“Don’t you like it?”
“Of course I do. It’s stunning,” she assured, regretting his concerned look.
“Then it must be yours, because you’re the very definition of stunning,” he said, his fingertips touching her cheek fleetingly.
“No . . . I couldn’t,” she said, holding out the box, but he refused to accept it. He just gave her a wry glance and turned away. She stood there in rising frustration and doubt as she watched him walk up the stairs.
* * *
The next morning she was getting ready to drive into town with Anne when a rap came at her door. Clarisse breezed in carrying a garment bag, her face radiant with excitement.
“It’s come,” she said, her voice trembling, her enthusiasm so great that Francesca truly sensed her youth for the first time.
“What’s come?” she asked, puzzled.
“Your dress.” Clarisse shook her head, beaming. “It’s amazing. You never said . . . you didn’t even hint . . . and he designs for the royals and all!” she sputtered.
Francesca laughed in complete bewilderment. “What are you talking about—”
But Clarisse was too busy hanging and unzipping the garment bag to pay attention. Francesca just stood there, her mouth gaping open at the most exquisite white and pale silver gown she’d ever seen or imagined. It fastened at the throat and was both sleeveless and backless. The design on the fitted bodice was of delicate silver leaves inlaid on white. Even though the white background was sheer, the dress was lined for modesty. The skirt was straight versus full, the sheer white fabric falling over a silver undergarment giving the impression of flowing, shimmering water.
“You must let me do your hair tonight,” Clarisse was saying breathlessly. “I know just the perfect style for this gown. You’re going to look amazing. Oh . . . and a note was delivered with it.”
Francesca took the small white envelope with numb fingers, pausing to assure it was indeed her name on the front. The note was typed on linen parchment.
Francesca,
Forgive me for being remiss and leaving you so unprepared.
She just stared at the note for an extended moment, holding her breath, a strange, tingling sensation settling in her limbs. No . . . it couldn’t be.
Forgive me for being remiss. Wait . . . hadn’t Gerard said that to her recently? And he knew she didn’t have a dress.
Disappointment flooded her.
“Are you excited for tonight? The ballroom is going to look so amazing. Did her ladyship tell you that the decorations are all in silver and white? You’ll look like a fairy princess in it with this dress,” Clarisse enthused, running her hand along the skirt so that the exquisite fabric flowed over her forearm.
“No. Just a lucky chance, I guess,” Francesca said dubiously.
“My gown is nothing to this, but I still can’t wait,” Clarisse said.
“You mean you’ll be attending the ball?”
Clarisse nodded, her eyes shining. “Her lady and lordship invited the permanent staff. It’s sort of a nod to the tradition of the servant balls they used to have on Boxing Day years ago. Since it’s also their anniversary, Lady Stratham thought it’d be nice to combine the celebration into one grand ball. We’re all very excited. Aren’t you?”
“Oh, yes,” Francesca assured. She shoved the note into her pocket, ashamed of herself for the flash of hope that had gone through her for a split second as she read those typed words.
* * *
As it turned out, she and Anne were unsuccessful shopping for a dress in town. Of course she’d been spoiled for another one. No other dress stood a chance next to that exquisite creation that had been delivered. It rankled at her a little, knowing that Gerard had recognized how much she’d love it.
Later that afternoon, she held up the brushed and freshened red dress next to the white and silver gown. Her heart sank. Of course she’d wear the delivered gown. She realized the diamond choker would look stunning with it. Was that why Gerard had chosen it?
But no. She would return that choker to Gerard. It was too much. Far too much. Her triple strand of pearls would look just as lovely with the dress, along with the diamond pins Ian had once given her to wear in her hair. She tried to convince herself that her choice to return the necklace had nothing to do with Gerard’s comment on Christmas Eve about Ian leaving a choker on her as he’d touched the pearls. No, he hadn’t meant anything by giving her a diamond choker, as if to replace Ian’s pearls. It was all ridiculous anyway. Ian had certainly not left a hold on her of any kind.
“Exquis,” Elise said wide-eyed later that afternoon when Francesca showed her the gown. She and Lucien had arrived just before an especially lavish afternoon tea—Anne had explained that a traditional dinner wouldn’t be served at the ball since it officially began at nine p.m., but instead hors d’oeuvres and then a midnight supper buffet were planned. After the filling tea of sandwiches, fruit, and pudding, Elise had accompanied Francesca to her suite to chat before it was time to prepare for the ball. Elise seemed to notice her puzzlement at her exclamation. Francesca’s French was not good. “That dress rocks,” Elise translated succinctly. “And you say Gerard gave it to you?”
Francesca nodded, unable to disguise her disquietude.
“He is a handsome one,” Elise conceded doubtfully, plopping down on the couch. “Seems nice enough as well. Course he’s not Ian.”
“Isn’t that for the best?” Francesca said dryly, hanging up the gown.