Liam reach over and placed a hand over hers. When she looked up, he gave her an understanding smile. Did he know? Liam always saw a lot more than people realised.
“There you are!” Nicole’s voice froze them both. She stood just within the door to the kitchen. “Pierre, can you come to the conservatory?” With that, she swivelled on her heels and marched away.
Would Gabriel be there too? Or would he be out in the hallway waiting to talk to her…?
With a sigh Pierre pushed off from the table and followed.
There was no sign of Gabriel anywhere. But his effect was obvious; Nicole was completely restored to her usual controlled poise. She sat in the centre of a silk-covered sofa, the long coffee table in front of her covered in folders and papers. Beside her on the floor was a stack of large boxes.
“Pierre. I wanted to discuss what you’re wearing for the wedding.” Nicole gave her the briefest glance as she marked something on her tablet.
“I already have something I want to wear.”
At this Nicole looked up, her eyebrows arched. “What do you mean?”
“I have a dress—”
“What kind of dress?”
“A turquoise A-line—”
“Oh no, no, no,” Nicole interrupted her. “All the staff have to wear the same.”
Overalls and aprons?Why did she insist on calling all of them ‘staff’ as if they were of a lower order?
“I’d rather—”
“Don’t worry; it’s much better than your turquoise thing.” Nicole dragged a large box from the floor. The cover had the word PRADA printed on it.
Since when did Prada make servants’ uniforms?
“You have a choice.” Nicole smiled. “Ecru or dove.”
“You mean murky beige or medium grey?” Pierre was aghast. Anyone who knew her knew she loved colour; how could anyone expect her to wear something so dull?
“What’s your size? I guessed 10 or 12 so I have one of each.”
“I usually take 10 but—”
“Ah, good. Then dove it is.” She opened one of the boxes and pulled out a shift dress. It wasn’t only grey, it was boring. A sleeveless, featureless, plain knee-length linen shift with a square collar.
“I can’t wear this. It’ll make me look sick.”
“Pierre, whatyoulook like isn’t important. You are not the bride, or a bridesmaid; you’re not even a guest. You are staff. You should be grateful to His Lordship’s generosity in providing you all with designer clothes which you can of course keep after the wedding.”
She would never want to keep this; she wouldn’t even want it in her room.
“And could you do something about your hair? Something less unconventional, less gypsy-nomad? We can’t have you looking like a Camden Market hippie.”
Sure, would you like me to dye it grey to match the dress?
“I have matching shoes for you.”
Another box. This one saidFrench Soul. Nicole opened it and checked the contents. Flat, nude ballerina shoes. “Okay, this is all.” She shoved the box into Pierre’s lap. “Take this to your room. And ask the nurse to come and see me. Immediately, please.”
Twenty-Six
That night, Pierre lay on her sofa in her private study. A Selena Gomez playlist in her earbuds ensured she couldn’t hear anything else. Not that she’d overheard anything from Nicole’s rooms, but she didn’t want to find out if Gabriel was there.
