The Dress of the Season Read Online Free PDF Page A

the one who mattered most
; the thought wandered across her mind. But she quickly put it aside.
    “All of my friends are going to be so terribly jealous!” Felicity squeaked with pleasure, enthralled by the sight of herself in the gown. “I will dance every dance and they will die of envy.”
    “You like it, then? You do not think it too daring?” Collette asked cautiously.
    Daring? Yes, yes it was. It was the utter cusp of fashion, of course. One would expect nothing less from Madame LeTrois. It was also frightening, being so bold as to walk into Almack’s in the silver concoction, with unexpected pieces of her white skin showing. It was wild. It was reckless.
    But wild and reckless were never words of warning to Felicity.
    However, she realized, as she bit her lip, an anticipatory smile coming across her features, it wasn’t simply the recklessness she loved. It was the fact that she felt . . .
    She felt herself. She felt womanly and strong and as beautiful as it was possible for her to be. She felt like she would be seen.
    Seen by those who had forgotten her. Her mind flashed to the note that had come with the gown. Seen, noticed, by those that maybe, just maybe, had sent her a dress for just such a purpose.
    “It’s perfect,” she breathed, and Collette smiled knowingly behind her. Felicity lifted her hand gently, careful of all the pins, and fingered the lace at her shoulder delicately. “I wish . . . oh, I wish that everyone’s eyes are on me tonight.”
His eyes.
“I wish to have my name on everyone’s lips in the morning!”
    Collette met her eyes in the mirror, her smile as mischievous as Felicity’s. “You know, mademoiselle, Madame LeTrois had that lace made by gypsy artisans she met in the French woods. She says the gypsies gave it their magic. Perhaps, you will get your wish.”
    And she had. Now, she was in her silver gown, sitting on the floor, crying because of it.
    “Well,” she told herself, “that’s enough of that.” She wiped the last of her tears away. Three deep calming breaths and she stood, ready to face herself. She caught her reflection in the long, oval mirror in the corner. In the cool moonlight, she looked ghostly in her silver dress. Her hair full black in the night, her cheeks pale from disappointment. But she was not a ghost, she thought as she straightened her shoulders. Nor was she going to sit quietly while she was sent away to Surrey, a place filled with ghosts, for both her and for Osterley.
    Perhaps he, like Felicity, had spent the past few hours expelling his disappointments, and was now more reasonable, thinking less of scandal and more of her hurt feelings. Perhaps now, in the middle of the night, when he could not possibly have an appointment to rush off to, or work to do with his clerk, she could get him to listen to reason for five minutes, and he would not treat her as an afterthought, an obligation.
    Perhaps, if she forced him to, he would see her.
    *  *  *
    She found him in his library, which was none the worse for having her stamp out of the room a few hours before. She found him, too, in much the same position that she had left him: that is, leaning on the edge of his desk, a drink in his hand. Although now, he had discarded his coat, loosened the cravat at his neck. His thick blond hair—so similar to his great-aunt’s—was a messy riot of waves, as if he had been running his hand through it repeatedly.
    She, too, had changed her attire, into her night rail, which covered her from chin to toe. A heavy robe tied her into discreet modesty. No need to set him off by the sight of silver, or skin. Her hair was down, in a childlike braid. She put up her chin, and knocked gently on the open door.
    “’Bout time. Been expecting you for over an hour now,” Osterley said, not turning his head to face her. His voice was a deep, warm grumble, but the edges of his words were blurred with drink.
    “You’ve been drinking,” Felicity said, surprised