Clio spoke through clenched teeth. “I look ridiculous. You gave Mr. Montague the wrong measurements.”
“No, I didn’t. I gave him just the right measurements.”
“But the gown doesn’t fit her,” Rafe said.
“It will.” Daphne patted her older sister on the cheek. “You’ll see. What with the bridal nerves and all the work to be done, this will be a perfect fit by your wedding day. And if that’s not quite enough . . . ? I’m here to help. We’ll bring back Mother’s game.”
Mother’s game? What the devil was this about?
“I . . .” Clio’s voice broke. “Excuse me, I . . . I need to go upstairs.”
“But you’ve only tried one gown,” Daphne said.
“It’s more than enough for today.” She turned and shuffled down the corridor, heading for the entrance hall.
“You’re not peevish, are you?” Daphne called after her. “I meant to help, you know.” She looked to Rafe, then shrugged and smiled. “She’ll thank me later. You’ll see. From time to time, we all need a little motivation.”
Motivation.
Rafe was feeling motivated. To do just what, he didn’t know. But he was highly motivated to do . . . something. Anything. His blood thundered through his veins.
And then, all the way from the entrance hall, Clio gave him a purpose.
Thunk.
“Curse this wretched gown.”
Clio had suffered a great many mortifications in the past eight years. Smiling through the weeks following Daphne’s elopement, knowing that everyone was whispering about whether it would ever be Clio’s turn. Then there was the first time she’d seen herself called “Miss Wait-More” in the Prattler. That had been miserable, too—surpassed only by the day she’d seen the list of wagers from the betting book at White’s. Dozens of England’s most influential gentlemen, making her elusive wedding date a matter for their sport.
But this? This went beyond everything.
She’d never been more humiliated in her life. Embarrassed by her own sister, desperate to make her escape, hampered by this diabolical gown, and reduced to waddling down the corridor.
Until the hem tripped her, of course.
Then she took tumble number three.
Clio blinked away a scalding tear. Truly, could this be any worse?
“Don’t get up. I’m here.”
Rafe’s voice.
Yes. It could be worse. The most attractive, compelling man of her acquaintance, and the only man to ever look at her with desire in his eyes, could be present to witness it all.
Now her humiliation was complete.
He knelt at her side. “Are you hurt anywhere?”
“Only my pride.” She tried to regain her feet.
“So this is why you wouldn’t eat the cake yesterday.” He took her elbow, steadying her. “You can’t be worried Piers will judge you on your measurements?”
“I’m a woman. Everyone judges us on our measurements.”
And Clio’s mother, God rest her, had never missed an opportunity to remind her of it. Her mother was the daughter of an earl, expected to make an excellent match; yet she’d condescended to marry a naval officer of common birth. If only she’d been a little less stout, she’d once told Clio in confidence . . . she thought she might have married a peer.
Mama was determined her daughters would not fall victim to the same mistake. Daphne and Phoebe were naturally svelte, but Clio’s figure had always tended toward curves.
“My mother had this . . . Well, she called it a game. We started playing it just as soon as I’d been engaged to Piers. She would have my dinner sent up to the room on a tray. Each course on a separate plate. And then she would drill me on whatever we’d studied that afternoon. French grammar, Bavarian etiquette, the correct forms of address for Hanoverian royalty. She’d ask me question after question, and for each mistake I made, she took one dish from my tray, starting with dessert. Some nights, I made so many mistakes that I had no dinner at all. Only broth. Other nights, I had three or four courses. But I never managed to keep my dessert.”