“I look like a cake that was swallowed by a flamingo,” she said, turning to the side in the hopes that a different vantage point might somehow improve the gown’s silhouette.
It didn’t.
“Your hair is pretty,” Rebecca offered diplomatically. “It’s holding the curls beautifully, even without bandoline.”
“You’ve an undeniable talent with the hot tongs.” Rosemary’s bow-covered shoulders slumped. “I am sorry it’s being wasted on me.”
“Not at all,” her lady’s maid protested. “I won’t deny that the dress is an…interesting choice, but if anyone was to carry it off, it’s you, Miss Rosemary. Your beauty has always come from the inside out, not the outside in. So really, it doesn’t matter what you’re wearing.”
Rosemary met Rebecca’s large eyes in the mirror. “Thank you.”
“You’re more than welcome. Should we go downstairs and see if His Grace is here yet?” she asked, her simmering anticipation palpable.
In addition to the invitations he’d procured for them, Sterling was personally accompanying Rosemary and her grandmother to the ball. It was to be his first official appearance at the house, and all of the staff–including Rebecca–were thrilled at the prospect of having him in their midst. Particularly since most of them had most likely given up on Rosemary ever marrying, let alone marrying a duke.
Her engagement had served to elevate and excite the entire household. Where once they’d served a dowager viscountess and her untitled granddaughter, they were now bringing tea to the future Duchess of Hanover. And the subsequent changes in their behavior, while slight, had still been noticeable.
“I am going to need assistance fitting through the doorway,” she said.
Rebecca nodded. “I’ll ring for another maid.”
Rosemary stretched her arms out to encompass the width of her skirt, then measured that against the door. She turned back to Rebecca and blew a stream of air through pursed lips. “Better make it two more…and a footman for good measure.”
“What do youthink, Higgins?” Tugging on the diamond cut lapels of his fitted black dress coat, Sterling pivoted away from the mirror to face his valet. And it was probably a trick of the light, but he might have sworn he saw the servant wipe a tear from his eye.
“Splendid, Your Grace.” Higgins snapped his heels together and squared his shoulders. “Absolutely splendid.”
“In no small part to you and your skills with a straight razor.” He ran a hand across his chin. “I feel like a newborn babe.”
“If I may, Your Grace…”
“Go on,” he invited when Higgins hesitated. Opening the top drawer of his dressing stand, he sifted through a dozen satin ties before settling on a light gray.To match Rosemary’s eyes, he thought as he looped it around his neck and began to flip the ends over each other to fashion a knot.
“It’s just that…in these clothes…with your hair styled back like that…you bear a striking resemblance to your brother, Your Grace.”
Sterling’s hands stilled. He waited for the familiar wave of grief to crash over him. For the anger and the guilt to nip right at its heels, and a mindless craving for a bottle of gin after that. Instead, all he felt was a dull throbbing. The same a solider with a war wound might experience whenever it rained, or the poor chap closed his eyes and recalled the horrors he’d endured on the battlefield.
The pain was still there.
It would always be there.
But perhaps the trick wasn’t trying to get rid of it, or ignoring it, or drinking it into submission. Rather, maybe the trick was to just…exist with it. Acknowledge it. Acknowledge the ache and the hurt and the empty hole that used to be filled. The gnarled, twisted flesh that used to be smooth. The heart that used to be whole. Acknowledge it and keep moving. Keep breathing. Keepliving.
Especially now that he had someone to live for.
“Thank you, Higgins.” He resumed tying. “I am glad to hear that my brother remains in your thoughts. Although I think we can both agree that I’m the far handsomer brother?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Higgins said, reverting to his far more in-character stoicism.
Sterling’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not just saying that because I pay you more money than any other valet in London, are you? I’ve taken notes, Higgins. You make a ghastly amount.”
“No, Your Grace.”
Any further jibing (Sterling did so enjoy ruffling Higgins’ feathers) was interrupted when a maid knocked timidly at the door and handed the valet a card before whisking off down the hall. After a cursory glance at the piece of paper, which evoked no more emotion other than a raised brow, Higgins passed the card on to Sterling.
“It appears you have a caller, Your Grace.”
“A caller? Don’t they know what night it is?” Still, he accepted the card. And liked to believe it was a sign of his strengthening sobriety that his hand didn’t shake when he read the name written on it.
