“AND WHEN Harry kisses me…” Lydia shuddered expressively. “Oh, I cannot think how to put it.”
“Ooh la la?” Madame Beaumont suggested, putting the finishing touches on Amy’s face.
Lydia laughed. “Ooh la la exactly!”
“Ooh la la?” Amy echoed distractedly.
Madame Beaumont helped her to stand. “You’re a million miles away, my lady.”
“What? Oh…yes, I’m afraid you’re right.” Sighing, Amy set down the amethyst necklace she’d brought from Greystone. The deep violet pear-shaped gems glistened on the dark wood of the dressing table, beckoning her to hold them again. She flexed her hands and forced a smile. “I was daydreaming about wax and knives.”
“Pourquoi?”
“Lady Greystone used to be a jeweler,” Lydia explained, hiding a smile of her own.
“Oh, I see.”
Madame looked as though she didn’t see at all, but she didn’t seem shocked or disapproving, either. Amy gave the older woman’s hand a quick squeeze. “I cannot thank you enough for coming.” Having received her frantic messengered note yesterday, Madame had been waiting at the London town house this morning, gown in hand. “You saved my life.”
“Surely you exaggerate.” Amusement twitched on the seamstress’s lips as she drew off Amy’s dressing gown and laid a gentle palm on her abdomen.
Amy jumped a bit, then relaxed. Of late, she’d noticed everyone thought they had a right to touch her, as though her body had become public property since she’d swelled with the child.
Madame slipped a lacy new chemise over Amy’s head, and Lydia held out the gown. “I never exaggerate.” The blond maid giggled. “Lud, my Harry is so…so virile.”
“Pray tell, Lydia, where did you find this amour?” Madame set the curling iron to heat in the glowing embers of the fire. “This paragon of masculinity?”
Amy grinned. “In our stables. Colin recently hired him to relieve Benchley of some duties. Your dream man, is he, Lydia?”
“Hmm,” Lydia murmured noncommittally. Hiding her face, she made herself busy adjusting the gown over the bulge of Amy’s stomach. “When he kisses me, yes, but…all is not perfect with Harry.”
The seamstress eased Amy onto a chair and set to work on her hair. “Have you talked to your amour about your problems?”
Lydia puttered around the room, sighing as she folded Amy’s dressing gown. “I’ve tried. I suppose I should try again.”
“I wish you luck.” Amy frowned into the dressing table mirror. “Men don’t care to discuss our problems. They always think they know what’s best.”
As Madame’s eyes met Amy’s reflection, her hands plaited faster.
“It’s true,” Amy muttered defensively. “When I talked to Papa about how I didn’t want to marry our apprentice, he disregarded my feelings entirely.”
“Not all men are like that.” Madame’s fingers caught and pulled at her hair. “Not my François.”
“Surely not the earl?” Lydia’s face appeared beside Madame’s in the mirror, puzzled. “You confide in him, don’t you? He loves you so.”
Did he really? Amy bit her lip. It was pointless to confide in Colin, anyway; he’d made it clear before they wed that a countess would never run a shop. And he’d become more and more closed and distracted over the months.
Lydia and Madame were still staring at her. “Oh, I suppose you’re right,” she said. “It’s just one of my silly notions.”
“She’s breeding,” Madame said knowingly.
“That doesn’t make me a nimwit,” Amy said with a huff.
Lydia nodded, ignoring her outburst. “I’ve seen five different ladies through five different pregnancies. They’re all this way.”
“Hmmph.” Looking down to her crossed arms, Amy glimpsed her cleavage exposed in the purple dress’s low neckline. “Dear heavens,” she whispered, her hands fluttering up to cover the bareness.
Madame’s laugh tinkled through the room. “You’ll be the most modest lady at court, just you wait and see.”
With luck, the brazen display would draw attention away from her unfashionable high waistline. But Amy felt daring and embarrassed at the same time. She hoped Madame was right.
“Voilà.” Madame tied the last ribbon in Amy’s hair.
While Amy watched in the dressing table’s looking glass, Lydia clasped the amethyst necklace around her throat. Aching to make something like it again, Amy’s fingers moved to touch the twenty-carat gem that dangled at the bottom. She gazed at its flashing brilliance in the mirror.
“Milady?” Lydia held out the matching earrings. “Shall I put these on for you?”
“Heavens, no.” Amy took a deep breath and blew it out, then fastened the earrings on her lobes. Shaking her head to set them swinging from their clustered diamond tops, she smiled.
“That’s more like it.” Lydia slipped a simple amethyst and diamond bracelet onto Amy’s left wrist, where it would complement her heart-shaped amethyst wedding ring. The maid stood back and grinned. “Cuds bobs, if you don’t look the perfect lady. I’ll just go tell the lord you’re ready to leave.”
“Come, see if your Lydia wasn’t telling the bare truth.” Taking her hand, Madame helped Amy rise from the chair and led her to the pier glass.
The rich purple silk gown shimmered as Amy approached the mirror, beaming at her reflection. The seamstress had worked her magic yet again. A gold tissue overskirt looped up, held on each side with golden bows, while matching gold bows marched down her full sleeves. The purple underskirt sparkled with hundreds of golden stars.
A low whistle of appreciation came from behind her. She turned to see Colin leaning against the doorjamb, his gaze fastened to her scooped neckline. She melted a little at the sight of him, even after nearly eight months of marriage.
He was devastating. Would she ever get used to it? She thought not. Not in eight months, or eight years, or eighty years, even.
“You’ll be the most beautiful lady at Whitehall,” he said softly.
“And you, the most beautiful gentleman.”
Colin laughed. He was dressed, predictably, in the same black velvet suit he’d worn for their wedding, identical down to her cameo pinned in the lavish lace of his cravat. His crisp, dark hair was loose and fell in waves to his shoulders.
Amy felt a lump of emotion swell in her throat. She was so lucky to have him. Their marriage was beyond wonderful, and she had no cause to dwell on melancholy thoughts, especially on a day like today.
She moved to him and looped her arms around his neck, threading her fingers in the hair at his nape. She heard Madame bustling about, putting away cosmetics, but the sounds seemed to fade as Colin brought his lips to hers.
He kissed her gently, and she tried to pull him closer, but he tugged away and grinned.
“Later, love. We wouldn’t want to spoil Madame Beaumont’s accomplished artwork.”
Amy’s face flamed, and she stole a glance at Madame. But the seamstress was studiously looking elsewhere.
“Shall we?” Colin curled an arm around Amy’s waist and drew her from the room.
Was she really on her way to Whitehall Palace, to be presented to England’s king and queen? She, Amy Goldsmith, merchant’s daughter?
It didn’t seem possible.
“Why so quiet, love?” Colin interrupted her thoughts. “You’re not worried about tonight, are you?”
“A little, maybe. But…”
Her chest ached with the need to tell someone, and she shot him an appraising glance. But then she heard the old words again, You cannot have everything, and heaven help her, she couldn’t tell if it were her father’s voice or Colin’s.
“It’s nothing.”
“But what?” The fingers of one hand drummed against his thigh.
“My goodness, Colin.” Forcing a smile, she pulled him toward the front door before he could question her further. “You know how moody breeding ladies are!”