Fatima held her gaze as she took a tentative sip. Her eyes closed as she tasted it, inhaling the aroma at the same time. “Oh, Nell. What a transformation.”
“I am happy to hear you say that. Because I am requesting the same of you. A transformation, that is. For me.”
Fatima’s dark brows arched in curiosity—just enough to tear her away from the tea. Again, Nell’s eyes drifted to Fatima’s clothing. This was a winter day dress—thus made of wool, not something fine like silk or satin. But the color was a rich purple, or was that the new color they spoke of that was all the rage? Dyeing wool had its own alchemy. On the deep-purplish background, Fatima had embroidered intricate patterns in white and red. On some it may seem garish, but the use of color balanced the dark purple, and made the colors feel refreshing during these long, bleak days of late November. “What are you proposing, Nell?”
“I need a dress. But one that I might not normally wear. Something that isn’t practical. Something extraordinary.”
Fatima’s brows closed the gap left between her forehead and her hairline. “What is the occasion? What is the reason? I have so many questions.”
“The occasion is Jane’s engagement party. The reason is that it is my final outing with Lord Beckett.” These were answers Nell could give, and there was a sense of relief that she knew them so easily.
Fatima’s mouth hung open, not cartoonishly, but as if she had a congested nose and needed to breathe through her mouth.
When Fatima didn’t answer, Nell worried if she had been rude. “Are you not invited to Jane’s engagement dinner?”
Fatima’s mouth worked again, and she hurriedly sipped at her tea. She cleared her throat. “Not to worry, Nell. I am invited, yes. I’ll be attending with my brother. I had no idea that Lord Beckett was an acquaintance of yours.”
Nell blushed and found herself looking at her hands. “It’s a recent development. I’ve known of him, of course, being that he is a public figure, but it was only a short time ago that we were introduced.”
Fatima nodded and blinked rapidly, as if she were bringing her brain back into motion, like a great waterwheel creaking into motion by a sudden deluge. “Nell, the engagement dinner is next week.”
“Yes, I know. That is why I need help.”
“You want me to make you a dress in a week?” Fatima asked, her words slow.
When she said it that way, slow and disbelieving, the idea sounded ridiculous. “Notmake, per se, but find?”
“I see. You are asking me to find and tailor a dress for you in a week, which is fit for an event with an earl. An actual titled man who controls the votes of one of the most powerful empires in the world?”
Well. That was one way of saying it. He was those things, yes, but to Nell he was Beckett, a man who brought her a variety of tea. Beckett, who walked with her in companionable silence. Beckett, whose touch leached through the layers of wool to scorch her skin when he caught her fall. The pressure of his gloved hand at her waist made her think of all the sensuous ways a man could touch a woman. “Yes?”
Fatima stifled an exasperated sigh—Nell knew this sound. “We can look, but Nell, honestly, what do you expect to find on such short notice? And we would have to discuss budget. What Ican do with extra ribbon, or perhaps a bit of lace you might have could make this less expensive. Or perhaps you have something that would work, and we can dye it?”
Nell thought through the gowns she owned. Even the ones she wore for her occasional visits to the opera were not what she thought of as elegant. And she wanted Beckett to see her as elegant. The desire struck her as strange. Why? Why did she want Beckett to see her that way?
The answer came loud and surprisingly strong and fast: because she wanted Beckett to desire her, as a man might desire a woman. And as an earl, that man would be accustomed to women throwing themselves at him. But she didn’t want to be desired as a mistress or an occasional dalliance. She wanted all of him to want all of her, as she did. Elegance was his match. Thus, she needed to seem elegant, worthy of being a countess.
Not that she would marry him. Not that he wouldask.That was surely getting ahead of herself. Best not to think too far ahead.
“Nell?” Fatima asked. “Nell? Come back, please. We have much more to talk about.”
Nell blinked, realizing that she had gotten caught up in her thoughts. Fatima was less patient about her getting distracted than her other friends were. Fatima always interrupted, or if she couldn’t, she left. It never hurt Nell’s feelings, as it seemed like a perfectly reasonable solution for Fatima. “My apologies. What did you say?”
“I asked if you had a particular color you wanted or a style. Some place where we might start looking, as well as a budget concern.”
A thought occurred to her. “I do have a color I would aspire to. I’ve never seen it in a gown, but I’ve mixed the paint before. Would you like to see it?”
Fatima’s dark eyes went wide, as if she were about to roll them, but she didn’t. “I can’t guarantee we can make the color work in fabric, but yes, show it to me, and we can work from there.”
Nell stood. “It’s an old painting of mine. I’ll go get it. Stay here and help yourself to another cup.” Fatima didn’t seem to mind that directive at all, and was already leaning forward to pour for herself.
The rest of the house was brisk, but Nell didn’t bother to take a shawl. It would be just a moment to go to the powder room, where she stored her old canvases. She found it funny that people still referred to those small rooms beneath stairs as powder rooms, even though powdered wigs were so far out of fashion that even those who wore them didn’t powder them anymore, rendering the room obsolete. At least it was good for canvas storage.
When she got to the darkened room, she could barely see. The overcast day didn’t provide much light in the small room, so she hurried back to the hall to find a candle and some matches. Jacobs found her there and looked at her quizzically.
“It’s fine, Jacobs, I just need to grab one of my old paintings.”
He stepped forward. “May I help?”
