the years because she had not thought she could wear them.
She’d never had such a conversation in her life. No one had ever bothered to question her motives for her simple gown choices. No one had ever tried to tell her that her simple frocks were not worthy of her figure. And it was clear that her husband found her figure to be…worthy as well. He certainly spent a good deal of time worshipping it. Her cheeks heated, and she quickly had to put aside the naughty thoughts of him kissing her from head to toe, lest she give herself away.
Her figure had never been one that anyone had admired before. Let alone a modiste. Or a duke who was one of the most beautiful men in England.
The truth was her figure wasn’t fashionable for the day. She was not tall enough, and she was a little bit too sturdy, something that was wonderful for hiking and climbing and digging up things from the ground, but not particularly suitable toward dainty things that this particular era of clothes called for.
But none of that actually mattered.
She could do as she bloody well pleased. And she was going to start now.
She squared her shoulders, looked at the bolts of silk on the wall, and pointed. “That one. And I wish it to be embellished with silver and gold roses.”
“Brava!” Madame Claudette beamed and let out a cry of delight. “I’m glad you are listening to me. You have your excellence and specialties. I have mine.”
Catharine let out a crow of triumph. “Well done, Madame Claudette. I have been trying for years to convince my sister to indulge herself! You have done it in but minutes.”
“And you, you should listen to your older sister a little bit more,” Madame Claudette said, smiling.
Catharine blinked, astonished. “I beg your pardon?”
“You would look marvelous in those silver bows.”
The three ladies looked at one another and began to laugh.
“Madame Claudette,” Victoria proclaimed, “you’re a diplomat. If you should handle all future difficulties between England and France, there would never be a war again.”
Madame Claudette clapped. “Oh, merci, mon Duchesse. Those foolish men. They ruin everything. I shall cherish your compliment. Now, I know exactly the bold style for your gown. But what else?”
“I should like to order”—Victoria cleared her throat as her cheeks began to heat—“a few other things.”
“Other things?” the modiste echoed.
“Yes, for the evening,” Victoria confirmed, praying her palms did not begin to sweat. She’d never been so frivolous in her life.
“Mais oui, you need at least ten ballgowns.”
“No,” she clarified, her cheeks heating yet again. “I mean, yes, of course. But in addition to those, I reference much later in the evening.”
Understanding dawned on Madame’s pert features. “But of course!” she exclaimed happily before she gave her a playful look. “You would like to order a pelisse and night rails of silk and lace. And perhaps some slightly more tempting chemises?” Madame Claudette grew serious and intoned, “You know, the French believe that beautiful, tempting, yet tasteful undergarments are good for the soul! I’m sure you wish to tempt your husband, do you not? It will make you both quite cheerful, non?”