Chapter Twenty-Six
Preparations for the Ball and Overture
On Thursday, Fiona stood in the middle of Madame Brigitte’s shop as Madame herself put in pins for the final alteration to her betrothal gown. The ivory satin wedding dress, still in the early stages, adorned a mannequin near the bay window.
Richard had hardly been home since they argued in the music room, and she was grateful that they exchanged nothing more than the most cursory of greetings.
Her emotions from that night were still raw.
Although she had taunted him with indifference, she knew that wasn’t true.
His passion had been genuine. Perhaps his regret in seducing her was real as well. Had she jumped to the wrong conclusion?
Octavia, vibrating with excitement, twirled in the center of the room as a seamstress attempted to hem her satin ball dress.
“Octavia, you must stand still, dear,” her mother begged, “or the fitting will take twice as long.” Lady Amelia relaxed in a comfortable chair, sipping ratafia and fanning herself.
“Oh, I can’t! Mama, do you see my ribbons? Aren’t they smashing? Fiona, don’t you—” Octavia’s lips formed a round “oh” as Madame Brigitte stood back from her creation.
The delicate pomegranate gown parted over an ivory crepe underskirt embroidered in tiny crimson roses and flounced with blond Mechlin lace. An empire bodice, fashioned with layers of the same lace, crisscrossed over her bosom, ending in sheer elbow-length sleeves.
Valentina paused in her examination of Madame’s ribbons. “My goodness, Fiona. How lovely. Mama, come look.”
Lady Amelia nodded. “Perfect, Brigitte. Fitting indeed for a future countess.”
Madame surveyed her handiwork with satisfaction. “Now, chèrie, go behind the curtain, and Jolene will help you change. Then, the petite mademoiselle Octavia will do the same. Your dresses will be delivered tomorrow, je promets.”
After Fiona emerged, Lady Amelia set down her empty glass with a contented sigh and rose, shaking out her plum skirts. “Brigitte, your sense of fashion is exquisite, as always. If I could hide you away and keep you for ourselves, I would.”
“Bah, you know I am always at the call of the fashionable Lady Merrick and your so-charming son. I do not forget my benefactors. Shall you go to Mivart’s for tea? The croissants are délicieuse indeed. Now, vite, vite! I need to finish your dresses for tomorrow.”
Octavia danced to her mother. “May we have croissants, Mama? Pleeaase…”
“You must not become so excited about food, my dear. A young lady finds such trivialities tiresome, not a cause for celebration.”
As Lady Amelia took up her reticule and gloves, Fiona rubbed her stomach and mouthed “I’m starving, too,” in Octavia’s direction.
“Oh dear, where did I put my fan?” Lady Amelia fretted. “There it is. Come, let us take refreshment. We still have to visit the milliner. Octavia, do not run!”
*
As the spring races finished at Newmarket, it was still winter across the Irish Sea.
In Dame Street, West Dublin, Patrick O’Cleary sat at his polished desk, rereading the astounding letter before him once again.
In all his years as a solicitor, he had never faced such a tangle. What on earth was he supposed to do?
His florid clerk appeared in the doorway, coughing discreetly. “Your appointment is here, sir. Shall I show the gentleman in?”
O’Cleary straightened, putting aside the crumpled paper. “Yes, please do.”
It was time to face a ghost from the past.
*
Fiona faced the mirror as Betty held up a length of garnet ribbon.
“I was thinking, miss, á la Chinoise, but perhaps a long curl or two over one shoulder?” A half-dozen fragrant miniature roses of ivory tinged with red lay on the dressing table. “And I’ll thread a few flowers on that same side. Wherever did the earl find such perfect blooms, miss?”
She fingered the brooch pinned to the center of her lace bodice. It had arrived yesterday with matching eardrops, the roses, and a note scrawled in the earl’s bold handwriting:
Forgive me. I deeply regret my abominable behavior. Let us make the best of this tangled jumble I have made of our engagement.
Yours, R
The apology made her want to run and throw herself into his arms. After much thought, she conceded that his sense of honor was strong enough to overcome his desire for her, and that was admirable. But it still hurt, and she was unsure if they could ever deal with each other reasonably.
Betty pinned up Fiona’s dark hair, deftly applying the hair tongs to add clusters of curls. She interspersed these with fragrant roses, leaving a swathe of longer spirals over one bare shoulder. “I suggest no ribbons, miss. The roses are decoration enough.”
Fiona slipped on the pearl earrings, single drops held by a tiny etched gold band. The color was lustrous and matched the brooch, a nosegay of pearls and diamonds.
“Well? Am I ready?”
“Oh, miss, don’t forget this.” Betty picked up her engagement ring from the dressing table.
She slipped it on. The symbol of her promise. Perhaps it wasn’t the marriage she had imagined, but it was useless to deny her feelings. Whether love or lust or something in between, she wanted to be with Richard Merrick, and it was more than just an escape from poverty or spinsterhood.
When she descended the stairs, Valentina waited on the landing.
“Where is everyone?” Fiona looked around.
“Richard is giving last instructions to the musicians, and Mama went with Mrs. Talbot to greet the caterers. Come, let’s find your fiancé. It’s customary for the wedding couple to welcome the guests together.”
Denys greeted them at the entrance to the ballroom and whisked Valentina away to oversee the seating arrangements.
Fiona peeked inside. Scores of candelabras were everywhere, along with an abundance of elegant flower arrangements set on tall pedestals.
The dark-blue ceiling painted with stars gave a fairytale atmosphere to the spacious room.
She spotted Richard conversing with the conductor as the musicians took their places in the corner.
He was resplendent in formal dress, from the snowy cravat to the superb cut of his black swallow-tailed coat and biscuit-colored breeches.
A silk waistcoat embroidered in gold and scarlet thread completed the ensemble.
Fiona knew by now Richard favored patterns of blue in his waistcoats and guessed he had enquired about the color of her dress.
It was a surprisingly intimate gesture and her stomach fluttered at the thought.
He casually rested a foot on the dais where the musicians tuned their various instruments.
A meticulous hand had polished his Hessian boots to an impossible shine, and they fit his calves like a second skin.
He wore no fobs, only a quizzing glass on a black riband and his gold signet ring.
She wondered if she were to marry the most handsome man in London.
In that uncanny way he had, Richard looked up as if sensing her gaze. He gave a last word to the maestro and met her at the door.
“Ah, the new gown. It is everything I have heard and much more.”
He hesitated, and Fiona realized he was uncertain of his welcome. With the note of apology still fresh in her mind, she decided she wanted to start the evening without recriminations.
“That is high praise indeed from a man who sets fashion. Richard, I—may we start afresh and forget that other night…at least how it ended?”
He bent and pressed his lips to her glove, then he turned it over and kissed her open palm.
“I cannot completely dismiss what happened between us,” he murmured.
“My desire for you is always extraordinary, but our recent connection, the music we’ve shared—such intimacy is new to me.
” His blue-gray eyes were dark with emotion. “Tell me it was there for you as well.”
“Yes,” she breathed, her throat dry.
“I hoped so.” His smile rivaled the surrounding candles. “I see you wear the pearls. There is always a risk you’ll toss any gifts back in my face.”
“That’s untrue, Richard. Haven’t I just accepted a very expensive trousseau? Full of more intimate things than jewels, I may add.”
“Much to my relief, you did. And quite a few of those ‘intimate’ items I begged Madame Brigitte to include.”
She was definitely blushing. “But seriously, Richard, you must stop bombarding me with presents. It is completely unnecessary.”
He leaned in and brushed a kiss across her cheek. “You miss the point entirely. I find a singular pleasure in giving you things. Have you forgotten my analogy, Fiona? A poorer man might spend all his coin on a hat or a pair of gloves for his wife. I, in contrast, can afford jewels.”
“Truly, you are dúsachtach.”
“I gather that isn’t a compliment,” he said sadly.
She stifled a giggle. How could such a serious man be such a shameless tease? Wouldn’t it be something to marry an English earl who made her laugh and loved music and caused her heart to beat faster…perhaps this marriage might be all she wished.
“And when do you suppose, Fiona, I might earn endearments instead of epithets?”
“Perhaps when you behave less foolishly.”
“Come, spare just one. Throw a beggar a crumb, I implore you.”
Standing on tiptoes, she whispered in his ear, “Is tú ceol mo chro.”
He repeated the phrase, imitating her accent quite well. “And what have you said?”
“You are the music of my heart.”
Silence vibrated between them, broken by the chiming of a clock. He released a long breath. “I shall have you repeat that later when we’re alone. Many times.”
Her heart pounded so violently she knew he must hear.
“It is nearly nine o’clock. We must take our places. Are you ready, love?”
She hesitated, touching his sleeve. “Richard—” The musicians behind them began to play a lilting country air. “I will do my best to make our marriage a happy one.”
His eyes went dark again. “Fiona—as much as I’ve bungled things? You’ve had reservations, I know. But I believe we can be happy together.”
“Then dispel my doubts. Don’t expect blind obedience from me. We must be partners above all else. Can you accept that?”
“I can and do with all my heart.” Looking around the rapidly filling ballroom, he tucked her arm in his. “Into the fray we go.”