FREE! In The Arms of My Enemy (Completed!) Book 1

Day with the Dragon

Fidelia was going to murder her mother-in-law.

It was only a matter of time, she swore to herself as she stood on the dressmaker's pedestal. Three large mirrors before her showed her in an empire-waisted gown of pale ivory that accentuated her tall, slender frame. The devil of a woman paced behind her, furiously scolding Fidelia for what she referred to as "that morning's mayhem."

And for the breakfast blunders.

And for the tea tirade.

Now Fidelia wondered what fun new words the countess was think­ing up for the dress fitting, which would inevitably end in homicide if that horrid dressmaker didn't stop poking Fidelia's rear end with pins each time Fidelia shifted to relieve her numb feet. At first, the dressmaker had praised Fidelia's slim figure, saying that it would per­fectly display the gown's design, which was meant to imitate Roman and Grecian columns, but her pleased expression had quickly soured when Fidela proved ornery.

The countess continued. "After the dress fitting, we shall begin your speech lessons, and if you make progress with that, we might have time to improve your table manners."

"Speech lessons?" Fidelia squawked when the dressmaker stabbed her rear end yet again.

"Yes, Lady Greyville, to rid you of that ghastly American accent," the countess said, raising an eyebrow in challenge.

Fidelia drew a deep breath, preparing to berate the woman once again, but Lottie interceded by stepping between them. "Perhaps Fidelia could sit down, and we could fit my dresses? I have so looked forward to the new gowns that William promised." She pursed her lips at Fidelia, clearly begging her sister to remain calm. They had been wear­ing the countess's cast-off gowns from previous seasons, but Fidelia was a good hand too tall and Lottie was more shapely, so new clothes were desperately needed.

"But this hemline needs to be perfect!" the dressmaker protested. "Lady Greyville is unfortunately tall. I need to do my measurements again." She poked Fidelia again with a pin.

"Ouch!" Fidelia spun around and wrenched the pin from the wom­an's scaly hand. "You stab me again, I swear that I'll—"

"Fidelia! Manners!" the countess said, clapping her hands together sharply.

The noise made Fidelia's ears ring, and she snapped her mouth closed.

"Lottie, you may have your gowns fitted now." The countess ges­tured for the frightened dressmaker to back away from Fidelia. The woman happily acquiesced.

Fidelia brushed Lottie's hand gratefully and stumbled off the po­dium. With a heavy sigh, she collapsed on the settee, wrinkling her ivory muslin. Lottie took her place, her eyes bright with excitement as the dressmaker began discussing options for the neckline and colors that would complement Lottie's golden hair. Fidelia felt a prick of guilt that she hadn't been able to provide her sister with the fine things that seemed to suit the girl so well.

"How long will the sewing take?" Lottie asked excitedly. "I wager that I could invent a machine to cut that time in half!" Her excited chatter brought a smile to Fidelia's lips. That girl certainly had a knack for invention, but a machine to sew dresses was too fanciful to imagine.

"What on earth are you babbling on about?" the countess asked, circling the pedestal to peer at Lottie.

"I invent things. Someday I'll be as famous of an inventor as Benjamin Franklin or Oliver Evans!" Lottie said eagerly, not even de­terred when the dressmaker poked her with a pin.

The countess paled. "An inventor? Truly, what sort of women does your country produce?" She threw her hands up into the air with exas­peration. "Invention is for men, not for pretty young girls like yourself. And who is this Oliver Evans?"