Page 49 of The Lyon's Pretty Pugilist

Josie swallowed the lump in her throat.

“Lydia, the arrogant cow who was his fiancée, broke their engagement because he returned home. But he had no choice. Mother and Father are akin to helpless children. We had to sell our townhouse, and our family seat is crumbling around us.”

Truth be told, Josie was thrilled that Nicolas hadn’t married thecow.

“I never favored Lydia.” Bridget’s nose wrinkled as if she was smelling the rubbish bin. “She was a superficial, simpering cow. He is better off without her.”

Josie was definitely a heartless shrew since she was glad about Nicolas’s broken engagement.

Bridget’s gaze landed on something over Josie’s shoulder, and her eyes lit up. “Come.”

She grabbed Josie’s hand and pulled her toward the far corner where Madame stood between Agatha and Diana. The three of them stared at a shiny emerald satin.

“What do you think, Josephine?” Agatha asked.

Overwhelmed by the choices, Josie simply nodded.

“I will put three of my best seamstresses on it, and I shall have it for you in a few days,” Madame said. “I suggest an empire-style dress with a low neckline and cap sleeves. A layer of emerald lace and tiny emerald crystals embroidered into the bodice would be the height of fashion.”

“I agree,” Agatha said.

Agatha and Bridget grinned. Even Diana looked pleased. However, Josie’s mouth was too dry to form saliva, swallow, or smile.

They were escorted to one of the upstairs rooms where Madame and her seamstresses fussed over Josie, measuring every inch of her body and fashioning a muslin gown to serve as a pattern.

By the time they’d finished, perspiration beaded Josie’s forehead and coated her thighs. Unfortunately, she oozed foul-smelling sweat while the other ladies remained the picture of crisp gentility. Even if she showed up at the ball in a gorgeous gown, she’d soak it in seconds. She should flee the shop, sprint down the street, and keep running until she reached Coach and Franny.

Perhaps Agatha read her mind because she grasped Josie’s forearm. “It will all work out in the end, my dear girl. Please don’t fret. I will be by your side.”

“As will I,” Bridget said.

“You will look lovely, miss,” Diana said. “I will see to it.”

Madame nodded. “You will be the envy of every woman attending Lady Helena’s. Every debutante will covet your gown.”

Only if Josie didn’t sweat, bleed, or spill punch all over it.

By the timethey descended the stairway, Josie was exhausted. She’d run fifteen miles in sleet every day if she never had to spend another afternoon having her body poked, prodded, measured, and discussed.

Grabbing Josie’s hand, Bridget halted. “Heavens, no. It can’t be.”

Agatha grasped Josie’s opposite elbow. “We must not give her the direct cut.” She leaned close to whisper, “Although I would like to.”

“I’d prefer to punch her in the nose,” Bridget said. “Josie, you must teach me to jab.”

Josie perused the shop looking for who they were talking about. Perhaps it was the tall, thin, blonde in the pink dress headed towardthem, a brunette on either side of her?

Apparently so, since the three women met them toe to toe, like two armies converging on a battlefield.

“Lady Davenport, Bridget, how lovely to see you both,” the blond woman said in a nasally affected voice that grated Josie’s nerves.

Lady Davenport’s smile wouldn’t fool anyone who knew her. Whoever these women were, her delight was feigned. Holy bollocks, even her eye twitched.

“Lydia, when did you return?” Bridget asked with a scowl.

Lydia?As in Nicolas’s Lydia. As in his ex-fiancée,who was supposed to be in Italy?

Bridget squeezed Josie’s hand so hard that Josie’s fingers ached.