“I’m used to it,” Rosamund added, a touch rueful.
“You’re lucky,” Tilly said, securing the last hook. “Mine might as well be mosquito bites.”
Rosamund blinked, then smiled earnestly. “I think mosquito bites would be rather lovely.”
That earned a laugh.
They spent the next few moments trading the respective merits andinconveniences of each condition—ease of movement versus ease of fit—until Tilly smoothed Rosamund’s skirts, gave a final, approving tug at the waist, and turned her gently toward the looking glass.
They both fell quiet.
The woman reflected there was not transformed—only revealed. The green of the gown sharpened her coloring, echoed her eyes. The bodice framed her curves without apology. Her freckles stood out vividly against her skin, and her hair, pinned back in a loose knot, softened her features rather than hiding them.
“If you don’t mind my saying, I think you’re perfectly lovely as you are,” the maid said, smiling.
She then wished Rosamund a good night and slipped out.
Leaving Rosamund alone.
Borrowed silk, she reminded herself. Borrowed circumstance.
Still, the effect was undeniable. Unsettling.
“It’s only for tonight,” she told her reflection with a shiver.
One evening. One memory.
That, she could allow herself.
REGRETS AND CANDOR
The dining room was already prepared when Rosamund arrived. Candles burned evenly at the end of the table, their light catching in the crystal and polished silver, everything laid out with careful symmetry.
Though two places were set, aside from Wallace, the dining room stood empty.
Rosamund smoothed her skirts and took her seat, chiding herself for ever imagining tonight might be different from the others.
Disappointment did not quite cover it.
She adjusted her plate, aligned her fork with unnecessary precision, and reached for her wine. But just as the glass touched her lips, a prickle ran down her spine.
She lowered it slowly and turned toward the door.
The Duke of Bexley, it seemed, would be joining her for dinner after all.
He wore black, stark and severe, his waistcoat pressed, his cravat tied in a perfect knot.
Rosamund’s fingertips touched the skin just below her neck.
That single lock of black hair fell forward against the hard line of his jaw, and the patch was back in place.
“Good evening, Miss Belle.”
A bow—short, elegant—and then he crossed the room to take his place beside her at the head of the table.
“Good evening, Your Grace.” She dropped her gaze, unsure of how to act. Of what to say.
The footmen moved silently about, laying the first course before them—an aromatic tureen of white soup, delicate and steaming. Rosamund forced herself to take a few spoonfuls while the duke simply ate.