The Virtuous Ward - By Karla Darcy Page 0,31

successful debut.

"Lady Jersey has agreed to send you a voucher to Almack's," he announced, casting his eyes up to the ceiling and heaving a long sigh. "Now I shall be squiring you to the most boring of functions."

"Tis treasonous to speak such words," Amity said, shaking her head at her guardian's pose. "I am in high alt to have received such an honor. Can't you tell by my serious demeanor?"

Max's eyes twinkled across the breakfast table. "It has occurred to me that you desire to cozen me by such behavior. Your eyes tell another story. Behind the sparkling color, mischief is apparent, just waiting to burst forth."

"La, sir, you malign me." Amity pouted, her face pulled into an expression of demure innocence.

"Baggage!"

On that happy note they exchanged smiles and began to talk of the evening past. Max informed her that bouquets of flowers and engraved invitations had arrived while she slept, proof positive of her acceptance. He asked her plans for the day and, when she told him she must visit Madame Bertoldi for final fittings on her wardrobe, offered the carriage. He debated telling her of his discussion with Honoria concerning the ball gown but could not bear to criticize her in the face of her happiness. Time enough to discuss her stubborn refusal of Honoria's well-meant advice. As she blew him a kiss and scampered from the room, he returned to his coffee, surprised that he found little joy in the empty room now that the girl was gone. It was almost as if she had taken the sunshine with her when she left.

Collecting Betta and her bonnet and pelisse, Amity set off for the establishment of the modiste, Madame Bertoldi. When she arrived, she dismissed the carriage and entered the shop. She discovered the plump little woman lecturing a clerk over the placement of a particular bolt of fabric. Amity smiled at the darting hand gestures and flashing black eyes of the formidable Madame. When the woman became aware of her presence, a hint of wariness in the little Frenchwoman's eyes told Amity all that she needed to know about the wardrobe being prepared for her. The woman patted down her dress and tucked a greying strand of black hair into her disordered bun and crossed the floor. Amity felt sorry for the woman who had been caught between Honoria and an unknown customer and set out to allay the seamstress' fears.

"Madame, a moment of your time." Amity pitched her voice low so as not to be overheard by the curious assistants who hovered beyond the woman. "I have come to you to apologize for my foolishness?"

The woman blinked several times, thrown off balance by the young lady's words. "A-apologize?" she stammered.

Leaning forward as though confessing a shameful secret, Amity continued, "I have been very stupid, Madame. In my excitement over choosing my own garments, I have not listened to the voice of experience in my dealings with you. It is only now that I realize I should have spoken to you earlier but I am hoping that you will find it in your heart to forgive my youthful ignorance."

The sharp black eyes searched Amity's face and her perception of the situation was immediate. "It is the wardrobe, n'est pas ?"

"Yes, Madame. I fear that it will not do." She placed her hand on the agitated woman's arm, keeping her tone firm to command her attention. "The bills I have incurred will be paid regardless. It is the realization that perhaps I might convince you to give me the benefit of your knowledge in striving for a more sophisticated look that has brought me to you today."

Once the practical Frenchwoman realized she would lose nothing financialy, she capitulated In moments Amity was ensconced in her private sitting room with a cup of hot chocolate and a smiling Madame hovering over her. Assistants scurried about the room, laying out the nearly completed wardrobe on all the surfaces of the furniture. Looking at the dresses with a more objective eye, Amity had to admire the cleverness of Honoria. Each outfit was beautiful in itself but each one had one feature that made it unsuitable for Amity. In some cases the color of the dress washed out her own natural complexion, giving her a ghostlike quality. In others the style of the dress was inappropriate or the trim clashed with her red hair.

"What a waste," Amity muttered.

"C'est vrai ," Madame responded over her shoulder.

Turning to the woman, Amity smiled. "My