“For you,” she said simply, lifting the emerald fabric she had draped over one arm, and then shaking it out so it unfolded.
“Oh…” She just blinked.
It was a gown–the color of new leaves after rain. Not quite emerald, not forest…
Rosamund reached out but caught herself, fingers hovering a bare inch from the silk. And then she shook her head. “I cannot. I mean, it’s likely not the right size anyway…”
Mrs. Wetherby appeared from around the corner, cheeks pink and eyes merry. “It’ll fit just fine. We’ve matched it to yours. But also, a bath has been prepared, waiting for you in the dressing room, miss,” she announced, pushing open a door Rosamund hadn’t even noticed. “A proper hot one.”
“For me?”
“The gown and the bath,” the housekeeper said. “By the duke’s orders.”
The duke’s orders?
Rosamund nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and followed Mrs. Wetherby to the dressing room where she was met with lavender scented steam and a shiny copper tub.
“I am not seeking a wife... “ he’d said. And then pushed her away because he didn’t trust himself.
But before that, he had, in fact, kissed her back.
On his lips, her name had sounded like a prayer.
And now he’d ordered a bath and a gown so beautiful that it made her breath catch.
What was she to take from all that?
She wriggled out of the soiled gown, sank into the water, and closed her eyes. Perhaps she was foolish. Perhaps she was too tired.
Definitely too tired–imagining that she could live out a fairytale.
And yet… time was running out.
And then a thought came to her.
Cinderella had lied about who she was, pretended to be someone she was not.
And even Cinderella had been granted her special night at the ball.
Did this mean he intended to join her for dinner?
Rosamund’s heart skipped a beat. He’d warmed up over the last few days. Things between the two of them had been friendly…
More than friendly.
Perhaps he’d forgiven her for kissing him. Perhaps it was an apology for snapping…
With a quiet exhale, Rosamund rose, dried herself, and then stepped into the new gown draped across her bed.
The silk slid over her skin, settling where it pleased, but just as she’d managed to fasten the first two hooks, the maid slipped in and without fuss, took up the place behind her, fingers quick and practiced.
“That’s rather snug,” the girl murmured, pausing. “You won’t be able to breathe like that.”
“I know,” Rosamund said easily. “It’s better if I can?—”
She slipped both hands beneath her bosom and lifted just enough—an old, practiced adjustment—settling herself so the fabric accommodated her, not the other way around. The bodice eased at once, the pressure gone, and she drew a full, grateful breath.
The maid’s hands paused for half a heartbeat. Then she resumed fastening the hooks, brisk and without remark.