Page 66 of Duke of Sapphire

She looked at it, then at him. “What is this?”

“Open it.”

She took it from him. She lifted the lid.

Inside, on a bed of deep blue velvet, sat a necklace—sapphires set in gold, each stone reflecting with a rich blue that matched the silk of her dress so exactly it was almost architectural. Beside it, the matching earrings, and the tiara, which was not so much a tiara as a statement.

Charlotte was very still. “Henry.”

“They belonged to two Duchesses before you,” he said. “My grandmother wore the set to present at court. My mother wore it during her first Season.” He paused. “They have been in the chest for twenty-two years.”

She looked up at him. “Did you speak with Edith?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My dress.” She glanced down at the silk. “Did you ask Edith what color I would be wearing? In order to—” She gestured between the jewels and the gown. “Match.”

“I did not.” A soft smile illuminated his features. “This is our first ball as Duke and Duchess, and I wish for the ton to see you.”

She narrowed her eyes. “This is a remarkable coincidence.”

“A fortunate one,” Henry said.

“You have a remarkable poker face.”

“I am telling you the truth.”

She looked at the necklace again. The smile returned, smaller this time, and something in it was not quite what he expected—not pleasure exactly. Something closer to wonder, and underneath it, a quiet ache she had not entirely covered.

“My father never gave me any of my mother’s jewelry,” she said. “He put it away after she died. I asked him once when I was seventeen. He said it wasn’t appropriate for the occasion.” She turned the box slightly in her hands. “He never named another occasion.”

Henry said nothing for a moment.

“This is your family now,” he said. “The Sappherton women have worn that set for sixty years. It will hold your legacy just as it held theirs.”

Charlotte looked at him. Not the quick, assessing look she used when she was deciding what to say next. The other one. The one she did not usually let him see for more than a second or two before she put it away.

He held her gaze.

She held his.

“May I?” Henry said.

She turned. He took the necklace from the box. She lifted her hair clear of the chain, the loose strand near her ear brushing the back of his hand as she did, and he brought the clasp together at her nape. His bare fingers rested against the back of her neck for the space of a breath. Her skin was warm. He felt her go perfectly still. And then—just once, just briefly—she shivered.

He let his hands drop.

She turned back around and looked somewhere past his shoulder at the mantelpiece. Henry looked at the velvet box. He closed the clasp on it with considerably more attention than the task required.

“The earrings,” he said.

She put them on without comment. Henry lifted the tiara and held it out. She took it, settled it into her hair, and then turned to the mirror above the fireplace.

She looked at her own reflection for a moment. Then she looked at his, just behind her left shoulder.

“Well,” she said.

“This brings out the gold in your eyes, Charlotte,” Henry murmured.