The girl only gives a very adolescent hint of an eye roll. “Yes, my lord. You do overthink the matter if you want my opinion. You could dance with her in the village square, and no tongues would wag.”
“Perhaps, but I have chosen a more discreet path, and I thank you for understanding that. Now, I am off to prepare myself for the evening. I will expect Lady Dale downstairs at”—he checks his watch—“quarter past eight.”
Mary promises I’ll be ready, and William withdraws, shutting the door behind him. A soft mew from the hall. I remember this is the room where the kittens sleep, but when I look, their box has been moved.
I turn to Mary, who seems to be waiting for a proper greeting. I give one and thankfully resist the urge to offer a handshake. She’s looking at me again with that odd expression, the one that has me glancing in the mirror to confirm that nothing betrays my time-traveler status.
“Is everything all right?” I ask. “I know this is an unusual situation, but Lord Thorne really does prefer to stay at home, and I did not think an unescorted visit would be terribly scandalous.” I smile. “I am a widow, after all.”
“You are . . . not what I expected, my lady. That is all.”
My brows rise.
“You are older than I thought you would be,” she says. “You must be nearly thirty.”
I laugh. I have to. She says it with such forthrightness, only coloring slightly as I laugh.
“I meant no offense, my lady,” she adds.
“None taken,” I say. “I am actually flattered if you think I’m only nearing thirty. I believe Lord Thorne mentioned we were childhood friends?”
Her cheeks redden. “Oh, yes. He did. I should have thought . . .” Her gaze sweeps over me appraisingly. “You do not look his age. It must be very fine air in the Americas. Lord Thorne told me you lived there for a time with your late husband.”
“I did,” I say. “Long enough that I acclimated to American life, so you will need to excuse my accent and any odd turns of phrase or manners.”
She nods. “That’s what Lord Thorne told me.”
He’s been clever. It’s no mistake that he’s chosen such a young girl to help me, one who will have little experience with either Americans or women of nobility.
“I will also admit something terribly scandalous,” I say, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I did not leave my lady’s maid at home. I do not actually have one. We didn’t keep one in America, and I do plan to hire one here, but I haven’t quite found the time. So you will need to forgive me if I have forgotten the finer points of being dressed for an English ball.”
Her eyes widen. “I’ll be no help there, ma’am. I’ve never even seen one myself.”
I wink at her. “Well, then it’s a good thing Lord Thorne hasn’t attended one in a while, either. We’ll muddle through, and I suspect he’ll be none the wiser as long as my dress isn’t backward.”
She laughs at that and lifts her basket. “We’ll have no trouble with the dress. I’m a seamstress by trade. That’s what I’m mostly here for—to be sure the dress fits properly. I’ve also brought a hair iron and pins and a bit of face paint. I’ve never been to a ball, but I do dress my sisters for the village dances.”
“Excellent. Then let us begin with the dress.”
Her gaze moves to another article of clothing, this one on a side table. The corset.
I sigh. “Yes, I nearly forgot that. Tried to, at least.”
That makes her laugh, and she assures me she won’t tighten the stays more than necessary.
“We aren’t in London,” she says. “I hear they lace them so tight there that ladies faint at balls. I don’t know why they just don’t make the dresses larger. Fortunately, Lord Thorne chose one with a generous cut.”
I’m about to make a joke about that when I look at Mary—who is larger than me—and hold my tongue. On a conscious level, I know that I shouldn’t fret about my weight. I’m healthy and active. When I feel the need to joke about my extra twenty—or thirty—pounds, I’m succumbing to cultural pressure when the truth is that I’m happy and comfortable and haven’t actively tried to lose weight since I met Michael. This is how I’m built, and I need to quit the self-effacing comments. At best, they’re a sign of low self-esteem. At worst, they seem like a cry for validation.
I tuck my sandals away quickly enough that if Mary notices, she dismisses them as some strange American fashion. My undergarments are a larger issue. I play shy and get her to turn away until I can stuff my bra away and yank a chemise over my underwear. I should have drawers on, but there aren’t any here, and again, I can only hope she presumes that, under the chemise, I’m wearing a short pair, another American fashion.
I slide into the corset, and Mary tightens it just enough that I can look into the mirror and be very pleased with a modest smoothing of my figure and rounding of my breasts. Next should come the under-petticoat, followed by the crinolines and the over-petticoat, but we’re missing both petticoats, and I’m not unhappy about that.
The dress fits like a dream, though Mary still tut-tuts and fusses with it, pinning to achieve a tighter bodice. The neckline plunges lower than I like, and I tug it up when she’s not looking. Otherwise, the fabric flows over me, hugging and accentuating my curves in a waterfall of shimmering copper.
As Mary pins and stitches the dress, she prattles nonstop, encouraged by my questions about village life. While I don’t ask about William specifically, she takes pains to let me know how generous and kind he is.
“Like all the Thornes,” she says as she sews. “We’ve been lucky in High Thornesbury. Lord Thorne may have his strange ways, and outsiders may whisper, but we are pleased to have a lord who stays close, especially when he is such a fine gentleman.”
She pulls the thread tight. “I know you have lived abroad, ma’am, so you may not have heard the whispers. You will, though. My ma says society ladies gossip even more than we village folk. Pay it no heed. The lord has his ways, and that makes people invent vicious stories. Everyone in the village knows there’s no truth to them.”
I could ask for details, and I have no doubt she’d tell me everything. However, I am almost certain the scandal involves a woman . . . possibly more than one. Whatever William’s eccentricities, he’s popular with the ladies, as August made clear when I overheard their discussion. William might have his “strange ways,” but that combination of outer roughness and inner kindness would mean he’d have no shortage of willing paramours.
William’s past affairs are his own business, and I’m glad he wasn’t lonely in that regard. Yet with a romantic evening ahead of us, this isn’t the time I want details of his past, any more than he’d like me reminiscing tonight about my life with Michael.
I’ll hear the stories later, and I’d rather get them from William himself. I’m glad, though, that he has the village’s support. If they believed the worst of him, his isolation would be so much less bearable.
I insist on applying my own makeup. As much as I enjoyed having someone dress me and alter my gown, I’m not quite so keen on a nineteenth-century teenager putting on my makeup. I do that, and Mary watches with great interest, asking questions about my American techniques.
Next comes hair, and I’m happy to return to the role of princess-for-a-day, letting Mary take over. She oohs and aahs over my hair, the thickness of it, the natural curl. I’ve always thought my hair was my best feature, and I’ve refused to cut it short as I grow older. I’ve also refused to dye it. My friends see that as bravery, which always makes me laugh. No, it’s as much vanity as leaving it long or refusing to flat-iron it. I like the curls, and I like the threads of white weaving through it, and I don’t care if neither is fashionable.
Mary brushes my hair until it gleams. Then she parts it in the center and twists it into a chignon at the back with tendrils hanging around my face. Each of those tendrils gets individual attention with tongs heated in the fireplace and a spritz of sugar water to hold the c
url in place. William left a gorgeous copper comb for my hair, and Mary marvels over it before attaching it to the chignon.
It is only then that Mary allows me to walk to the mirror. I look at my reflection and . . .
I’ve confessed my Victorian ball fantasies to William. Even when I was fifteen, they were only fantasies. Deep down, I’d always been certain that if I ever got the chance to dress for a ball, it would be like putting on a witch or a ballerina costume for Halloween. In my mind, I’d be magically transformed, but when I looked in the mirror, I’d see only a game of dress-up.
Today, I expect to see Bronwyn Dale, twenty-first-century history professor playing at nineteenth-century lady. But the woman looking back from the mirror has stepped from the pages of a Victorian novel.
The woman in that mirror belongs here, in this place, in this time. All these years I’ve spent traveling to William’s world, I’ve never really felt as if I belonged. Now, I do. In that mirror is Lady Dale, widowed childhood friend of Lord Thorne, dressed to accompany him to the ball in a gown of copper and black, hair tumbling over her back, cheeks pink with carmine, brown eyes sparkling with no need of cosmetics.
Mary hurries over and tugs my dress and adjusts my curls though I see nothing wrong with either. I let her fuss. Then the clock strikes the quarter-hour, and my head shoots up.
“William,” I murmur.
I realize I’ve called him by his first name, and my cheeks heat, but Mary only giggles and hurries to the door. She opens it with a sweep of her hand, motioning me through.
22
I step into the hall and make my way toward the stairs. The dress reminds me of my wedding gown, the weight of the fabric, the swoosh of it across the floor. My steps slow to a dignified pace in case I trip over the hem.
I reach the top of the stairs, and William is below. I can see only the cuffs of his black trousers and his shoes as he waits. I take a deep breath and begin my descent, one gloved hand on the railing, my gaze on his shoes . . . and then his legs . . . and then his evening jacket as it comes into view. When I see his face, I stop. I must, or I’ll pitch down the stairs, my traitorous knees giving way. William grins, his face lighting like a boy’s, and I’m suddenly lightheaded, gripping the railing.
Concern flashes across his features, dissipating with relief when I smile. Still clutching the railing, I descend the last few steps as the glow in his face washes over me, making me feel like every heroine in every romance novel, seeing her would-be lover’s face light up at the sight of her dressed for the ball.
On the last step, he takes my hand, raising it as he leads me toward him, his gaze traveling over me.
“You look . . .” He doesn’t finish. His gaze darts back up the stairs, and I glance over to see Mary peeking down. At a stern look from him, she retreats.
“Let me try that again,” he says, his voice lower. He takes my other hand, lifting it, looking me over from toe to head in a slow sweep that says more than words could. He leans toward my ear and whispers, “You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”
My throat closes, and before I can respond, he pulls something from his pocket and murmurs, “This will be gilding the lily, but . . .”
He lifts a necklace, and my breath catches. It’s a huge sapphire, ringed with diamonds, the central stone suspended in a scrollwork of diamond-studded threads. Below the sapphire, still more diamonds hang, arranged in flowers. And because, clearly, that wasn’t nearly enough diamonds, the entire chain is comprised of, yes, diamonds. It is a thing of dreams, the sort of piece that would have even me pressed to the museum glass, heart beating, mind strumming with fantasies of feeling those cool jewels slide around my neck.
“That’s . . . that’s . . .”
His lips twitch. “A pretty bauble?”
My mouth works, and all I can manage is a squeaked, “It’s incredible.”
“Then it has found the perfect setting.” He lifts it to my neck. “May I?”
I nod wordlessly.
“It was my grandmother’s.” He steps behind me to lower it over my head. “Now, it is yours, and not merely for the evening.” He bends and tucks hair behind my ear as he whispers. “Yes, you will need to become accustomed to extravagant and presumptuous gifts from me, Bronwyn, and it shall become very awkward—and tiresome—if you protest each one.”
I say nothing. I’m frozen there as the jewels slide around my neck, just as cool as I’d imagined. His warm fingers fasten the clasp and then linger on the nape of my neck, making me shiver before he steps in front of me again.
“Gilding the lily, as I said.” His gaze drops to the sapphire and diamonds nestled between my breasts. “Or gilding the lilies, I should say.”
I laugh softly, and his gaze lingers far longer than necessary. When I rap his knuckles, his brows arch.
“I said nothing,” he protests.
“You don’t need to.”
His lips curve in a wolfish smile. “Are you certain? I could tell you what I was thinking. You need only ask.”
His gaze returns to the jewel. Another rap on his hand, and he chuckles.
“I was merely admiring the stone.” His hand slides up my bodice, thumb barely grazing the side of my breast, sending a shiver through me. “And thinking what a truly lovely setting I’ve found for it. One that your dress shows to magnificent perfection.”
“Do you think?” I murmur. “The neckline seems a little . . . off. I will admit, I adjusted it after Mary finished.”
The wolfish grin again. “Did you?”
“Hmm, yes. She had it more like . . .” I touch the bodice, and he reaches to stop me before I impede his scenery, but I tug it down, instead, to where Mary had it, and his eyes widen.
“Is this appropriate?” I ask, frowning innocently. “It seems to be how the dress is designed, but I do feel rather exposed. One quick move, and I’m liable to pop—”
His fingers fly to my lips, and I grin under them, fluttering my lashes at him.
“Should I readjust it, my lord? Back to how I had it before?”
I reach to do that, but he stops me with a growl, and I laugh. He slides his thumb over the side of my breast again, this growl thickening with frustration.
I look up at him through my lashes. “If you’re enjoying that view so much, perhaps I should lift my skirt and allow you to see . . .” I lower my voice to a hushed whisper. “My ankles.”
He laughs, a burst of it that has him shaking his head. “As lovely as your ankles are, the current view is far more stimulating.” He pauses. “Though I must admit, I might be more tempted if you offered me another view of your calves. They are remarkably shapely, ushering along thoughts of where they lead and—”
I rap his knuckles.
Before he can speak, chamber music starts, and I jump.
“Is that a—?” I begin to ask whether it’s a gramophone, but we’re at least a decade before de Martinville’s work inspired Edison’s and Bell’s mad race to invent the phonograph. I turn in confusion toward the music, which seems to come from deeper in the house.
“One cannot have a ball without dancing,” William says. “Nor dancing without music. That was one of my tasks for the day—hiring a trio. I have, of course, paid well for their discretion.”
At that, he seems to remember another temporary employee and leans into the stairwell to call, “Mary?”
She pops her head out. “M’lord.”
“You may leave now. Your services were appreciated.”
“Yes, they were,” I say as she comes down the stairs. “Thank you very much.”
She glances toward the music. “Must—ought I to leave, m’lord? The lady may need help with her undressing.”
“I am certain I—” He clears his throat. “I am certain she can manage.”
“Is it proper, though, m’lord?” Mary says as I bite back a smile. “She hasn’t come with her maid, and it seems as if I shouldn’t leave her alone without a chaperone.”
“There’s no need to concern yourself on that point,” William says. “Lady Dale is quite accustomed to men. She is a widow.”
I choke on a laugh as William’s eyes widen. “That is not—I meant only that she is accustomed to dealing with men. She is not an inexp—naive maiden who fears telling a man his attentions are unwanted. She is quite safe with me, unchaperoned.”
“He is correct,” I say. “I am past the age where I require a chaperone to safeguard my virtue. I can protect it myself, and I know Lord Thorne enough to trust his behavior for the evening however unorthodox the situation.”
Mary casts a longing glance toward the music.
William sighs. “There is a cold buffet in the next room. You may help yourself to a plate and enjoy the music for two dances. Then . . .” A dark look. “You are gone.”
She curtseys, says, “Yes, m’lord,” and scampers off.
William sighs again, deeply, as he turns to me. “Not quite what I had in mind, but it will only be two dances.”
“Perfectly reasonable.” I take his arm, and we walk through the parlor to the formal dining room, which is currently devoid of furniture, save a long table with the aforementioned cold buffet, a pitcher of lemonade and a bottle of port. The musicians are there, too—a violist, a cornetist and a pianist using the family piano.
“If you are hungry . . .” William says.
“Not yet.” I look at the open room. “This is the dance floor, I take it?”
“It could be,” he says. “However, it is a lovely evening, and if you are so inclined . . .”
He leads me to the back door and opens it. The rear yard is awash in light, candelabras burning around the freshly cut lawn. The windows are all open, and music wafts into the night.
I smile over at him. “Yes, please.”
He offers his arm again, and we sweep out to the lawn as the music swells, as if we’re stepping onto a grand dance floor, some well-dressed butler announcing, “Lord William Thorne and Lady Bronwyn Dale.”
A Stitch in Time Page 17
