To Dishonour A Duke

Chapter Thirteen

"Do you require any assistance with your dress?" 

Clara opens one eye to see Lucy standing over her with a cotton robe dropped over her arm. She sighs, swirling the fragrant bath water with her hand, the rich aroma of lavender and bergamot steaming into the air. Having spent the last hour lounging in hot water, the last remains of Dante's cell have been scrubbed from her skin, but his fingermarks still seem to burn on her skin, imprinted below the surface. Holding onto the side of the bath, Clara wobbles on the slippery surface as she steps out and takes the robe from the maid, wrapping herself up. 

"Does Eliza not use you to dress?" She asks, pulling her damp hair free from the collar and wringing out the droplets of water. 

"Not always," Lucy replies, nodding to the maids at the door who swoop into the room and efficiently remove the bathtub. 

Clara nods and pads over to open up her wardrobe. "And how is your skill with hair?" 

"Hair?" Lucy repeats, her eyes lighting up, "I used to constantly practice on my sisters. I can do  plaits but you may have to tell me the best places to stick the pins for all the jewels and that."

"That will do perfectly then," Clara says, satisfied. The room is quiet for a moment as she considers the dresses hung in front of her. Their beautiful colours and sparking gems cause memories of happier times to creep into her sorrowful mind, but she quickly shakes them and pulls out a royal blue gown. She turns around and holds up the garment for the maid's approval.  

"I've never seen anything like this" Lucy gasps, tiptoeing forward as she holds her hand out to touch. "What is it made from?"

"French silk." Clara answers, "Made by the most talented hand of Rose Bertin, deemed the Minister of Fashion by Marie Antoinette herself. Her eye for fashion is seemly unrivalled."

Lucy seems quite stunned. "It's beautiful."

"Quite." Clara agrees, holding the dress to her frame and scrutinising the effect in the mirror. "I had to beg my brother for this dress. He thought it an unnecessary expense to have a dress sent over from France, but I swayed him." Her voice sinks with sadness as an old memory is brought back, James's smiling and proud face in the forefront of her mind. 

"But how can you put a price on something so...royal?" Lucy asks, admiring the dark blue stitching that swirls across the bodice and skirt in an ivy design. 

"Men often do not understand the value of a dress," Clara explains, jolted back into the present, "They may deem that a dress beautiful, or see the flaws in a cheaply made gown, but they do not understand the confidence the right dress can provide to a woman as they are too entitled to find conviction in such a simple way. They were born confident, what use is clothing to them when a naked man in Buckingham palace is thought more highly of, and trusted, than a woman wearing the finest of gowns." 

Unknowing what to say, Lucy takes the dress and hangs it up on the back of the door, smoothing out the wide billowing skirts, the silk rippling under her touch. Her longing is evident upon her face as wistful thought trail through her mind. Clara narrows her eyes as she sinks in front of her vanity table, taking in her bare, flushed face. She spots the first indication of a blemish under the right side of her nose and a flicker of doubt tries to sway her evening plans. 

 "The mistress thought you may like to borrow a few things of hers." Lucy declares as she places a leather box, about the size of a book, on the table and opens it. Inside is a collection of makeup; rouges, paints and kol, all barely touched. "She never wears them and thought they would be of more use to you." 

"Please remind me to thank her." Clara murmurs, picking out a light peach shade of rouge and holding it up to her face. A smile crosses her face as she finds a pale nude lip colour at the bottom, the perfect pale pink for a natural look, and a darker face powder to cover the growing problem by her nose. Her fingers dance across the brushes and tools, a sense of contentment settling in her stomach as she begins to transform her face.