Page 50 of Mail-Order Viscountess

“I don’t need perfect.” Kate finally looked away from Thomas, focusing on Rose instead. “Just...simple.”

“Simple can still be lovely.” Rose wrapped an arm around Kate’s shoulders. “Trust me. We’ll take care of everything.”

CHAPTER 17

The dress fit like it had been made for Kate, though it hadn’t of course. This particular gown had been commissioned by Madame Gautier in Columbia.

She stood before the mirror in the upstairs bedroom, smoothing her hands down the jade silk that Clara had packed so carefully to be her own wedding dress. Now Kate would wear it instead.

She’d spent several hours altering the seams yesterday afternoon—taking in the waist, adjusting the shoulders, hemming the skirt until it brushed the floor at exactly the right length. The color brought out the green in Kate’s hazel eyes, made her skin look less pale than it had these past few days.

“You’re beautiful.” Emotion clouded Clara’s voice behind her.

Kate met her sister’s gaze in the mirror. Clara wore another of her best dresses—a soft rose muslin that made her honey-blonde hair glow in the morning light streaming through the window. Tears already pooled in her eyes, threatening to spill over.

Kate swallowed down the lump in her throat. “Don’t cry yet.” She turned from the mirror and reached for Clara’s hands. “Save it for the ceremony at least.”

“I can’t help it.” Clara squeezed her fingers. “You’re getting married. My sister is getting married.”

The words settled strange in Kate’s chest—heavy and light all at once. Married to Thomas Balfour. A man she’d known less than a week. A man who’d kept her alive through a blizzard and seemed to see past all the defenses she kept raised. Who seemed to truly enjoy her company. Even to respect her.

And tonight would be her wedding night.

The thought sent warmth creeping up her neck. By evening’s end, she would become his wife in truth—give herself to a man she barely knew.

She trusted him. That much had settled into certainty somewhere between the cave and the study. Thomas Balfour would not be cruel or careless with her. Probably.

But trust didn’t erase the vulnerability of what lay ahead.

She drew a slow breath and steadied herself. This was the path most women walked—binding themselves to husbands they’d known only through the careful choreography of courtship. Maybe she’d not been given that opportunity, but she’d seen Thomas stripped of pretense, exhausted and fighting for their survival. Perhaps that was worth more than months of parlor visits and chaperoned strolls.

It would still be hard. But she would face it the way she faced everything else—head high and spine straight.

A soft knock interrupted the moment, and Rose’s voice drifted through the door. “May we come in?”

“Of course.” Kate released Clara’s hands and turned as the door opened.

Rose stepped inside, her dark hair pinned up in an elegant chignon, and Mandie entered just behind her, carrying a small bundle wrapped in brown paper. “We brought you something.”

Both women stopped just inside the doorway and stared at her. The heat from their gazes crept up her neck, but she straightened her shoulders and met their eyes.

“Oh, Kate.” Rose’s hand flew to her mouth. “You look absolutely stunning.”

Mandie nodded, her eyes bright. “Thomas won’t be able to look away.”

Her pulse kicked harder. Thomas.

“Here.” Mandie crossed the room and placed the wrapped bundle on the bed. She opened the paper to reveal a small bouquet of dried wildflowers—mountain asters and Indian paintbrush, if she wasn’t mistaken. Someone had tied them with a pale green ribbon that matched Kate’s dress perfectly.

“Mrs. Wang saved them.” Mandie lifted the bouquet. “She has a whole collection from last summer.”

Kate’s throat tightened as she accepted the flowers. The gesture was so simple, so thoughtful. These women barely knew her, yet they were treating her wedding like it mattered. Like she mattered.

“Thank you.” Her voice rasped, so she worked to clear it. “They’re perfect.”

Rose moved to Kate’s side, reaching up to adjust a few loose strands of hair that had escaped her simple chignon. “You’re nervous.”

It wasn’t a question.