“I’m in complete agreement,” Preshea encouraged.
Lady Florence wasn’t convinced. “I do love the swish of a fuller skirt. To narrow them down diminishes a lady’s consequence, don’t you feel?”
“You support the theory that the space formulated by a skirt provides an aura of moral protection?” Miss Pagril’s tone gently mocked her friend’s wholesome upbringing.
“Well, yes, I suppose I do.”
“I have never subscribed to the cage.” Preshea pressed her point through mention of an undergarment, which caused both younger ladies to gasp in titillated horror. “Don’t you find a close silhouette more flattering?”
Under the influence of fashion, the youngest Bicker-Harrow was moved to passion. “Perhaps for you, Lady Villentia, but we are not all blessed with your fine figure.”
Preshea laughed. “I thank you for the compliment, dear child, but I believe you will be similarly flattered by the latest fashions.”
“We can but hope,” said Lady Florence fervently. “I do not even know if I will be out of mourning by then.”
“Will I have the honor of meeting your departed sister?” Preshea felt it only polite to inquire.
“At dinner, most likely.” Lady Florence looked saddened.
“At least Formerly Connie does not have to worry about such things as skirt shape.” Miss Pagril attempted comfort with levity.
It seemed to work. Lady Florence brightened. “Yes, indeed, she chose a lovely dress for eternity, one of her favorite ball gowns. Perhaps too full-skirted for your taste, Lady Villentia.”
“But perfect for her, no doubt.” Preshea could make no other remark.
Miss Pagril returned to the coming mode. “I, for one, am glad to know I will not have to continually watch my skirts. I can’t begin to tell you, Lady Villentia, how many small tables I have overturned simply by walking into a drawing room.”
“Surely you jest.” Preshea snapped open a fan, in a pretense of hiding a smile.
“Truly. I am less interested in the current style than in the inconvenience it causes the wearer.”
Pity, thought Preshea, for she could make something of herself if she only tried.
Lady Blingchester clearly did not share her niece’s reticence. Her gown was of the latest design and ill suited to her complexion. Perhaps Miss Pagril chooses plainer fare in contrast to her aunt? Or perhaps Miss Pagril is of that brash type to declare herself no follower of fashion and, therefore, above it?
“You do not subscribe to the latest pamphlets from Paris?” Preshea probed gently.
“I find they change more swiftly than I do.”
Preshea nodded. “It is better to set trends than to follow them blindly.”
“For you, Lady Villentia, but I’m merely an unmarried girl and paid little attention.” Miss Pagril was remarkably self-aware.
Preshea tilted her head. “You could aspire to become an original.”
This was overheard by the aunt. “Now, now, Lady Villentia, I will not have you encouraging my niece to be fast.”
Preshea pressed a hand to her chest. “Heaven forfend! I was merely encouraging her to be fashionable.”
Lady Blingchester subsided. “Ah, well, with that I must concur. If only she would take interest, she might make a good match. She is fine-looking, if the gentlemen would only look.” She issued Captain Ruthven a pointed glare.
Captain Ruthven had been following the conversation, but bestowing the lion’s share of his attention upon dainty sandwiches, not dainty ladies. He seemed startled to be suddenly included.
Preshea seized upon his discomfort. “Yes, indeed, Captain. I have often wondered if gentlemen truly care for fashion, aside from the pinks and the drones.” The pinks were dandies of the first water, peacocks at play, who paid their dues on Bond Street and showed their wares at Ascot. And the drones followed the dictates of their vampire masters, who insisted everyone be well dressed regardless of gender.
So stalwart a soldier as Captain Ruthven was not to be overset by a direct question. “You see me as I am, Lady Villentia.” He waved his free hand up and down his big frame (the other clutched a loaded plate). He was respectably turned out, clean-shaven, but with no particular effort. His cravat knot was a mere gesture. Surely, he could undo it with one hand. And would. Bad Preshea, do not let your thoughts drift in that direction. Soldiers, efficient and serviceable in all things, even disrobing. Now, really, do stop it. I mean it.
“The fashions of the day are not for me,” he concluded.
“Or you are not for them?” She lowered her gaze coquettishly.
He inclined his head. “Just so.”
Preshea examined him further through her lashes. His valet cared, for his boots were polished and his trousers expertly cut. Perhaps they were not so tight as those favored by society’s elite. Nevertheless, when he shifted, the fabric stretched alarmingly over the massive muscles of his thighs.
Perhaps, Preshea thought, it is best for my wellbeing that he does not take to a high-end tailor. If the fabric were to strain any more, she would be hard pressed to keep her gaze away, partly due to appreciation and partly for fear of his seams bursting.
The conversation flowed genially, coaxed along by Preshea and the occasional quip from Captain Ruthven. The young ladies were honored by the attention of a worldly lady, not to mention an actual gentleman. Lady Blingchester supervised but heard nothing so egregious it required interjection again.