Page 68 of A Dress for the Wicked
Suddenly, he let out a deep breath and said, “I’d like to see you. As your suitor.”
As my suitor? My heart was suddenly a bubble racing to the top of a champagne glass, all light and air and lift.
“You would?”
I smiled, a huge, overly happy, too-big-for-my-mouth smile. The sound of the smile spilled into my voice and Tristan raised his head, his eyes flashing with hope.
“I would.” He grinned too. “Do you—what do you think?”
“I’d love that.” I heard myself answer him, and marveled athow calm I sounded when, inside, my champagne-bubble heart was bursting into a thousand more champagne-bubble hearts. They swept me forward, to him. With a confidence I didn’t know I possessed, I put my hands around his neck.
Though I was emboldened, he suddenly seemed shy. “I-I’m glad.”
Slowly, almost cautiously, he placed both hands around my waist. There wasn’t any music, but we swayed slightly, staring into each other’s eyes. He leaned in, as though to kiss me, and then hesitated. I laced my fingers together behind his neck, closing the space between us even more.
There was another second of hesitation and we moved forward together. When he kissed me, it was nothing like Johnny Wells’s kiss. This one was impetuous and free. I wanted to breathe it in like air or sunshine.
“The hacks are here!” someone called from the lobby. Though the shout was coming from right outside, it sounded miles away.
Tristan stepped back, releasing me except for the hand that interlaced my fingers with his.
“You need to get going.” He sounded husky.
“I know,” I said. Or thought I said. My words were almost gasps, exhales as gentle as his touch. “When will I see you again?”
“I’m not sure.” His voice was still husky and slow. “It isn’t like a tabloid journalist can hang about the Fashion House without official business. But I’ll find a way to come see you, I promise.”
He reached out his other hand and brushed my cheek with it. I leaned my face into his palm, closing my eyes for a moment. The giddy, golden sensation from the kiss expanded inside me.
“Let’s go, ladies!” the same person called again. Without even realizing what I was doing, I leaned forward and kissed Tristan again. My body, it seemed, knew what I desired. “Ladies!”
“I’ll come see you as soon as I can,” he murmured into my ear.
I stepped away, grabbing up my skirts with one hand, but leaving the other still holding his. I held on for as long as I could, our hands stretching out between us before we had to let go.
“There.” Tilda undid the last button on my gown with a crochet hook. Finally, it wasoff. I stepped out of my gown, instantly feeling a hundred pounds lighter. The dress was so stiff with boning and crinoline that it stood up on its own. Tilda helped me undo my corset and camisole. The corset and gown had left deep red marks around my stomach and ribs. By morning, they would turn into bruises.
“My back is so sore. You’d think I scrubbed an entire kitchen floor,” I said, slipping into my thin silk robe. I kicked off my heels. They were higher than the ones I usually wore. The soles of my feet were blistered and my toes ached. I flexed them, trying to undo the damage.
“You’ve scrubbed a kitchen floor?” Tilda scoffed.
“I have. What do you think I did back home in Shy?” I sat down at my vanity and started to pull hairpins from my locks,leaving the dress upright in the middle of the room.
“What...” Tilda hesitated. “What was it like tonight? At the gala?”
Her question took me off guard. The gala was like a fever dream. The protest, Mr. Taylor and Sophie, Cynthia. Walking in the rain. Kissing Tristan. Butterflies. I was happy it was over—but some part of me knew it had been, in many ways, the most memorable night of my life.
“It was magical.” I picked up a washcloth, dipped it into the basin of water on my vanity, and wiped my face. The face paint I’d been forced into stained the cloth. I gave my cheek a firm swipe and my old face emerged. It was less impressive without the paint, but I liked seeing myself again.
Sophie entered the chamber. Her hair swayed freely down her back. Her dark eye paint was smudged, as though she had rubbed it, but it only served to make her more mysterious. She was wearing an evening robe, and it flared open to reveal a black corset edged with crystals and embroidery. Sheer panels showed hints of the milky skin around her stomach, and it cinched tightly around her waist with black laces up the sides. A lover was meant to see that kind of corset. Aside from the finger marks still marring her neck, she looked perfect.
She made her way over to our chaise longue, kicking off her heels and sending them catapulting across the room.
“You’re dismissed,” she said to Tilda, without bothering to look at her. I winced. No matter how often I heard it, I couldn’t get used to the haughty voice everyone used with the maids, much less use it myself. I tried to catch Tilda’s eye, but shequickly left. It was just as well. There was much Sophie and I had to discuss.
“Well, there’s lots to do,” I said. “We need to get the money from Cynthia.”
Sophie didn’t respond, her fingers searching through her tousled hair, looking for lost hairpins. “Do you have a bank account?”
