could go hang. Fidelity leaned in for another kiss.
Epilogue
four more days later,
Sunday, December 19, 1813
Fidelity stretched out her sewing, repositioning the ivory gown’s unhemmed skirt and tucking the finished bits underneath, out of the way. The morning room’s little fire crackled brightly, an able ally against the cold drizzle falling outside, and with its warmth driving away the chill the last of her happiness fell into place. Was being so contented some sort of crime? It certainly felt unusual.
On her right, Georgette stitched an ivory sleeve with cautious precision. On her left, Jessica’s attempted imitation of her sister’s sewing — well, at least the girl was trying. Two weeks ago, if handed a needle and thread, she’d have whined and pouted instead.
Perhaps Jessica felt Fidelity’s amused stare, for she dropped her hands into her lap and heaved a monstrous sigh. “Fi, I can perfectly understand wanting a new gown for your wedding. It’s the height of good taste, starting your new life in a new gown, and every young woman should follow your example. But making it yourself?”
Fidelity let her smile break free. Someday, that girl was going to… make some lucky man very poor indeed, and enrich every seamstress in town and country both. “Well, I can hardly wear the blue one into church, now, can I?”
A suppressed giggle from Georgette’s chair. “May I?”
Jessica snorted. And that quickly, all three of them were giggling away like schoolgirls sneaking into the larder to steal butter biscuits. It felt so good, letting herself go and laughing with her cousins, that Fidelity rocked back in her chair and let the sewing wait while she enjoyed the moment.
A soft voice spoke from the corner by the window. “Mayhap my bride-to-be will wear that gorgeous gown to the Christmas Eve ball.”
Fidelity glanced up. Over the top of an opened newspaper peered a pair of clear green eyes, twinkling with mischief. She held his stare, even though it skewered her from across the room and melted her with his warmth.
No, that wasn’t a newspaper. It was a broadsheet. Grey read the gossip, doubtless learning what everyone had to say about the Maynards’ masked ball.
She swallowed. “But if I wear the blue gown, then everyone will know—”
“—that I roundly defeated Sylvestre Brightenburg in the only competition that matters — the one for your hand.” The twinkle in his eyes gave way to a possessive glow. “And that I’m getting ready to claim my prize.”
Heat touched her cheeks. But she couldn’t look away, and Fidelity rolled her lips together. “Is there anything in the papers about him?”
She knew she didn’t have to be any more specific. Beside her, Jessica froze over her next stitch. She’d reacted that way ever since the masked ball, whenever that name was mentioned. But at the Maynards’ she’d stayed and danced all night long, finishing the evening on the arm of Tate the younger, son of the Earl of Danvers, and everyone in the know had agreed it was a fitting conclusion.
Grey folded the broadsheet. “There’s a vague report of a dreadful accident, but no details, of course. It seems certain he’s left for the country to recover.”
Jessica’s shoulders slumped, and Fidelity shared her relief with a small sigh. “Then yes, my husband-to-be, I’ll wear the blue gown on Christmas Eve for your triumphal march.” And make some scandalous memories with you to last us the rest of our lives together.
A scowl lowered Grey’s brows. “My love, I hope I’ve proven you’ve no reason to fear that—”
Heavens only knew what word he’d intended to say. Hurriedly she cut him off before he reached it. “Of course you have. But he’s a predator and you can’t protect every young woman there.” She squeezed Jessica’s forearm, and received a grateful sidelong glance in return.
Grey’s scowl faded away. “Good point.”
“Indeed, yes.” Georgette’s sewing sat
Epilogue
four more days later,
Sunday, December 19, 1813
Fidelity stretched out her sewing, repositioning the ivory gown’s unhemmed skirt and tucking the finished bits underneath, out of the way. The morning room’s little fire crackled brightly, an able ally against the cold drizzle falling outside, and with its warmth driving away the chill the last of her happiness fell into place. Was being so contented some sort of crime? It certainly felt unusual.
On her right, Georgette stitched an ivory sleeve with cautious precision. On her left, Jessica’s attempted imitation of her sister’s sewing — well, at least the girl was trying. Two weeks ago, if handed a needle and thread, she’d have whined and pouted instead.
Perhaps Jessica felt Fidelity’s amused stare, for she dropped her hands into her lap and heaved a monstrous sigh. “Fi, I can perfectly understand wanting a new gown for your wedding. It’s the height of good taste, starting your new life in a new gown, and every young woman should follow your example. But making it yourself?”
Fidelity let her smile break free. Someday, that girl was going to… make some lucky man very poor indeed, and enrich every seamstress in town and country both. “Well, I can hardly wear the blue one into church, now, can I?”
A suppressed giggle from Georgette’s chair. “May I?”
Jessica snorted. And that quickly, all three of them were giggling away like schoolgirls sneaking into the larder to steal butter biscuits. It felt so good, letting herself go and laughing with her cousins, that Fidelity rocked back in her chair and let the sewing wait while she enjoyed the moment.
A soft voice spoke from the corner by the window. “Mayhap my bride-to-be will wear that gorgeous gown to the Christmas Eve ball.”
Fidelity glanced up. Over the top of an opened newspaper peered a pair of clear green eyes, twinkling with mischief. She held his stare, even though it skewered her from across the room and melted her with his warmth.
No, that wasn’t a newspaper. It was a broadsheet. Grey read the gossip, doubtless learning what everyone had to say about the Maynards’ masked ball.
She swallowed. “But if I wear the blue gown, then everyone will know—”
“—that I roundly defeated Sylvestre Brightenburg in the only competition that matters — the one for your hand.” The twinkle in his eyes gave way to a possessive glow. “And that I’m getting ready to claim my prize.”
Heat touched her cheeks. But she couldn’t look away, and Fidelity rolled her lips together. “Is there anything in the papers about him?”
She knew she didn’t have to be any more specific. Beside her, Jessica froze over her next stitch. She’d reacted that way ever since the masked ball, whenever that name was mentioned. But at the Maynards’ she’d stayed and danced all night long, finishing the evening on the arm of Tate the younger, son of the Earl of Danvers, and everyone in the know had agreed it was a fitting conclusion.
Grey folded the broadsheet. “There’s a vague report of a dreadful accident, but no details, of course. It seems certain he’s left for the country to recover.”
Jessica’s shoulders slumped, and Fidelity shared her relief with a small sigh. “Then yes, my husband-to-be, I’ll wear the blue gown on Christmas Eve for your triumphal march.” And make some scandalous memories with you to last us the rest of our lives together.
A scowl lowered Grey’s brows. “My love, I hope I’ve proven you’ve no reason to fear that—”
Heavens only knew what word he’d intended to say. Hurriedly she cut him off before he reached it. “Of course you have. But he’s a predator and you can’t protect every young woman there.” She squeezed Jessica’s forearm, and received a grateful sidelong glance in return.
Grey’s scowl faded away. “Good point.”
“Indeed, yes.” Georgette’s sewing sat
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