“Well, with luck, maybe Lord Philby’s mother will ask them to stay for supper.”
“Then you and Lord Edmund will share a lovely pork loin.”
“Non-committal as always?”
“I prefer my position as it is.”
Rose laughed. “So do I.”
Davis nodded and left. And Rose went back to fidgeting and glancing at the clock. At five before two, Davis appeared at the door again, this time carrying a large flat box tied with a dark blue satin ribbon.
“My lady, this has arrived for you.”
Rose blinked. “From whom?”
Davis brought the box into the room. “There is no card. The man who delivered it only said it was for Lady Rose Timmons.” He hefted the box. “It’s quite substantial.”
She gestured toward the gaming table near the window. “Set it there, please.”
“Certainly.” He did so, then exited the room, pulling the door partially closed.
Rose stared at the box. It was more than three feet long, two feet wide, and six inches deep. It was too big to be from a floral hothouse, but she could not imagine what else it could be. She slowly untied the ribbon, lifted the top off the box, and peeled back the paper that covered the contents.
Her heart stopped. As did her breath. One hand covered her mouth as tears stung her eyes. “Oh, dear God.”
Silk. Indigo silk. Yards and yards of indigo silk. Enough for two or three dresses, layered neatly before her.
She reached out, her fingers trembling, and touched it, as if it could not be real. “Thomas!” she whispered.
“What have I done now?”
Rose spun. He stood in the doorway, regal and pristine in a black superfine coat, gray and silver waistcoat, and a white cravat, the cane in his left hand. Davis stood just behind him, watching Rose.
Thomas tilted his head to peer behind her. “It arrived as directed. Excellent.”
Rose took a step toward him, then stopped, still struggling to breathe.
His eyes narrowed. “Are you all right? Do you like it?”
His words freed her, and Rose gasped, then ran to him, slipping her arms around him and burying her face against his chest. Thomas leaned back, startled, as Davis left the room. Rose heard the latch on the door click shut.
Thomas slowly put his arms around her, holding her close, pressing his lips to her temple. “I did not intend for you to cry. It was supposed to be apleasantsurprise.”
She eased out of his arms, blinking, the tears continuing to sting as they welled in her eyes and tracked down her cheeks. “It is. Tears of joy. But why?”
He released her and guided her toward the settee. He leaned his cane against the arm of it as they sat. “Because you look magnificent in that color, and I know your other dress was ruined. I wanted you to have a new one for new memories.”
She laid a hand on his forearm. “Thomas, there’s enough material there for two dresses. At least.”
“Or”—he said quietly—“one dress with a train.”
His meaning was all too clear, and Rose studied him. “You want me to marry you in indigo.”
“If you wish. Truth be told, I would marry you if you donned burlap rags and carried a bouquet of dead rats.”
“Well, that’s disgusting.”
Thomas laughed and placed his hand over hers. “All I meant is that it’s not about what you wear.”
