“Yes,” Nicholas replied, nodding. “That’s right.” He himself headed onwards, turning off a few paces later at a sumptuous guest suite. He shut the door behind him and collapsed into a chair. His head thudded with weariness, and he couldn’t keep his eyes open.
As he untied his cravat and took off his boots, preparing for bed, he found his thoughts drifting to Bernadette. The beautiful waltz they had shared had moved him deeply. He stood still for a moment, reliving that moment on the terrace when he’d kissed her hand. It was so beautiful, so precious.
He was falling in love, and he knew it.
Somehow, he had to find a way to tell her and find the courage, too.
Chapter 21
The sunlight filtered in through the clouds and Bernadette, standing on a stool in the drawing-room, felt grateful for that. Standing in the cloudy, shady room while the modiste made final adjustments to the wedding-gown was bad enough. In full, blazing sun, it would have been terrible. As it was, the stays that bound tight around the waist made it hard to breathe.
“Are you sure the skirt should be that length?” Lady Lockwood’s querulous voice filled the silence of the drawing-room.
“Yes, my lady,” the modiste, Mrs. Parnell, assured the older woman confidently. “In France, the slight train on the gown is almost a rule.”
“We are in England, Mrs. Parnell,” Lady Lockwood reminded her grandly.
Bernadette tensed. She could feel the modiste’s anger, see her stiff back and her tight, clipped movements as she pinned up the hem slightly, and she understood it all too well. She felt some relief—seeing how Lady Lockwood insulted someone else made her more able to ignore the barbs thrown her way.
“Yes, my lady,” the modiste said tightly. “We are. ThoughFrance still leads the fashions.”
“Quite so, quite so!” Mama spoke up from where she sat on the chaise-longue beside Lady Lockwood. “And a train and lace trim are highly modish there.”
Lady Lockwood said nothing—clearly, she wasn’t sure whether to be offended at the contradiction or to be impressed that Mama knew the fashions of the day so well. In other circumstances, Bernadette would have laughed to see Lady Lockwood so discomforted.
“And you’re certain that lace is where it should be?” Lady Lockwood inquired. The modiste took a breath in, as if she was trying to control herself. Bernadette wanted to get down off the stool, but she was hemmed in on all sides and besides, the stays were so tight that she could barely breathe, which would have made any swift motion difficult.
“Yes, my lady,” the modiste managed to say in a tight, clipped tone. “I am quite sure. The embellishment on the neckline is also just as it should be according to French fashion.”
“Well, I suppose you’re right,” Lady Lockwood said, though somehow sounding unconvinced.
Bernadette shut her eyes. She wished she wasn’t there. She didn’t have any say in designing the dress—the modiste had done all the work, following Lady Lockwood’s instruction to make it “as fashionable as possible.” Bernadette hadn’t chosen anything, and certainly, she hadn’t chosen to be standing in the drawing-room while Mrs. Parnell worked on the gown, with Lady Lockwood in attendance, criticizing everybody.
“I’m sure that the fine fabric speaks for itself, my lady,” Mama said quietly. Lady Lockwood raised a brow at her.
“Fabric is just half the gown, Lady Rothendale,” she said sternly, as though teaching Mama something of great importance.
“Yes, yes,” Mama stuttered. “I suppose you’re right.”
Bernadette looked away. For all that her mother had often been cruel to her, she felt sorry for her. Lady Lockwood was even more critical and controlling than Mama ever was. Her thoughts wandered to Nicholas’ father—what might it have been like to be raised by Lady Lockwood? Not that she could imagine the countess playing much of a role in his upbringing. Like herself, he was probably raised by a nanny and saw her only rarely.
Thoughts of Lord and Lady Lockwood led to thoughts of Nicholas, and she felt her heart twist painfully. She hadn’t seen him since they danced together. Even though she was sure she was wrong, she couldn’t help wondering if he was spending time with Emily.
He wouldn’t. He surely wouldn’t.
But, then, there was no reason for him not to. Society would doubtless approve—after all, the scandal sheets had questioned, openly, why the wealthy viscount and heir would court a woman almost unknown in theTon. Lady Emily was very much part of society, in ways Bernadette never was.
She glanced down at the dress where the modiste was completing the hem. The dress was made of white silk, the floor-length skirt ending in a train that still swept the floor despite her standing on a stool. When she stood on the rug, she imagined the train would stretch back about two feet behind her. The gown felt like a cage, binding her and preventing all her movements. She glanced across at her reflection in the mirror.
The dress had puffed sleeves of silk so finely woven it was almost see-through, and the neckline was an oval, not low enough to be indecent, but certainly as low as that of an evening-gown and embellished with lace from France. The high waistband that held the dress tight around her chest was made of white silk, decorated with pearls and silvery filaments. She could only imagine how much the dress must have cost, and the Earl of Lockwood was paying for it. She wished she could feel grateful, but it was impossible to feel anything but resentful. She’d chosen none of it at all, and all Lady Lockwood had done was criticize her, the modiste and everything in the room.
“Ah! Look,” Lady Lockwood declared warmly as the modiste stepped back. “That’s the dress as it will look on the day. Stand up properly!” she snapped. Bernadette blinked, barely believing she was talking to her. She didn’t even speak to the servants with such a tone. “You can’t slouch in a dress like that. And countesses do not slouch.”
“No. No, they do not,” Mama echoed. Bernadette blinked hard, blinking back sudden tears.
The words were unkind, but even more unkind due to how inadequate she felt without them saying anything.If I’m unfit to be a countess, she wanted to shout,then why are you making me become one? That was cruel.
She shifted where she stood, desperate to be excused. As the modiste went to her workbox to fetch something, she coughed. “Please,” she begged. “I beg to be excused.”
