“I’m glad to hear it.” Viscount Lowell was an older gentleman who doted on his much younger wife, and it was obvious he held her in much affection. Such affection wasn’t a requirement in most society marriages, but Romy insisted it be part of her future. As a duke’s daughter, marriage was a foregone conclusion, but her brother had assured Romy she would be allowed a choice of husband. Romy meant to have something more than a business arrangement. Her own parents had been madly in love. And Tony had wed Maggie out of love.
Romy refused to settle for less.
“Madame Dupree is amazing, of course. Her designs are magical,” Miss Hobarth gushed.
“They certainly are.” No one knew that better than Romy.
“But I am uncertain of some of the colors.” Miss Hobarth lowered her voice as if the modiste were nearby. “I should like to wear something bright, perhaps the color of a buttercup. And bows. The larger the better.”
Romy’s eyes ran over Miss Hobarth’s bright red hair. “I personally think any shade of yellow would detract from the crowning glory that is your hair.” She pointed at one flaming curl. “You are an original. I declare, Miss Hobarth, I’m quite jealous.”
Miss Hobarth blushed at her praise. “You are? I cannot imagine. You are one of the Beautiful Barringtons,” she whispered.
Romy made a puffing sound. “Nonsense. Why, you know that nickname was coined in jest by Lady Masterson? And only to tease my brother, the duke. I’m quite sincere.”
Beaming, Miss Hobarth gave a small giggle.
“Now, as to beading and bows, Miss Hobarth,” Romy leaned closer and took the other woman’s arm, “I have it on good authority that the latest fashions are all about the magnificence of the fabric, which leads one to uselessembellishment.”
Miss Hobarth pouted in disappointment.
“I don’t mean to say you cannot have your lace and beads,” Romy hastily assured her. “But you must be judicious in your choices. Take this, for instance.” Romy held up an ice-blue silk shot through with silver thread. “See how the fabric catches the light? Why, beading would be redundant and detract from the natural color of the fabric. I see you in this, off the shoulders for you’ve lovely skin, narrowed sharply and smoothly fitted, the silk fanning out from this point.” She gently prodded Miss Hobarth’s mid-section. “You’ve a perfect figure. Such a design will show it off to great advantage. I would put tiny brilliants in your hair and nothing else. You would stun every gentleman speechless.” Romy let the silk slide out of her fingers. “But that is only my opinion.”
“I must agree.” Madame Dupree, one of the finest modistes in all of London came up alongside them. “Less embellishment allowsyouto shine, Miss Hobarth. You will glitter like the stars in the sky.”
Miss Hobarth shot a glance to the opened drawer of beads one of Madame Dupree’s assistants was showing another customer before running her finger along the silk. “You are certain, Lady Andromeda?”
“Positive.” Romy nodded. “I would not suggest such a thing if I wasn’t. And, if I may, Miss Hobarth?”
“Yes, please. You are right. I can see myself in this silk.”
“Dancing with Mr. Symon, perhaps?”
Miss Hobarth giggled again. “Perhaps. He has called on me. I should like him to continue.”
Romy nodded in agreement. “Lavender, Miss Hobarth, for a delicious dress in which to receive him, with an edging of green. You’ll look like a spring hyacinth. Madame Dupree, I’m sure, has an original design already in mind for you.”
“Indeed, Miss Hobarth. No need to look at a magazine or pattern book. I’ve just the thing in mind,” the modiste assured her, tapping a slim finger against her temple.
“You don’t mind helping me choose everything?” She looked at Romy. “I wish to look very put together.” At Romy’s nod, she said, “My mother”—Miss Hobarth looked in the direction of Mrs. Hobarth who was eyeing her daughter with impatience—“as I mentioned, is not helpful. She knows nothing of the latest fashions.”
“You would be doing me a favor,” Romy insisted. “If I return home too soon, I fear I will have to endure my younger sister’s violin lesson.” That much was true. Phaedra, though enthusiastic, lacked even a hint of musical talent. Her ability to punish the violin was akin to Romy’s playing of the piano. “I’d much rather help you choose the proper gloves and perhaps a small purse?”
“Then we are in agreement,” Miss Hobarth nodded.
Romy and Madame Dupree exchanged looks. There was nothing in the world Romy adored more than designing a gown or creating an entire ensemble for a young lady in need. It was a passion of hers, one she found little time to pursue as the daughter of a duke, but her talents did not go unappreciated by Madame Dupree.
“Bon.” The modiste towered over both Romy and Miss Hobarth, standing nearly six feet in her heels. “When you are ready, Miss Hobarth, please come, and we will take your measurements. Your waist appears smaller to me.”
Miss Hobarth smiled. “I have been forgoing biscuits.”
Madame Dupree winked discreetly at Romy before leaving to assist another young lady who had entered her shop.
Romy had formed a partnership of sorts with Madame Dupree, one which had started during her last visit to London before the death of her father. Romy had taken to haunting the modiste’s shop as a way to avoid being consumed by the knowledge her father would never recover from his illness. Wandering through the bolts of fabric and offering advice to Madame’s patrons had become a near daily habit, something which helped to blunt the pain of the approaching loss of her father. Romy hadn’t thought anyone had noticed her presence, until Madame Dupree had invited her to tea.
Over two steaming cups and the modiste’s gentle urging, Romy had explained her interest in designing clothing, along with the frustration of not being able to practice her talents. It wasn’t enough for her to dress her sisters and mother on rare occasions. She kept current on fabrics, fashions and even the rumors of a mechanical device which would eliminate sewing by hand. Romy longed to see her designs brought to life.
At the request of Madame Dupree, Romy had arrived the next day at the modiste’s, entering through the back with her portfolio beneath her arm. Madame Dupree had run one perfectly shaped nail along the design for a tea dress and pronounced Romy an artist. Soon after, the two women had reached an understanding.
