been. Masked mystery companion works very well in romance novels. Reality is something else entirely.” I turn, gown raised. “Now, if you will excuse me . . .”
He quarter-bows. “I will leave you to it as I change into something more appropriate.”
I protest again, but he strides off with a wave of his hand and a cat at his heels. I watch him go as I grin like a schoolgirl. Then I take a deep breath and turn my attention to the task at hand.
* * *
I do not wear the green dress. It’s made for a woman with a significantly smaller chest. Or, perhaps, a woman with a proper corset that would push that chest up into a veritable shelf of bosom. William might have found my mid-thigh shorts and tank top scandalous, but having half your boobs on display is perfectly acceptable in this time period. Victorians were an odd lot.
The dress I do wear still shows off more décolletage than I’m accustomed to, but the stays ensure I don’t need to dig for a corset. Without, alas, I lack the ideal Victorian wasp waist, one a man could encompass with his hands. The thought makes me chuckle—no corset in the world could do that for me, not unless the man has the hands of an eight-foot giant.
While I might not be the romance heroine of my mother’s novels, I’m not displeased by what I see in the mirror. It’s a three-tiered blue-and-white confection of a dress, but actually quite simple for the time with a minimum of flounces and ribbons. It fits oddly until I remember this is the era of crinolines. I find one, and with it on, the dress drapes properly though it looks rather ridiculous for a casual tea at home.
In Lady Thorne’s old dressing table, I find hairpins needing only a quick dusting. I arrange my hair in an artistically messy bun, curls dangling over my shoulders, and while I notice strands of white shot through the dark, it isn’t as if William hasn’t seen me makeup free and messy haired already. He knows exactly how old I am, being the same age himself with even more silver in his hair. Also, I’m dressing for tea with an old friend, not a ball with a potential lover. Or that’s what I tell myself though I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hoping for at least a lingering look of approval.
While I might hope for it, I lack the confidence to swan out in my finery. I actually try to slip from the room and beat him downstairs so I can be pouring tea when he enters and, therefore, avoid seeing his reaction lest there be no reaction at all.
I ease into the hall . . . and his door opens. I freeze, wondering whether I can back inside and act as if I’ve forgotten something. It’s too late, though. He’s stepping out and seeing me and . . .
He stops. His gaze travels over me.
“Better than what I was wearing before?” I say lightly, hoping my voice stays steady.
He chuckles. “I would be lying if I said I vastly prefer your current attire. However, with this, at least, I will not feel as if I should avert my gaze.”
“Good.”
I walk into the light filtering through the hall window, and he hesitates again.
“You look,” he begins; then, he falters, and I’m about to make some wry comment to save him from a forced compliment, but he continues, “beautiful, of course. That goes without saying. You were a pretty girl. You are a beautiful woman.”
The way he says it makes my heart flip. He speaks as if remarking that the sunset is beautiful tonight. Fact not flattery. I’m not beautiful. I know that. But he sees beauty, and he states it as if I’ve surely heard it a thousand times.
Before I can respond, he says, “If I hesitated, it is only because I have not seen you like this. Your previous dresses were obviously of another time, as you were obviously of another time. You were . . . otherworldly. Like something from my nanny’s fae tales. In that dress, though, you look as if you belong here, and that is . . .”
He trails, but his tone tells me that seeing me in this dress is as uncomfortable, in its way, as seeing me in shorts and a tank top, and I draw back, uncertain.
“Disappointing?” I say, forcing another smile. “No longer that