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Chapter31
The large, white gown spread out over my bed like a stretch of freshly fallen snow. Fanny had insisted on doing my hair before helping me to dress in order to avoid sitting too long and creasing the gown, and I watched the mass of white fabric through the looking glass, equally mesmerized and appalled by it. Shades of flowers, painted designs on the floor, and special wall hangings all conveyed Lady Edith’s intended message: innocence.
She failed to believe me innocent, however, so I wondered at the point of the farce. If my own mother-in-law could not accept the truth from my lips, how would she expect Bakewell society to do so from all this pageantry?
A knock sounded at the adjoining door, and Fanny moved to answer it. She spoke softly then stepped back and opened the door.
James stepped into my room but lingered in the doorway, and I shifted on my seat to better see him. His black coat and breeches were impeccable, his black waistcoat and white cravat crisp and starched. He looked the perfect, handsome rogue, due to his eyepatch, and I liked the look excessively.
If he found my staring odd, he did not comment on it. “There is something I wanted to show you before the ball begins, if you think you can spare a minute?”
“Of course.” I had not slept beside James in days, and I missed him. His voice, his handsome face, had haunted my fitful sleep, and I hated that he was so close but felt so out of my reach.
He gave a brisk nod to me, then to Fanny, and returned to his chamber.
“We’re nearly finished,” Fanny said, bustling back to my side. “We’ve only to add these flowers.” She pointed to the ridiculous pile on my dressing table that Madame Rousseau provided for my hair.
“We needn’t add them all,” I said with conviction. I’d been tempted to don the pink ball gown again just to spite my mother-in-law, but even I had more control than that. “Perhaps one or two?”
“I did think so many flowers wasn’t in your taste, ma’am, if I can be so bold. Your hair would be more white than copper if I was to add them all.”
Fanny made quick work of pinning a few flowers into my hair and helping me into my gown. When the enormous dress was on, I smoothed my hands down the gauzy overskirt. It had a flattering empire waist that flowed slimly down to an enormous train. The sheer overlay bunched at the hem with an inordinate amount of clustered flowers. It would have been perfectly tasteful if it boasted half as many roses—exactly as it had during the fitting.
I grit my teeth and crossed the room, the weight of the gown making movement more difficult. I wanted to glide, not drag. I blew out a frustrated breath and knocked on the adjoining door. James opened it so quickly I could only assume he’d been waiting nearby.
His gaze swept over me, his eyes widening in appreciation. He let out a low, soft whistle, almost as though by accident, then cleared his throat. “You are a vision, Liss.”
“Thank you.” I gave a low curtsy, more in jest than otherwise. “You can thank your mother for the design. She wanted me to splash white wherever I go tonight.”
“Inventive.”
Manipulative.
“Shall we?” he asked, offering his arm. I slipped my gloved hand over his bent elbow and followed him from the room. We turned away from the main stairs and James led me through corridors and up a set of stairs that were vaguely familiar. I was certain I’d found myself lost here a time or two, but I did not know where we were.
We reached a long, open corridor lined with lit sconces and windows open to the enclosed courtyard below. The wall opposite the windows was bestrewn with gilded frames and portraits of every size.
“Have you been here before? This is our gallery wall.”
“I haven’t.” I stepped away from him so I could better see the paintings.
The large one on the end was a tall man with brown, curly hair and James’s eyes. He wore his regimentals, the red coat striking and bold, his medals gleaming.
“That is my father,” James said, though I had surmised as much.
“He was very handsome.”
“And brave,” he added. He stepped to the side, pausing before another painting of a man in a long, white wig and frilly cravat. “This is my grandfather.”
We spent the better part of a half hour walking the length of the corridor and discussing James’s ancestors and all they’d achieved or the various aspects of the estate they had personally developed. England’s history was steeped in Bradwell military accomplishments until the last, and I could not help the surge of pride James’s anecdotes built in my chest. This strong line held the ancestors of my future children. The name passed from one father to the next, building on duties and responsibilities that had not suffocated or snuffed each man, but given them a reason to fight.
The Bradwell pride was a living thing, and I had looked at it in entirely the wrong way.
“For such a militant family, it surprises me that none of you . . .” I stopped, aware that I had begun asking an extremely personal question. I didn’t wish for James to believe I cast judgment on his decision not to follow his father’s footsteps to join the army.
He sent me a brief smile. “Henry did, actually. He joined up freshly out of Eton and followed my father across the pond to fight Napoleon.”
Henry? Quiet, bookish Henry? “I had no idea.”
