Rosalie woke with a wince, raising a hand to massage the painful crick in her neck. It was disorienting at first, sitting up to see dark shapes out of place all around. The events of the previous night quickly came screaming back to her, reminding her of where she was and why.
She sat in the middle of the four-poster bed, her borrowed chemise slipping off her shoulders. The house was quiet as a tomb, save for the soft tick tick tick of the clock on her mantle. The curtain was still open only a strip, wide enough to glow on the clock’s face.
Ten o’clock.
She gasped. She’d only meant to close her eyes for a moment. Instead, she’d slept for three hours! She slipped off the bed and dragged open the curtains. Bright sunlight flooded the room. It was slightly larger than her room at Alcott. The walls were a wine red with a gold pattern to the paper. The furniture was all dark wood, while the mantle and fireplace were black marble. She had the distinct impression this was meant to be a masculine space. The art was not florals, but landscapes, and there was little else that might cater to feminine needs.
A dark wood door framed either side of the bed. Rosalie opened the one closer to the window and found a shallow, shelved closet stacked with linens. The door to the other side was locked. She rattled the handle, looking around for a key. Perhaps it connected to a water closet or a washroom.
Passing a mirror, she frowned at her reflection. Her fashionably styled hair was in shambles all around her face, loose curls hanging down, even while the rest of the pile teetered lopsided on her head. She had dark circles under her eyes, and the imprint from the lace on the edge of the pillowcase was creased into her cheek.
Working fast, she tugged all the pins out of her hair, until it all hung in a thick mess of dark curls down her back. She did her best to catch all the pearls woven into her braids, but a telltale plink plink told her at least a couple slipped through her fingers. Once the mess was down, she fixed it back up in some semblance of a style.
Before she could dress, there came a sharp knock at the door
“Yes?” she called.
“It’s Fanny, miss. You’re needed downstairs. Mrs. Robbins says it’s urgent.”
To Rosalie’s utter shock—and annoyance—the urgent business downstairs had nothing to do with any kind of party-planning. No, the truth was far more irritating. In her rush to appear, Rosalie wore only her chemise and slippers, with James’ evening coat wrapped around her like a pelisse. She stepped into the sunny morning room to find the most fashionable woman she’d ever seen smiling at her.
“You must be Miss ‘arrow?” The lady fluttered across the room like a fairy. She was dressed in canary yellow silk that fit her like a glove, showing off her ample assets. Her dark locks were done up in curls and she wore a sparkling feathered headpiece.
Rosalie tugged the lapels of James’ coat tighter over her chest. “I am…”
“Mon Dieu, your beauty was not understated,” the woman cooed. “I am Madame Lambert, modiste extraordinaire.” She posed with a flourish, one hand arched in the air like a dancer. “But you may call me Paulette,” she added, dropping her hand back to her side. Those dark eyes took in Rosalie from tousled head to slippered foot. “I see I ‘ave not come a minute too late.” Her smile quirked, the red paint on her lips stretching wide. “You’re missing a dress, ma chérie.”
She fought her blush. “Yes…umm…”
Before she could finish her sentence, the modiste turned to direct the movement of three house maids who came bustling in with an alarming display of boxes balanced between them. Two footmen followed behind with yet more boxes.
“Set ze big ones just ‘ere,” the modiste said, pointing to the table.
The footmen did as they were asked, excusing themselves immediately, shutting the door as they left.
The modiste crossed the room. “Well then, let’s get you into ze first gown—”
“Wait!” Rosalie looked from the modiste to the maids to the towering pile of boxes. “There’s been a misunderstanding. I have clothes. I really don’t need—”
“Don’t be silly, ma chérie,” the modiste said with an airy laugh. “Rule number one: If a lord wants to buy you a new wardrobe, you let him.”
The maids giggled and the modiste had the audacity to flash them a knowing wink. They were surely going to get the wrong idea about her and James now.
“I ‘ave everything he asked for,” the modiste said, opening the top box to pull out a devastating ball gown encrusted with shimmering beads.
All three maids gasped. One put a hand over her mouth to contain a squeal of excitement.
Rosalie’s mouth fell open in surprise. “He can’t possibly think this is suitable for a day dress,” she cried.
“Of course not,” the modiste replied. “This is for ze opera. Ze other boxes ‘ave morning dresses and walking dresses and a habit for riding.” She gestured to each with a wave of her hand.
Rosalie sighed. “I already have a riding habit.”
Yes, the one James bought her not two weeks ago. She hadn’t even had the chance to wear it yet.
“Well, now you shall ‘ave two,” the modiste replied, handing off the ball gown to the waiting maid. “Don’t worry, ma chérie,” she added, stepping forward to pat Rosalie’s hand. “Ze viscount took care of everything. You shall be more beautiful than any woman in ze ton.”
Rosalie’s frown deepened. “And what else did ‘ze viscount’ order, pray?”
The modiste pulled a list out of her dress pocket with a flourish, smiling as she read it aloud. “Five morning dresses, two promenade dresses, two pelisses, three spencers, five evening gowns, two ball gowns, assorted gloves for day and night, two bonnets, slippers, leather half boots, riding boots, and assorted undergarments and ribbons for hair and the like.” She glanced up from her list adding, “Oh…and I may ‘ave included one or two items not on your lord’s list, but he will be pleased all ze same…and he will not notice the added expense.” She winked and Rosalie wanted to die.
“I most certainly don’t need all of that,” she cried. “And he is not my lord,” she added indignantly, one eye glancing to the grinning maids. She held out her hand. “Give me that list, and I’ll shorten it. Really, all I need is something suitable for this morning so I can go to my aunt’s house and get my own things.”
“Nonsense,” the modiste replied, giving the list a protective pat in her pocket. “Ze viscount already paid me. I am simply ‘ere to check sizes.”
“Wait…this is all mine?” Rosalie’s heart was racing. This was too much. Such an extravagant gesture would surely have the whole ton in uproar. She glanced again at the gorgeous champagne beaded gown and the tower of boxes covering the table and chaise. “I thought you just brought samples for me to try.”
“Your viscount said it was urgent, and I see he must be correct,” replied the modiste, still eyeing Rosalie’s shambles of an outfit. “Now, I am quite a busy woman, and I ‘ave other stops today. So please, if you are finished pretending you don’t want to see what I ‘ave in zeez boxes, then take off your lord’s coat, and we will begin with ze ball gown. I call it La Victoire.”
Rosalie felt dizzy. Was this his great business? James bought her more clothes in one morning than what she currently owned altogether. And if the ball gown was any indication, he’d spared no expense. She frowned again. She’d already warned James once that she didn’t like extravagant gifts. He thought he could have his way by ordering all this, then sneak out of the house. But he couldn’t stay away forever. He’d come back, and then she’d have her say.
“Fine.” She shrugged out of his coat and tossed it aside. “Let’s get this over with.”
An hour later, Rosalie was growing tired of playing doll. Just as she feared, the gowns were all the highest quality. She’d never owned a dress half so fine as the first morning dress she tried on—a pretty peach satin with corded burgundy and gold piping. The ball gown made her feel like a queen…and it was one of two that now inexplicably belonged to her.
“Just look at zis one, ma chérie,” Paulette cooed, holding up a beautiful forest green walking gown. “It’s a new design from Paris.” She turned it around and Rosalie’s heart skipped a beat.
The dress had a low “V” cut to the bodice, and the inner lining of the skirt was pink with a printed pattern of flowering vines and little blue birds. Rosalie loved it. Paulette helped her step into it and slip it up over her hips. The sleeves ended in points over the backs of her hands, and there were little strings that could be tied at the wrists.
“It fits you so well,” said Paulette, fastening it up the back. “And your viscount was clearly right.”
Rosalie’s hands stilled their inspection of the patterned skirt. “Right?”
“Green is ze perfect color for you,” Paulette murmured in her ear.
“He never said that,” she said with a distracted laugh.
Paulette came around the front, giving the bodice little tugs as she checked the fit. “Did he not?” She paused, both hands on Rosalie’s shoulders. “Then why can’t you stop blushing thinking of ze green in his eyes?”
Rosalie’s mouth opened, but no words came out.
“You should wear it today to thank him for his generosity,” Paulette said with a knowing smile.
“I am not with him in that way,” Rosalie whispered, one eye darting over to the watchful maids. “I am a ward of his family, of his mother. The dowager duchess assured me I would be fitted for new dresses. He is only doing as his mother bids him.” She said this loud enough for the maids to hear.
Perhaps if Rosalie said the truth often enough, she might begin to accept it too.
Paulette just smiled. “Of course, ma chérie.”
A door slammed somewhere down the hall.
“Ahh, maybe zat is ze lord now,” Paulette said, dropping to her knees to check the hem. “We shall test ze viscount’s indifference to your beauty.”
Behind her, a maid stifled a nervous giggle.
Rosalie rolled her eyes. There was clearly no convincing the modiste. At the same time, her heart began to beat a little faster, knowing she would see James again so soon. She was annoyed about the dresses, but so much had been left unsaid between them. That last moment in the carriage, his thumb grazing over her lips…
Rosalie was distracted by shouting and another slamming door. Someone was in a heated argument. Why was James badgering his servants? She was instantly on edge wondering what must have put him in such a foul mood. Footsteps echoed through the closed door. He was coming on swift feet.
“She is with the modiste,” came the shrill voice of Mrs. Robbins. “I simply cannot let you barge in. She may be indecent—”
“Like I bloody give a damn!”
Rosalie’s heart stopped as she gasped.
That wasn’t James’ voice.
Paulette stilled too, her hands on Rosalie’s hem. She glanced up, first at Rosalie, then over her shoulder towards the door. The maids twittered a rush of whispered words, eyes wide, as the morning room door snapped open.
Burke stood in the frame, eyes thundering as they locked on Rosalie.
