“Hello,” Ethan said, gazing at Mademoiselle curiously and ignoring my question. There were smears on his cheekthat looked suspiciously like cherry tart and crumbs on his shirtwaist. “I am Ethan. Who are you?”
Mademoiselle arched one thin brow at Ethan, a soft smile lighting her eyes.
“Mademoiselle Brigit is a modiste. She’s fitting me for my wedding gown.” The words sounded foreign to my lips. I had been anxiously waiting for Oliver’s proposal so I could escape from my parents’ house. Yet I was dreading the time when I’d be leaving. Although I would make a point to visit often, I wouldn’t be seeing Ethan every day.
“You look very fluffy,” he said, eyeing the dress. He lifted a hand, one cherry-stained finger poised to touch the fabric.
Mademoiselle gasped, horror twisting her mouth.
“No, absolutely not,” I warned Ethan with a shake of my head. “Do not touch the gown, young man.”
He frowned and dropped his hand. Scuffing the toe of his shoe on the carpet, he asked, “When is Oliver coming to live with us?”
“Oliver isn’t going to live with us, my love.” Soon, I would be his wife and a duchess. Guilt warred with joy. At last, I would be free of the shackles of an unmarried woman. Being a duchess had its own benefits, most especially influence. I had several charitable ideas in mind to implement once I held the title. Except I’d be forced to leave my nephews behind in pursuit of my own agenda. “I’m going to live with Oliver.”
He jutted out his lower lip, a slight quiver to his mouth. Pale brown eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “No, you can’t leave, Auntie Amelia.”
“Give me a moment, Mademoiselle.” I knelt down and rested my palms on his shoulders. “Please don’t cry, my love.”
“But you’re leaving me,” he said, a tear tracing down his cheek.
I wiped it away with the pad of my finger. I cupped the side of his face, and he rested his cheek in my hand. “No, I’m not leaving you, my darling. I would never leave you.”
“But you’re going to live with Oliver.” The tears were falling in earnest, his words catching on a sob.
The dress be damned, I pulled him into my body and held him tight. He clung to my neck. “Oliver will be my husband, but you will always be my nephew, and Oliver will be your new uncle. You’ll like that, won’t you?”
“What about Father?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
My mind spun a hundred different directions at his innocent question. “Your father approves of the match.”
“I don’t want you to marry Oliver. I want you to marry Papa.” He melted into me, and I had to grab his waist to prevent us both from falling.
Had he come up with the idea on his own, or had my mother coached him? Suspicion caught ahold of my mind. It was bad enough she’d tried to use me. Would she be desperate enough to groom her own grandson to manipulate the situation? “I thought you liked Oliver?”
He pulled back and met my stare with one of his own. “I like Papa more.”
“As you should.” I liked Noah a bit too much as well. I pushed a strand of hair away from his face and gave him an encouraging smile. If circumstances had been different, Noah and I might have ended up together. Or Sally and he might still be married. Once again, the diary called to me. “I love Oliver, and I want to be his wife.”
“Then you should live here. Grandpapa says the house has too many rooms.” He nodded at his own idea.
I ruffled his hair and stood, pleased to see his tears had dried up. “I’m sorry, but that’s not possible. I will have my ownhousehold to run.” One where I wouldn’t be under my mother’s constant thumb. “But you can come to stay with us whenever you’d like.”
“Promise?” he asked.
I kissed his forehead. “I promise. Now you must leave. It isn’t proper for a gentleman to be in a lady’s room.”
With a heavy sigh, he nodded and ran from the room. I looked down at the dress, dreading what I’d see. A streak of pink from where Id’ hugged him marred the heavy lace along the edge of the bodice. The dress didn’t flatter me one bit and I met Mademoiselle’s troubled gaze.
“Do you think you can fix this dress?” I asked.
“The cherry stained the lace, I might—”
I shook my head, frustrated by what I was about to say. I’d fought my mother for the right to wear the gown, and now I had no interest in wearing it. If I admitted the truth, Mother would win. It was childish, but I’d rather walk down the aisle in a hideous gown than admit that to her. “I’m not talking about the lace. The dress isn’t...well, I don’t like it. Can you fix it?”
Mademoiselle walked around me, her hand on her chin, before she nodded. “I can. And we’ll start with this,” she said, pointing at the stained lace. “The gown has good structure. It simply needs fewer embellishments.”
“Agreed.” I stood still while she unfastened the long line of tiny buttons, muttering to herself in French the entire while. I had to trust she could salvage the dress, if for no other reason than pride. I wanted to make Oliver proud on our wedding day. The same way Sally had made Noah proud while wearing the same dress. Only mine would be tailored to me.
