Not Quite Married Read Free Page B

with puffy eyes, a red nose, and a declaration that he was probably undertaking the greatest dressmaking challenge of his life, he seemed to like her.
    Then, late on that first day, when he caught one of his beleaguered assistants sneaking a bit of food and was about to launch into a scalding rebuke, Brien interceded.
    “Monsieur, does not Holy Scripture prohibit muzzling the ox as it treads the grain?”
    Lamont hooted an irreverent laugh and declared he would create for her his very finest . . . which, it soon became clear, was very fine indeed. The next morning, he began to rework and modify the designs she had chosen, to enhance what he called her
    “assets.”
    “My ‘assets’?” she muttered. “That shouldn’t take long.”
    Embarrassment flooded her cheeks as he stared at her, then seized her by the wrist and dragged her before the large pier glass in the chamber set aside for the fittings.
    “First,” he declared, untying her corset and wrenching it tighter,
    “you must be willing to suffer for your beauty. See how this enhances the waist and bosom?”
    She groaned. “And how it restricts breathing.”
    “There will be time for breathing when you are old and withered.” He yanked her petticoat from her and she squealed.

    “Really, Monsieur . . .”
    “Ahhh.” He seemed pleasantly surprised. “Such lovely limbs.
    And trim ankles. We must see that you have lots of dainty slippers to show them off.”
    “Show off my ankles?” She was scandalized.
    “Such an innocent.” The monsieur patted her forgivingly on the head. “You must take care when you go out in the world, eh?
    There are wolves out there.” His eyes twinkled. “And they adore fine ankles.”
    She almost said that her ankles were the only part of her that was in any way “fine,” but she sensed in his genteel exasperation a true compliment and absorbed it.
    Relentlessly, he analyzed her form . . . approving the color of her hair, the clarity of her eyes, and the smoothness of her skin.
    Slowly she began to see herself through his exacting but not unsympathetic eyes. Nicely tapered limbs. Strikingly light eyes.
    Her deficits, she realized, were actually problems of overabundance. Too much hip and waist . . . a bosom that was too bountiful to restrain neatly in the usual straight corset . . .
    By the end of the second day, Brien was filled with conflicting feelings of insecurity and stubborn self-worth, and overwhelmed by the continual scrutiny and the endless choices required of her.
    It was all happening so fast. There were so many changes around her and—she forced herself to admit—within her. She was surprised by how much pleasure the prospect of new garments gave her. But it was unnerving, having every aspect of her form and movement analyzed and discussed at length . . . in her presence.
    She might as well resign herself to such scrutiny, she told herself, thinking of the social ordeal yet to come. A schedule of engagements and entertainments had already been planned. She would be paraded and inspected and assessed and compared. . . .
    And part of the assessing and comparing would be done by her husband-to-be. Her heart skipped a beat. What if he found her homely and rustic in manner and appallingly unsophisticated?
    She refused to be daunted by the thought. After all, as the little monsieur said, she had assets. She peered at herself in the glass over her dressing table. She had no idea what her future husband’s standards might be for a desirable wife, but she always strove to be honest and dutiful . . . was charitable to a fault . . .
    had a nimble wit . . . and was educated beyond the norm.
    Her heart sank.
    If Ella were to be believed, men cared little for such qualities in a woman. They wanted demure smiles, not wit; reverent attention, not conversation; and physical charms, not inner beauty. She sighed and sat down on the bench before her dressing table, staring at the big eyes searching her from the looking