Free One Touch of Magic by Amanda Mccabe Page A

half-mourning. She didn’t want a gown like one of Mrs. Hamilton’s fussy pink-and-white creations, but something with a bit more—more dash would be nice. Something with color and shine.
    She found a cinnamon brown silk she had worn before John died, and draped it around her shoulders, over her chemise. It would be all right, if only it did not make her look so very brown all over! Brown eyes, brown hair, brown dress. Terrible.
    Oh, nothing was right, she thought, and threw the gown down on top of all the others. She might as well just wear one of her old work dresses. Lord Ransome had already seen her looking like a ragamuffin in one of them, anyway.
    That thought froze her in her agitated tracks. She stood still, and stared down at the gowns. Lord Ransome. Was he the reason she was in such a flurry over her attire? Did she want him to admire her in a fine gown, to forget he had seen her all dusty and dank?
    “No,” she whispered, sitting down heavily on the nearest chair, which happened to be covered with more gowns and shawls. She had never dressed for men’s admiration—she could hardly afford to start now.
    Lord Ransome needed to see her as a sensible, capable scholar, one whose work must be completed. That was all.
    That was all.
    There was a quick knock at the door, and Mary Ann popped in without waiting to be summoned. She was already dressed for the party, in a pretty gown of pale pink muslin, her hair tied back with a bandeau of pink ribbons and seed pearls.
    “Sarah, what do you think of these gloves? Do they make . . .” Her voice faded as she took in the heaps of discarded garments, the slippers scattered across the carpet. “You aren’t dressed yet!”
    “I cannot decide what to wear,” Sarah answered faintly.
    “What do you mean? You are always ready for parties and outings faster than any of us! Where is your maid?”
    “She is in the kitchen, no doubt chattering with Rose and the cook. I saw no sense in calling her until I made up my mind.”
    “Which you just cannot seem to do?” Mary Ann gave her a skeptical look, and walked over to the bed to begin sorting through the gowns. “I don’t see anything wrong with these.”
    “They’re dull.”
    “Hm. Perhaps, just a bit.” She threw Sarah a teasing glance over her shoulder. “But that never seemed to bother you before!”
    Sarah laughed in spite of herself. “Mary Ann!”
    Mary Ann reached to the bottom of the pile, and pulled out a gown. “This one isn’t dull at all. And it looks as if you have never worn it!”
    “I haven’t.” Sarah regarded the gown with surprise. She had forgotten she owned it, and hadn’t even noticed it when she drew all the gowns out of the wardrobe. It was one of her black ones, purchased to wear to an historical lecture in Brighton when she had a flash of bold feeling, then abandoned on the day for a more staid gown when the boldness faded. It was made of a rich black velvet, so soft and deep that in certain lights it appeared purple or dark blue. The long, fitted sleeves were of sheer black tulle, tied at the wrists with black satin ribbon. More ribbon trimmed the low, rounded neckline.
    Mary Ann held it against herself, stroking her hand over the fabric. “It is marvelous, Sarah. You must wear it.”
    Sarah was sorely tempted. It was a gown made for someone totally unlike herself, someone daring and flirtatious, someone unafraid of the world and sure of her place in it. Not someone who always had to be sensible. Not someone who spent her days getting hot and dirty working under the sun.
    “I shouldn’t wear black,” she said. “My year of deep mourning is over.”
    “Who says you cannot still wear black?” Mary Ann argued. “And this is not just any dull old black, this is—beautiful. Oh, Sarah, you have to wear this one!”
    Sarah looked from the black gown to the others still piled on the bed and chairs. They lay there in a jumble of brown and gray, just meant for a sensible lady