Having successfully restrained the two most dangerous beasts of the age—the American bull and the Russian bear—by entirely different means, Arthur Lionheart at last permitted himself a rare interlude of leisure, one in which he could turn his attention inward.
And the first domestic matter demanding his consideration was neither industry nor reform.
It was fashion.
More precisely—his Queen's wardrobe.
Buckingham Palace
The Queen's Private Drawing Room
The atmosphere was… strained.
Queen Victoria stood before a towering full-length mirror, encased in the latest spring court gown delivered from Paris. It was an object of extreme labor and excessive luxury.
A vast whalebone crinoline spread the skirt to an absurd width. Lace, ribbons, ruffles, and embroidery cascaded downward in suffocating abundance. Her corset had been tightened so mercilessly that it required the assistance of four ladies-in-waiting merely to fasten it.
Breathing was optional.
Arthur sat nearby, observing in silence.
"Well?" Victoria asked at last, hopeful but cautious. "This is the height of Parisian fashion. Prime Minister Thiers himself wrote to say it was designed especially for me. Do I look… fitting?"
Arthur studied her carefully.
She resembled a magnificent ceremonial cake—ornate, impressive, and entirely immobile.
He attempted a polite smile.
Failed.
He shook his head, honestly.
"No," he said. "You do not."
Victoria's expression darkened instantly.
"What do you mean no?! This is Paris' finest!"
"My love," Arthur rose and approached her, gesturing gently toward her constricted waist and the enormous skirt occupying half the room. "Forgive my ignorance, but I cannot fathom why noblewomen are expected to resemble overdecorated Christmas trees."
"Can you walk unaided in this? Can you bend to embrace our children? Can you breathe without negotiation?"
"This is not beauty," he said calmly. "It is ritualized suffering."
Victoria's eyes reddened.
"You barbarian!" she protested, striking his chest with small, furious fists. "You know nothing of fashion! This is elegance—this is nobility!"
Arthur caught her hand, smiling softly.
"I may not understand this fashion," he replied, "but I understand beauty."
He led her across the room to a writing desk.
Upon it lay several sealed portfolios.
"I did not design anything myself," he said lightly, opening them. "But I commissioned the finest tailors in London,—and I gave them only one instruction."
Victoria leaned closer.
Inside were sketches unlike anything she had ever seen.
No exaggerated crinolines.
No suffocating ornamentation.
Instead—clean lines. Balanced silhouettes. Luxurious fabrics allowed to speak for themselves.
Most striking of all was the high-waisted cut, rising just beneath the bust. It lengthened the figure, straightened the posture—and liberated the abdomen entirely from the tyranny of corsetry.
"This…" Victoria murmured, uncertain. "Is it not too simple? Too… bold for a Queen?"
Arthur smiled with quiet confidence.
"You must remember," he said gently, "you wear the dress. The dress does not wear you."
"A true Queen's authority comes from presence, not decoration. You do not need excess to prove worth."
"You stand—and fashion follows."
He withdrew a final sketch.
A riding ensemble: deep navy blue. Tailored jacket. Elegant breeches. A black top hat.
"Imagine," Arthur said softly, mischief warming his voice, "riding your white horse across the lawns of Windsor. Unbound. Unafraid. Free."
"That woman," he added, meeting her eyes, "is infinitely more beautiful than one imprisoned in a gilded cage."
Victoria stared at the image.
Something long restrained—by tradition, by expectation—shifted within her.
Yes.
This was what she wanted.
Freedom. Confidence. Grace without pain.
Two Weeks Later
Buckingham Palace — Royal Afternoon Tea
Europe's most powerful women gathered at the Queen's invitation.
When Queen Victoria entered, wearing a high-waisted gown of flowing silk—commissioned under Arthur Lionheart's exacting direction—the room fell silent.
She looked reborn.
Her movements were light. Her posture regal yet relaxed. Her presence radiant.
No crinoline.
No corset.
Only authority.
When she later reappeared in the navy riding ensemble—poised, daring, unmistakably sovereign—the noblewomen gasped aloud.
"How extraordinary!"
"So elegant!"
"This is infinitely superior to Parisian excess!"
Across the room, the French ambassador's wife watched in grim silence.
She understood immediately.
Paris' ancient throne as the capital of fashion was trembling.
Conversation abandoned jewels and gossip for a single question:
"Your Majesty—where was this made?"
Victoria smiled serenely, lifting her teacup.
"My husband," she said, "commissioned it according to his vision. He calls it Neo-Classical Minimalism."
"He believes the fashion of the future must serve the freedom of the body."
And so—
Without firing a single shot,
Arthur Lionheart ignited a revolution.
Through patronage, taste, and influence, Victorian style began to eclipse French dominance across Europe.
This was soft power.
To command the wardrobes of the world was merely another step toward commanding the world itself.
And the women—unwitting, enthusiastic—became his most loyal admirers.