Then the modiste uncovered the third.
Eleanor’s breath caught.
It was sea-glass blue, the kind of color that changed in different light with green at the edges, blue at the heart. The bodice was structured but not severe. The sleeves were delicate, the skirt flowing as though it might ripple when she moved.
The modiste watched her reaction like a hawk. “It suits you.”
Eleanor swallowed. “It is… beautiful.”
“It will make an impression,” the modiste said softly. “And it will not compete with you. It will carry you.”
Eleanor reached out and touched the fabric. It was cool under her fingers, smooth as water.
She imagined walking into the ballroom beside James. Imagined him seeing her.
Her stomach fluttered, giddy and humiliating.
“I will wear this,” Eleanor said.
The modiste smiled, satisfied. “Very good, Your Grace.”
The modiste and her assistants retreated, leaving Eleanor with her maid and the gown arranged like a promise.
Eleanor stood for a moment, staring at it.
Then she pressed a hand lightly to her mouth, as though she might contain the foolish smile threatening to appear.
“Do not look at me like that,” she murmured to herself.
Her maid smiled anyway. “You are allowed to be excited, Your Grace.”
Eleanor exhaled slowly.
Allowed.
That word again.
And for the first time in days, she let herself believe she might be.
By the time the first carriage rolled up the drive, Blackmere Park no longer felt like a house.
It felt like a stage.
Candles burned in every sconce and chandelier, casting the blue-tinted wax into a shimmering wash that made the white walls seem faintly underwater. Greenery draped along banisters. The ballroom doors stood open, and from within came the low murmur of tuning strings.
Eleanor stood at the head of the receiving line with a practiced smile and a spine held deliberately straight.
It was not fear that kept her rigid. It was the knowledge that every inch of her would be assessed. Not simply for elegance.
For belonging.
Mrs. Hargreaves stood discreetly behind the line, watching like a general. Graham was positioned near the entry, prepared to announce names with the precision of a man who believed ceremony could keep chaos at bay.
And Eleanor waited.
James was not yet beside her.
She told herself he would arrive. He had to. It was his ball.
