What's With the Dress?

Let’s talk about the elephant in the room, shall we? When readers open The Chevalier and His Unlikely Lady, they’re immediately met with an unusual introduction to the novel’s hero: he’s wearing a dress—a ballgown, to be precise.

In a romance novel, that can raise a few eyebrows, spark questions, and even invite some misguided assumptions. Some readers might close the book in disgust, while others may feel a twinge of disappointment later when he vows to leave his unconventional disguise behind. So, I thought it might be helpful to answer a few of those questions right from the start.

"Marie" is a French aristocrat, so that have me a but more license with her ballgown, e.g. adding panniers. Also, she's portraying an older woman, so the bust-minimizing neckline would not be out of place.

Is this a cross-dressing romance?

No, and I’m always a little chagrined when it gets shelved as such. This isn’t a story that centers on cross-dressing as an ongoing identity or hobby. Rather, it’s a story about two people falling in love under wildly unusual circumstances. Mont Trignon makes it clear that “Marie” is a one-time agreement with his commander, the Marquis de Lafayette, not some new permanent persona he’s trying on for size. He’s been recruited by his country to play a part in a very dangerous game.

That said, once Mont Trignon realizes how effective Marie is at helping him get close to Alexandra, he’s not so foolish as to waste the opportunity. His borrowed identity also lets him slip into conversations he would never be privy to as a French cavalry officer. More importantly for the storyline, the dress allows the romantic tension to build in a slow burn as Alex unknowingly confessing her love to the very man she desires, while he does his best to keep his reaction under control—at least as long as he’s wearing a dress.

Where did you come up with the idea then?

Like so many deliciously odd ideas, this one started with a legend. As I understand it, Lafayette really did come to America secretly, slipping away from France in defiance of his king to join the American cause. Over time, as stories tend to do, the tale of his clandestine departure got embellished. In some tellings he came in disguise, in others he came dressed as a woman, and in still others it was his comrades who were supposedly dressed as women. Historians tend to file these versions under “colorful but dubious.” Still, the image is wonderfully evocative—a young aristocrat so determined to reach America that he’s willing to don a gown if that’s what it takes.

When I first wrote this story back in 2012, that legend lodged itself in my imagination. I started thinking: what if one of Lafayette’s men really did agree to such a disguise? What if he stepped into that role reluctantly, only to find himself caught between duty, danger, and a very inconvenient attraction? From there, it was a short hop to Mont Trignon, to Marie, and to Alexandra, who has no idea that her new “friend” is an aristocrat with a sword, a past, and a heart he’s trying not to lose.

Wasn’t there a real cross-dressing chevalier?

Oh yes, absolutely! Around the time I was drafting the original version of this story, I had just finished watching a piece on le Chevalier d’Éon, a real historical figure who lived out the latter years of life publicly as a woman, fencing, scheming, and serving in various capacities while the gossip mills of Europe spun endlessly.

I wasn’t trying to retell d’Éon’s story, but that blend of espionage, performance, and identity stuck with me. There’s something inherently dramatic about a character who must constantly manage how others perceive them. That tension—between who you are, who you pretend to be, and who you might become if you let yourself fall in love—felt like rich soil for a romance. Mont Trignon is not d’Éon, but d’Éon certainly helped inspire my imagination.

Here’s an excerpt from the story:

“So, is this—” she waved a hand toward the discarded gown “—a diversion you often indulge?”

“Thankfully, no. I am no d’Eon de Beaumont.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. I will explain later.” He gave her a half‑smile. “I first became Marie when the marquis needed to escape France. There were eleven of us besides Lafayette. Surrounded by a company of men, he would surely have been noticed. But a Frenchman among women—” he shrugged “—that offends no one’s expectations.”

How on earth does Alex not realize that her good friend is a man?

We all see what we want to see, don’t we? When Alexandra first meets Marie, she isn’t looking for a chevalier in disguise; she’s looking for a companion, an ally, and maybe a safe harbor in the middle of a very unsettled world. Mont Trignon, for his part, is counting on that. He leans on the fact that most people rarely question what fits neatly into their expectations, especially when a friend arrives already wrapped in familiar signals of gender, class, and propriety.

That’s the short answer, but of course there’s more to it than that. Fashion in late eighteenth‑century did a lot of the heavy lifting for him. The dress styles of the period did not emphasize the bustline the way many modern readers imagine. Instead, stays created a conical torso that lifted and supported the bust, producing the kind of “spillage” often evoked in steamier romances.

While Marie is very tall, it’s entirely plausible that she would be relatively small‑busted, and, as an older and more refined woman, she might not be interested in flaunting her assets. Panniers and other skirt supports took care of the hips; they created the fashionable width, rather than the figure underneath. Gloves kept Mont’s hairy arms discreetly out of sight, and long sleeves did the rest.

As for that dreaded five o’clock shadow, I made him blond for a reason. A fair-haired man can get away with a closer shave and a softer jawline in candlelight more easily than a dark-bearded one. And how, you might ask, did he manage such a close shave day after day without Alex catching on? A lady never reveals her secret. Let’s just say that the same kind of narrative license that lets heroes leap from burning buildings without singeing their eyebrows also allows for an improbably smooth cheek in the service of romance.

So why start the romance with a dress at all?

Because romance has always thrived on complication, few complications are more delightful than a hero who begins the story wrapped in both literal and metaphorical layers. That dress is, in many ways, Mont Trignon’s uniform: it keeps him alive, protects the mission, and gives him an excuse to remain close to Alexandra when prudence and propriety might otherwise force him to keep his distance. The irony, of course, is that the very disguise shielding his heart at the outset ultimately places it squarely in her hands.

As the story unfolds and the wider conflict intensifies, the dress becomes less necessary. Mont Trignon and Alexandra are driven from Philadelphia by the British advance, and by the latter half of the book he is just as eager to leave the gown behind as I am. At that point, it is simply Mont Trignon and Alexandra, face to face, with nothing between them but the courage to admit what they feel—and that is where the true heart of this story lies.