Chapter 11 Only For Tonight
ONLY FOR TONIGHT
By the time Rosamund reached the manor, her resolve had mostly settled into a tentative purpose. Whatever had passed between them in the woods had not been an ending.
It could not be.
But since there was nothing she could do about that in his absence, she would do what she could on the other front.
She spent the afternoon in her chamber, sorting her notes, arranging her thoughts, shaping verses that would show the duke as he was. There was a fine line between sounding like a ledger and sounding like fiction, and she walked it slowly, revising again and again.
How to show his generosity without making him seem na?ve?
How to convey his competence without stripping him of warmth?
When she finally leaned back, her neck aching and her fingers cramped, the room had gone dim around her. The sun sat low beyond the window, the light thinning to amber.
Realizing dinner would be served soon, she glanced down at herself and grimaced.
Her gown, the same one she’d been wearing all day, had mud on the hem and smelled of horse.
She smelled of horse.
With little time to waste, she gathered her notes into neat stacks and tucked them into her satchel. But as she fastened the flap, her gaze lifted—and caught in the looking glass.
Dear heavens.
Half her hair had escaped its pins, her cheeks were smudged with dirt, and her gown… well…
A knock sounded at the door.
Startled, she brushed her hair back with both hands, made a half-hearted attempt to smooth her gown, then gave up and opened it.
The maid, Tilly, stood there, looking far too pleased with herself.
“For you,” she said simply, lifting the emerald fabric she had draped over one arm, and then shaking it out so it unfolded.
“Oh…” She just blinked.
It was a gown–the color of new leaves after rain. Not quite emerald, not forest…
Rosamund reached out but caught herself, fingers hovering a bare inch from the silk. And then she shook her head. “I cannot. I mean, it’s likely not the right size anyway…”
Mrs. Wetherby appeared from around the corner, cheeks pink and eyes merry. “It’ll fit just fine. We’ve matched it to yours. But also, a bath has been prepared, waiting for you in the dressing room, miss,” she announced, pushing open a door Rosamund hadn’t even noticed. “A proper hot one.”
“For me?”
“The gown and the bath,” the housekeeper said. “By the duke’s orders.”
The duke’s orders?
Rosamund nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and followed Mrs. Wetherby to the dressing room where she was met with lavender scented steam and a shiny copper tub.
“I am not seeking a wife... “ he’d said. And then pushed her away because he didn’t trust himself.
But before that, he had, in fact, kissed her back.
On his lips, her name had sounded like a prayer.
And now he’d ordered a bath and a gown so beautiful that it made her breath catch.
What was she to take from all that?
She wriggled out of the soiled gown, sank into the water, and closed her eyes. Perhaps she was foolish. Perhaps she was too tired.
Definitely too tired–imagining that she could live out a fairytale.
And yet… time was running out.
And then a thought came to her.
Cinderella had lied about who she was, pretended to be someone she was not.
And even Cinderella had been granted her special night at the ball.
Did this mean he intended to join her for dinner?
Rosamund’s heart skipped a beat. He’d warmed up over the last few days. Things between the two of them had been friendly…
More than friendly.
Perhaps he’d forgiven her for kissing him. Perhaps it was an apology for snapping…
With a quiet exhale, Rosamund rose, dried herself, and then stepped into the new gown draped across her bed.
The silk slid over her skin, settling where it pleased, but just as she’d managed to fasten the first two hooks, the maid slipped in and without fuss, took up the place behind her, fingers quick and practiced.
“That’s rather snug,” the girl murmured, pausing. “You won’t be able to breathe like that.”
“I know,” Rosamund said easily. “It’s better if I can—”
She slipped both hands beneath her bosom and lifted just enough—an old, practiced adjustment—settling herself so the fabric accommodated her, not the other way around. The bodice eased at once, the pressure gone, and she drew a full, grateful breath.
The maid’s hands paused for half a heartbeat. Then she resumed fastening the hooks, brisk and without remark.
“I’m used to it,” Rosamund added, a touch rueful.
“You’re lucky,” Tilly said, securing the last hook. “Mine might as well be mosquito bites.”
Rosamund blinked, then smiled earnestly. “I think mosquito bites would be rather lovely.”
That earned a laugh.
They spent the next few moments trading the respective merits and inconveniences of each condition—ease of movement versus ease of fit—until Tilly smoothed Rosamund’s skirts, gave a final, approving tug at the waist, and turned her gently toward the looking glass.
They both fell quiet.
The woman reflected there was not transformed—only revealed.
The green of the gown sharpened her coloring, echoed her eyes.
The bodice framed her curves without apology.
Her freckles stood out vividly against her skin, and her hair, pinned back in a loose knot, softened her features rather than hiding them.
“If you don’t mind my saying, I think you’re perfectly lovely as you are,” the maid said, smiling.
She then wished Rosamund a good night and slipped out.
Leaving Rosamund alone.
Borrowed silk, she reminded herself. Borrowed circumstance.
Still, the effect was undeniable. Unsettling.
“It’s only for tonight,” she told her reflection with a shiver.
One evening. One memory.
That, she could allow herself.