Gabby twinkled at her. She was starting to rather like the irascible Frenchwoman. “I can see it,” she continued. “You shall transform me from a…a mouse into a queen, and when I enter the ballroom on Peter’s arm, all the London folk will fall to the side and gasp. They will have one question, and one question only, on their minds: Who made Miss Jerningham’s gown?”

Gabby was getting quite caught up in her own story. She lowered her voice. “I won’t tell them immediately,” she promised. “I shall keep them poised in anticipation, longing to know the name of the modiste who effected my transformation.”

The corner of Madame’s mouth twitched. “You don’t give a bean about clothing, do you, Miss Jerningham?”

“No,” Gabby admitted. “But I am willing to try to care, given that it seems important to Peter.”

“There is one great truth to fashion,” Madame said frankly. “If a woman has no sense of presence, the most beautiful clothing in the world will do nothing for her. I have clothed a debutante in an exquisite creation and known—known—that men would pay no attention to her that evening. But you—well, men do pay attention to you, do they not?”

“I have no idea,” Gabby replied. “My father rarely allowed me to encounter members of the male gender. And it’s really of no consequence, given that I am to marry Peter.”

“Yes,” Madame said. Her face seemed troubled for a second. “Be that as it may,” she said, “I shall make a new fashion for you. And I guarantee, Miss Jerningham, that I will make the men of London beg to kiss the tips of your slippers.”

“That sounds very pleasant,” Gabby observed, grinning.

Madame gave one of her rare snorts of laughter. “You are an Original, Miss Jerningham. I am feeling very, very different about this commission than I did earlier.”

“Thank you,” Gabby said.

WHEN PETER SAW his future bride walking before him out of Madame Carême’s establishment, her arm tucked into that of the Duchess of Gisle, he felt as if his life were passing before his eyes.

Gabby looked like a pumpkin: a round, round pumpkin. The cloth of her gown was ready to split around her chest. In fact, Peter was mortified to find out just how much of a chest the girl had. Women shouldn’t be so well-endowed. He shuddered to think what his future wife would look like in an evening gown, without fabric to cover up all that flesh. As Gabby walked before him, her skirts bunched at the hips, and the fur at the bottom of her gown swung back and forth. Her stride is too long, Peter thought. She does not walk like a lady.