Staring down at the long train of her dress which spanned
from where she sat to nearly halfway across the room, she touched the
embroidery for the first time. The silken threads almost felt coarse compared
to the silk fabric of the gown. How long had it taken to even make the material
for this? She knew all of it had been hand woven, hand stitched, and
handcrafted. Had it been made just for her?
Then she noticed her hands, and twisted her wrists to
consider the palms. These were not the hands of a servant. They were soft and
un-callused. And, of course, a prince would not have been so adamant about
marrying a servant girl. She may have learned her name, but she did not know
her title.
Just then, Christian returned. Behind him, he held the hand
of young girl who looked like a more feminine and sweetly beautiful version of
himself. The charming young maiden had ringlets the same shade of brown as his
mop of waves bouncing around her head. The greatest difference was a shock of
blue filling her eyes instead of his blackish brown.
Emma peered around Christian’s arm shyly measuring her. Then
when the girl apparently decided she was all right, she smiled, flashing a
dimple just like his, and darted around his side to cheerily greet her with a quick
curtsy. “Hello, Lady Contessa. Christian said you needed my help.” She then
settled a pair of long white gloves into her upturned hands.
With her fingers curling slowly around the soft kidskin, she
watched in shock as the girl then began untying the ribbons in her hair,
saying, “I’m really good at this. I’ve practiced on Bridgette loads of times.”
Wondering who Bridgette was, Tessa lifted her eyes to
Christian’s as he smiled down at her and opened his mouth to speak, then closed
it when his sister spoke instead, “You don’t want him doing it,” she whispered
with a conspiratorial quirk of her brow. “He did my hair once when Mama and
Bridgette were indisposed, and you would not believe the mess he created.”
Christian laughed out loud, lowered onto the seat next to
her, and shook his head. By then, Emma had removed all of the ribbons and begun
coiling her tresses on top of her head, taking pins from Christian’s
outstretched, open palm to secure each section. She stepped up onto the settee
to reach the back.
“Emma,” Christian reprimanded in a brotherly tone. “Mind the
cushion, dear.”
His sister responded in a defiant voice, “Hmm! If you expect
this done properly, Chris, mind your own business.”
“We must shorten her sleeves as well,” he muttered, his
fingers gliding over the fabric.
Tessa shivered.
Emma paused in doing her hair to untie the sleeves of her
overdress which were attached at the shoulders with ribbons. “I have not seen
this style, is it French? It seems med—”
“Yes, it is French,” Christian lied promptly, and far too
easily.
She met his gaze as his little sister bunched up the excess
fabric of her chemise, creating romantic puffs that came to just above her
elbows as she crossed and tied the ribbons into an ornate latticework of golden
bows to secure it. “The gown is lovely, my lady, but this will be more fitting
for a London ball.”
Contessa suddenly felt exposed, and began drawing on the
gloves whilst Emma resumed tugging gently on her hair.
Christian was considering her with a worried look on his face.
She realized why he looked troubled when he took hold of her
now gloved hand and pressed his fingers into the pulse point at her wrist
another time. Clearly he feared she may vanish again, and that would certainly
startle his little sister.
When that didn’t happen, he sighed with obvious relief, then
noticed how his legs had gotten buried beneath the train of her gown. “Do you
have safety pins, Emma? We must do something about the train.”
“Of course I do.”
Once Emma was done with her hair and had jumped down from
the settee, she said, “Will you please stand, Lady Contessa, so that I may
bustle up your dress?”
“Aye,” she muttered, pushing to her feet.
Emma gave her a confused look, which is when Tessa
remembered that Christian did not use the word, and realized the girl had most
likely not heard such old-fashioned speech in quite some time. If ever. She
promptly corrected herself. “Yes, I mean.”
Christian’s sister shrugged her shoulders, stuffed a hand
into the pocket of her ivory dress, and removed a fistful of what she assumed
to be safety pins. “Help me, Christian.”
He obeyed promptly.
Then Emma’s brows twisted with suspicion and her head tipped
to the side as her interest narrowed on the gown rather than her hair. “Such a
long train…I don’t under—”
“You promised not to ask questions.”
“But, Chris—”
“Not another word, Em. And not a word to anyone else.”
“Oh, very well.” She then busied herself with Christian in
gathering up the long train and pinning it to the back of her dress, leaving a
shorter train.
When they finished they both stepped back to consider their
work. Both of them were smiling.
“Tessa, you look lovely. And so modern.” He winked whilst
tugging his hands back into his gloves.
Emma didn’t see the gesture. “Yes, lady Contessa, you look
beautiful.”
Tessa swallowed, hoping not to vanish any time soon and said
to Emma, “Thank you so much for your aid.”
The young maiden lifted her dress out to the side with one
hand as she dipped into another curtsy. “Well, Christian promised to buy me
some new ribbons.” She cupped her hand to hide her next words from her brother.
“He’s easily fooled. I’d have done it for nothing.”
From his expression, she knew Christian had heard that, but
he simply smiled, showing his teeth and dimple. “Shall we?” he asked, presenting
his arm.
Emma left ahead of them and skipped to the left, whilst
Christian led her to the right.
Just as in her dream, she was acutely aware of gravity’s
hold on her, of the temperature of the air around them. But on top of that, she
could feel the heat of his arm beneath her hand, the movement of his taught
muscle, the coarseness of his black coat, the brush of his hip against the
fullness of her skirt, the welcome pressure of his other hand as he settled it
over the hand nestled at the bend of his arm.
Drawing in a breath, she noted the fragrance of the flowers
on the hall table. She wanted to stop and explore them more thoroughly, but it
seemed Christian was determined to dance with her as his legs swiftly ate up
the space to the doorway leading to the ballroom. She nearly had trouble
keeping up.
Women dressed in whites, and creams, and soft pastels, and
gentlemen dressed in black and white moved in and out of the entrance, taking
very little notice of them. Of that she was relieved.
Her fingers bit into Christian’s coat as the music throbbed
out to her. Not only could she hear it, but she could also
feel
it. His
eyes fell to her face. “Are you all right?”
She simply peered wide-eyed into the full ballroom as
couples spun about the space, creating a scene of moving black against twirling
silk, gossamer, and chiffon.
“Contessa,” Christian whispered, and when she turned her
face to meet his, she understood he was simply saying her name to ensure she
remained in his world.
“Contessa,” he said again, leading her into the room and
then twisting to face her. He placed her left hand on his shoulder and lifted
the other in his left. She felt his right hand settle gently at the small of
her back. Smiling with his entire face, he began guiding her in a dance. She
did not know the steps, nor did she know the tune, but did not stumble because
of his skilled lead.
She allowed the melody to fill her as she was swept in his
arms around the ballroom amongst the other guests. And fought to keep from
gasping each time his thigh bumped into hers, the toned muscles moving against
her softer frame. The heat and the friction were near enough to make her swoon.
But she held on, and focused on his face which had not moved away from hers.
Not only was she surrounded by his warm strength, but his
essence also enveloped her as his masculine, musky scent filled her lungs. The
intensity of that along with his penetrating gaze made her falter, and she
stumbled but he tugged her closer, preventing a fall. For a moment she thought
he may keep her near, but the want in his expression fell away to reveal…was it
guilt? And he allowed the distance between their bodies again.
His gaze shifted momentarily from her, and then slid back.
“People are staring,” he muttered softly as though he were pleased with the
fact.
With eyes rounding, she looked away. People
were
staring. Within the audience, many were smiling. However some were tittering
behind gloved fingers whilst others were scowling with blatant disapproval,
which unnerved her.
“We danced through three songs. That is not common practice
and could be considered offensive. Yet, I’m finding it difficult to care at the
moment.”
“But—the ton—Christian. You will be shunned.”
“And you’re not concerned with what they think of you?”
“No, I am…” She almost said she was dead, but at the moment,
she was not. “Should I be?”
He passed his eyes over the onlookers before responding.
“Three we can get away with, more than that I will not risk in front of the
others.”
With regret showing in his eyes, he began to release her as
the song ended, but they were both startled when she suddenly lost her form
again.
“Contessa!” he snapped in a hushed tone, and just as quickly
she returned.
Worry was obvious on his face as he scanned the room for any
who may have noticed her vanish, then expelled a breath of relief. It seemed as
though no one had. He draped her fingers around his forearm. “Shall we go and
get some punch?”
“Oh.” This was another thing she’d missed. “Yes, please.”
Just as she lifted her chin, she saw
her
, the maiden
Christian had been dancing with. And Tessa would say she could feel the sharp,
threatening look being thrown her way. “Christian, she is not pleased.”
An annoyed sound escaped him. “Never mind her, darling. It
is her nature to be so. She is not kindhearted and is quick to wish ill to
others if she does not get her way.”
Ignoring the scowling lady in yellow, he moved her around
the other guests and made for a doorway at the back of the room, but they were
stopped by a woman who bore shocking resemblance to Christian, except for the
blue eyes of Emma….
“Christian, darling, won’t you introduce me to this lovely
young lady?”
“Of course, Mother, this is Lady—Contessa.”
Contessa offered a quick curtsey and his mother bowed just
as abruptly. She’d noticed that it was customary to curtsey or bow when
greeting others. She did not know if that was the case in her time. Perhaps it
had been something she had forgotten, but, wanting to fit in, she was
attempting to mimic the customs of this time.
“Is that your surname? I know not of that family,” the
marchioness asked.
Tessa felt her eyes round, for she did not know it.
“Mother, I was just about to get her punch. Would you like a
glass as well?”
The woman’s eyes traveled her gown, gloves and hair. This
made Tessa wonder if she was pleased or displeased in what she saw, because her
expression gave nothing away. But then the older lady smiled and turned to her
son. “Yes, please. I would love a glass if you will bring her back to me so
that I may get to know her.”
Christian offered a slight bow, and then whisked her to the
adjoining room. Making her dizzy with his brisk movements.
“That was your mother?”
“Yes.” He was busy filling a crystal cup with a clear pink
liquid from a large bowl. She thought he meant to present the drink to her when
he threw it back in one gulp, set that glass down, reached for another, filled
it too, and then handed that one to her.
Quietly, she accepted it. He refilled his cup, and then one
for his mother.
She lowered her eyes to the cup in her hands and lifted it
to her lips. Wet flavor slid along her tongue. There was a bite to the punch
which overpowered the sweet fruitiness of it. The fine muscles of her forehead
tightened into a frown. It did seem that drink in her day had also been...fermented,
just as this was. However, an odd memory came to mind. It also seemed that
heavy drink was something she’d avoided. Did she not hold it well? Not wishing
to become soaked senseless in front of Christian and his mother, Contessa set
the glass down upon the table.
Just after Christian polished off his third glass, his eyes
landed on her rejected cup. “Do you not like it?”
“I do not think it wise for me to—well, no. It displeases
me,” she finished, deciding it best to explain it more simply than try to voice
the foggy ideas in her head.
“Oh.” He discarded his glass next to hers as though her
choice made him feel guilty for indulging as he had.
She glanced along the table and noticed the foods available.
“May I?”
“Of course.” He reached for a little plate and began filling
it with a selection of sandwiches and little round pastries and cakes. Keeping
the dish in his hand, he lifted one of the sweets and held it to her lips.
He watched with a great deal of interest as she opened her
mouth and bit into it. His stare was so intent that it made her lips tingle,
and her eyes were drawn to peer at his mouth as well, remembering that kiss.
The kiss that she knew she should not have allowed, but at
the time, simply could not gather the will to do so. Because, when the heat of
his mouth had covered hers, she’d been lost to the sensations involved.
Sensations that had evaded her for so long. The way his lips molded to hers.
The way he moved them over hers. The way their breath blended together. The way
it tasted. And especially the way something delicious twisted inside her
stomach. It was only when she could not find breath that she had to push him
away.