Captain Durant's Countess - By Maggie Robinson Page 0,19

entire new wardrobe, just a few things so she wouldn’t be such a dowd. Not that she cared one jot what Captain Durant thought of her. He would soon be taking those dresses off her, anyhow.

There was a knock on the door, and Yvonne entered with refreshments.

“Very well. But humor me, my lady. Allow me to send you one special dress. You will trust me to select the fabric and the color, yes? Think of it as a sample of what I can do to show you to advantage. When you come back to London and have the time, we can sit down with fashion plates. It will take Yvonne no time at all to get her tape. She is very efficient. Please make yourself comfortable. I shall return with the dresses I have on hand, and Yvonne can measure you after you try them on.”

“I . . . all right.” Maris felt beautifully bullied into agreement. Madame Bernard was skilled beyond her artistry with silk and scissors. “I shall pay you for the sample dress, of course.”

Madame Bernard smiled. “Naturellement.” She followed Yvonne out of the room, chattering in rapid French which exceeded Maris’s schoolgirl understanding.

Maris poured the fragrant tea into two cups and passed one to Betsy. The young maid helped herself to an iced cake, but Maris was much too nervous to eat. She always felt awkward at the dressmaker’s. If she had any skill with a needle and thread she would have preferred to sew her own clothes, but she was hopeless.

“This is a fancy place,” Betsy whispered. “Imagine that captain knowing about it.”

“Captain Durant is a most unusual gentleman. Lord Kelby is anxious that he get started on the inventory as soon as possible. He might be staying with us for a month or so.”

“Ooh. He’s very handsome, isn’t he?”

Maris shrugged. “I suppose. But he’s being hired for his historical expertise, not his pretty face.”

“And it is pretty. He’s ever so much nicer than my John.” Betsy bit into her cake, cheerfully deriding the footman she was carrying on with. Maris should have no knowledge of Betsy’s love life, but her maid couldn’t seem to keep her indiscretions to herself. Sometimes Maris felt like the girl’s mother. She was old enough.

Drat. The female servants would probably be swooning every time Captain Durant strutted through the hallways. But by and large, they were grateful to be working in an earl’s household, knew their place, and would keep to it. Henry was a generous employer, as long as someone didn’t meddle with his library.

The household ran like clockwork under the supervision of Amesbury, the butler, and Mrs. O’Neill, the housekeeper. Maris barely had to lift a finger, which was a good thing. Although she’d been raised at Kelby Hall, the intricacies of being a proper countess sometimes eluded her. She was certain a proper countess would not don breeches and dig through hillsides, sweating under the hot Tuscan sun .

Or solicit sexual favors from a complete stranger to perpetrate a fraud.

No, he wasn’t a complete stranger. She was beginning to know the captain a little, even if he flummoxed her.

Maris drank her tea and did not have too long to wait before the women returned, each carrying three gowns.

Maris objected immediately to the rainbow of colors. “I usually wear gray or brown, Madame Bernard.”

“As if I could keep my clientele with such dismal stuff,” the dressmaker said dismissively. “You are still young, if not in the first blush of youth. Thank heavens, for white would wash you out.”

Maris agreed. Her come-out dresses had made her look like a sickly ghost. The earl had financed her debut, cajoling his now-deceased maiden sister to sponsor her and Jane. At twenty, Maris had already been on the shelf and mortally shy in society. Seventeen-year-old Jane had not taken either. Despite being the daughter of a wealthy earl, she was even more reticent than Maris, crippled with a stutter that made the simplest conversation impossible.

Tails tucked between their legs, the girls had returned to Kelby Hall, swearing never to leave its confines again. Within four years, Maris was unexpectedly its chatelaine. Her friend Jane remained a confirmed spinster until David Kelby seduced and abandoned her.

“We shall try the wine silk first, I think,” Madame Bernard said, scattering Maris’s unhappy memories. “Your skin is fashionably pale, so you need no powder. But some rouge and lip salve would not go amiss. Yvonne, show Lady Kelby’s maid our pots and brushes. Between the