Matilda closed the door and carried the parcel over to her bed. It was supposed to be the final gown of the new wardrobe Gilbourne had commissioned for her, but the parcel seemed unusually large, even for an evening gown.
She unknotted the twine and opened the paper to reveal not only the most beautiful gown she’d ever seen… but also a large quantity of lacy, frilly nothings, with matching stockings and garters. Undergarments.
“I shan’t be needing those any time soon,” she murmured wryly, and stuffed them in the back of her wardrobe without investigating further.
The first few days after Gilbourne had kissed her and then utterly rejected her, he had acted as though neither event had occurred. He was so overly solicitous and polite, it had made her want to scream.
Fortunately, he could not keep up such behavior for long. They soon settled into a pattern that closely resembled good friends. It was not what Matilda wanted, but better than she’d feared. They took every meal together, and when Gilbourne was not at Parliament or in his study, he was either spiriting Matilda to yet another soirée, or tucked away with her in his library, reading side-by-side in companionable silence. She did not pester him about what he had revealed of his past, respecting her promise to let it lie.
Buttons rushed into the bedchamber. “Was that the final gown from Madame Theroux?”
“Indeed.” Matilda held up the pink crepe frock, draped over a dark rose slip.
Flowery vandykes of black velvet ornamented the bottom hem, above three folds of extravagant lace in large rouleaux. There was a matching headdress, a matching rose scarf with black silk fringe, matching armlets, and black chamois leather gloves and dancing slippers, each ornamented with rosettes of white chenille.
Buttons squealed and clapped her hands, bouncing on her heels. “Have you ever seen a gown so fine? You will be the most elegant of them all!”
Matilda hoped Gilbourne would feel the same. And that perhaps tonight, he would cease thrusting her into the paths of eligible bachelors and decide to claim her for himself.
Or at least consider the possibility.
“I ordered the bath,” Buttons said. “And I know just what to do with your hair. I’ll go and put the curling tongs above the fire.”
With butterflies gathering in Matilda’s stomach, she allowed herself to be bathed and dressed and primped. One might have supposed she’d be used to being made over by now, but every evening, it was as though the fairy godmother had arrived anew to turn the piglet into a princess.
She could scarcely believe that she’d attended two full weeks of balls and soirées and dinner parties. Or that only one week remained before her twenty-first birthday, when it would all come crashing down.
“Stop it,” she muttered to herself. Until Gilbourne, she’d been so looking forward to her twenty-first birthday, and the freedom and adventure her inheritance would provide.
Just because her guardian’s birthday gift would be a boot to the backside and the sound of his front door slamming behind her did not lessen her future adventures in any way.
Except… it felt like it did. Matilda no longer wanted to travel the world as an independent spinster—if indeed her inheritance would cover that to begin with. What had once seemed an unimaginably large number, she now realized to be a modest sum that ought to be budgeted wisely and spent sparingly.
Nonetheless, she’d relinquish every shilling in a heartbeat if she could exchange that old dream for her new one.
She wanted Gilbourne. Even if there was no large household in London. Even if they were penniless. Even if the only way to be together would be to remove to her parents’ minuscule cottage in the small hamlet of Rutland, where their closest neighbors really would be piglets. At least she and Gilbourne would have each other.
But he didn’t want her. Not here or anywhere. In or out of this gorgeous, fashionable gown.
She fumbled for her reticule. Of her previously abundant hoard, only a trio of tiny candied peels remained. She popped all three into her mouth at once.
“I’m ready,” she told Buttons.
Her maid threaded a quartet of flowers into Matilda’s elaborately braided hair arrangement and added the decorative headdress.
“Now you’re ready,” she pronounced, beaming with satisfaction and pride.
“Thank you, Buttons.”
Matilda hurried down the stairs to the parlor where Lord Gilbourne would be awaiting her. She had never arrived first, no matter how quickly she tried to rush her preparations. He was always standing there, stoic, hands behind his back, every inch of him tailored to absolute perfection, a fashion plate come to life.
And when his eyes caught sight of Matilda, his gaze sharpened and shone with heat.
It was this that gave her hope. The knowledge that his first glance at her every night took his breath away the way every glimpse of him did to her.
They arrived at tonight’s ball like every other: with Matilda’s gloved fingers curved about Gilbourne’s elbow, their invitation in his free hand. Normally, Matilda’s reticule of candied orange and lemon peels hung from her other wrist, but tonight she’d left it at home. No sense carrying about an empty pouch for no reason.
Their names were announced in short order. She and Gilbourne swept into an enormous ballroom filled with chandeliers and music and people.
