A Lady's Dream Come True - Grace Burrowes Page 0,16

different profession.

“You mustn’t be harsh with Mr. Forester, Step-mama. He claims he’s making great strides with the terror.”

The silk shawl shimmered in the early evening sunlight, setting off the highlights in Catherine’s tidy chignon. She looked like a young lady—a very young lady—rather than like a girl adopting womanly airs. Oak Dorning had seen the young lady yearning to put up her hair, while Vera had seen only the difficult adolescent.

“Mr. Forester offers himself compliments easily enough, doesn’t he?” Vera said, adjusting the drape of the shawl. “I wish he would not refer to Alexander in such disparaging terms.”

“He means no harm.” Catherine turned this way and that, considering her reflection. “Does this gold make my eyes look pale?”

“That shawl brings out the highlights in your lovely hair. As for your eyes… Come with me.”

Catherine trailed along behind Vera as they made their way from the nursery suite to Vera’s apartment on the floor below.

“Will that artist fellow be at dinner?” Catherine asked ever so casually.

“Mr. Dorning? He should be. He’s a polite sort, and he won’t know that you’re trying something a little different with your hair. Ladies try different coiffures from time to time, even widowed ladies.”

“You don’t.”

“I’ve been too busy lately to tarry at my vanity. Come along.” Vera led the way into her bedroom, the one place in the entire house she’d made over to suit her own tastes. She opened her jewelry box and withdrew a mother-of-pearl brooch rimmed in gold. “Your father would want you to have this.”

Catherine looked at the brooch then at Vera. “I couldn’t. Papa gave it to you.” And oh, what a conflict that roused in Catherine’s eyes.

“He gave me many such trinkets, Catherine, but you were too young for him to dote on in that regard. We will go through my collection of mementos and divide up the pieces according to whose coloring is flattered by each piece. This one, for example, is better suited to your fair complexion and light hair. Hold still.”

Catherine stood docilely as Vera affixed the brooch to the shawl, creating a graceful gathering of the silk around slender shoulders and an accent to balance the knot of pale hair at Catherine’s nape.

“That does nicely, doesn’t it?” Vera said, stepping back. “Brings out the blue of your eyes. We must find you some combs too.” And ribbons and all the accoutrements of fashion to which a young lady was entitled.

Next, they’d be shopping for the fabric to make Catherine’s first full-length dresses, and heaven knew that was an expensive undertaking. A riding habit would likely require the services of a London tailor, and that would entail another tidy sum…

Catherine stood before the cheval mirror. “I do like the brooch, Step-mama. It’s not too much. I don’t want to look foolish, like I’m a little girl playing dress-up.”

“You haven’t been a little girl for some time, Catherine. Let’s go down to dinner.”

“Already?”

“You can admire yourself at endless length later. I, for one, am hungry.”

Catherine looked down at her house slippers, plain buff footwear, no buckles or bows. “You’re sure I don’t look silly?”

Vera wanted to hug the girl hard, to tell her that she was beautiful—for she was, without regard to silk shawls or gold brooches. Catherine had a forthright courage, a sturdy intellect, and a good sense of humor. She strived to be fair, and she was protective of her brother.

Next to those qualities, what mattered the length of a young lady’s nose or the curve of her damned eyebrows?

“You look splendid,” Vera said. “You might feel nervous or shy, but I assure you, Catherine, nobody can see that. They will see the shawl and the brooch, and perhaps notice your coiffure in passing. If you take the attitude that a few small changes to your dress and appearance are of no moment, nobody else will dare make an issue of them.”

And if they did, Vera would deal with them summarily.

“Miss Diggory might.”

“She had best not. By day, you can continue to adopt the less complicated wardrobe suitable for the schoolroom, but if you prefer to trouble a bit about your appearance for dinner, that is your prerogative.”

Catherine squared her shoulders and raised her chin. “I like having a prerogative.” She smiled, and a pretty girl was transformed into a lovely young woman. “I am hungry, too, though. Let’s be off, shall we?”

That smile… that smile was a revelation. Dirk had done portraits of Catherine’s mother, and clearly the woman had been beautiful. She’d also