Chapter 21

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

I solde stared at the breathtaking gown that lay folded inside the box, the attached note detailing her exact measurements, letting her know that it would be a perfect fit. There was nothing else written on the note, other than her name, so there could be no mistaking who it was intended for.

"Your jaw will lock if you stay like that," a voice said from the bedchamber doorway.

Isolde jumped, her hand flying to her chest. "Prudie, for the last time, do not sneak up on people."

Catching her breath, Isolde's gaze returned to the beautiful gown, unable to believe that it was hers.

Madame Versailles had shown her the exquisite, extraordinary material that looked like the universe itself had cut off a swathe of its divine fabric and rolled it up for one lucky individual. The modiste had explained that there was only enough for one gown, meaning only one society lady would have the privilege of wearing it, but Isolde's mother had shrieked at the cost and asked Madame Versailles to take it away.

"A pity," the dressmaker had said, rolling it back up. "I could've sworn it was made for you, and I'm rarely wrong when it comes to fabric."

"I thought I would come and see how you are," Prudence said, uncharacteristically gentle in her tone.

Teresa appeared behind her younger sister. " I suggested it. It is unlike you not to come downstairs all day."

"Mama said you were sleeping away a headache before tonight's ball, but I can sniff out one of Mama's white lies a mile away," Prudence interjected. "We were going to come up earlier, but Mama was watching the stairs like a hawk. Probably thought I was going to play a trick on you or something. She still has not realized that I reserve my japes for her and the governesses."

The two girls entered the bedchamber, while Isolde remained awestruck by the gown. She had not yet dared to take it out of the box, fearing that if she did, it would disintegrate like a dream upon waking.

As for her ‘headache,' it was not a complete lie. She had spent the night after Edmund's abrupt departure from dinner unable to sleep, tossing and turning. When she had managed to fall asleep, strange dreams had awaited her, of endless masked men chasing her through Kensington Palace gardens, demanding a kiss.

Time and time again, she ended up running into the arms of a shadow man who stepped out of the darkness as if he was made of it, and when she looked up, he wore that mask of roses and thorns that she had never forgotten. In her dream, she had reached for that mask, desperate to see who was behind it.

"Do not, dear Isolde," the man had whispered. "You will not like what you see. I promise you that."

"But I have searched for you. I have longed for you to find me again," she had tried to protest, and the dream man had not stopped her when she took hold of his mask.

"Still, do not say you were not warned," he had replied.

But every time she began to lift the mask away, she woke up with a start, panting and drenched in sweat. And no closer to discovering who it was.

As such, when morning had come, she had felt utterly rotten. Not wanting to miss the ball that night, she had insisted on spending the day in bed, but it was more than fatigue that plagued her. Edmund's dismissal, Edmund's outright assertion that he would not be talking about the near-kiss, Edmund's deliberate distance from her, it all weighed heavy on her mind. And what weighed the heaviest was that she could not understand why she cared.

"Heavens, maybe you are unwell," Teresa said, a tender hand resting on Isolde's brow. "You are not too warm, but you are very pale, Izzie. Are you all right?"

Prudence gasped, hanging off Isolde's shoulder. "And no wonder! That must have cost a small fortune, Izzie! I would be fainting if someone sent that to me, and I could not care less about what I wear!"

"Oh my goodness!" Teresa flanked Isolde from the other side, eyes wide as she gaped at the gown. "Is there a note? Is there a card? Who is it from? Is it from that lovely Viscount? It is… like magic crafted into a dress. How can it sparkle like that? Are you wearing it to the ball tonight?"

Prudence snorted. "What a silly question. Of course she is wearing it tonight. She would be mad not to."

Isolde hurried to jam the lid back onto the box, suddenly dizzied by the prospect of wearing such an incredible piece of artistry upon her person. "Actually, I thought I might wear the green gown that Mama purchased for me the other day."

"You cannot be serious!" Prudence muscled Isolde aside, taking the lid off the box once more. "You will be the talk of the Ton in this, and I have never known you to shy away from attention. If this had not been sent by someone who clearly wants to marry you and adore you and have a thousand children with you, it would be the very gown to get you a million proposals of marriage!"

"Prudie, stop it!" Isolde cried, as Prudence took the gown out of the wispy snowbanks of delicate white paper and let the skirt fall, revealing the garment in its true, unbelievably beautiful glory.

All three sisters gasped in unison. Isolde had certainly never seen a more incredible gown in all her life, the design and material so… ethereal that she was almost afraid to touch it in case she broke something.

But as Prudence held it out to Isolde, something fell out of the gown. A square of thick, cream vellum with Isolde's name upon it, that landed on the floor by her feet.

She stooped to pick it up, heart in her throat as she turned it over. A simple message had been written on the back in fine handwriting that she vaguely recognized: To the brightest star of the Season, I give you the night sky. I will look for you among the constellations.

"Oh, Isolde," Teresa swooned, fanning herself as she read the note over her sister's shoulder. "How poetic, and not at all gauche. I have often wondered how I might respond if a gentleman were to write me a letter or a poem, and it was too saccharine or, worse, possessed atrocious grammar. But this admirer of yours—How are you not completely in love with him already?"

Isolde swallowed thickly, glancing from the note to the gown. "Because I do not know who it is from. There is no name. The handwriting is… known to me, but I cannot place it."

"It is Madame Versailles' handwriting," Prudence said, as if it should have been obvious. "But who dictated the message. It has to be that Viscount, does it not? Who else would lavish you with such a gift?"

Isolde furrowed her brow, ever more certain that she should not wear the gown to the evening's ball. It would not be appropriate to wear a gift if she did not know who to thank. Nor was she sure it would be appropriate to wear a gift from a gentleman she was not officially courting, though she could not recall the exact rules.

But it is so enchanting. How can I not wear such a thing? I would regret it forever if I left it in a box, unworn and unloved.

"We are forgetting one possibility," she said, more for her own peace of mind than her sisters'.

Teresa quirked an eyebrow. "We are?"

"It is not absurd that the gown has come from Vincent," Isolde replied. "He must be feeling terribly guilty for having to leave during my debut Season—he said as much in his last letter to Mama. Why, the only person who would spend such an obscene amount of money on a gown like this is our brother. Whenever he feels he has done something wrong, what does he do?"

Prudence tilted her head to one side. "He buys expensive things for whomever he feels he has upset."

"Like that collection of leatherbound encyclopedias," Teresa agreed.

Prudence nodded. "And that thoroughbred that I have never ridden."

"He bought Mama diamonds after he came home inebriated last year," Isolde said, determined to find an easier answer to the question of who had sent the gown.

It had to be Vincent. He must have arranged it before he left for Bath. Indeed, the note was not necessarily romantic; it was Teresa making it sound like it was romantic that had led Isolde's own mind astray for a moment. Those sweet words could just as easily be friendly or brotherly.

But they are not… a quiet voice whispered in the back of Isolde's mind.

"Please wear it, Izzie," Teresa urged. "It is the only way to be certain of where it came from. If it is from a suitor or an admirer, they will assuredly say as much tonight. If it is from Vincent, then no one will say they bought it for you."

Isolde could not deny it; Teresa had made a very good point. Going to the ball in the gifted gown was the only way to discover the sender, although she still hesitated. What if the gown had come from someone she did not want to have to thank? What if the likes of Lord Spofforth had sent it? Or Colin?

She shuddered as if a cold draft had just blown into the room. "Very well. I shall not disappoint the pair of you." She mustered a smile. "But you must promise not to stay awake to hear the conclusion. I will tell you in the morning."

"Spoilsport," Prudence said with a grin.

Teresa clasped her hands together. "What if we cannot sleep from the excitement?"

"Pretend," Isolde replied, sighing as she looked at the gown again.

It really was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, and she hoped the sender, whoever they were, had the character to match. Otherwise, she would never be able to wear it again.

And Edmund will be there… that quiet voice whispered again, nudging a thought into her mind that she had not yet considered. An impossible, improbable thought. He had said it himself—an express rider had handed him the box on his way into the house.

A coincidence, nothing more.

But what if— Isolde severed the notion before it could swell into something it was not. Edmund had decided to keep his distance. Edmund wanted nothing to do with her. There was a greater chance that the gown had come from the King of Spain than Edmund.

So, why was she already anticipating the look on his face when he saw her in that gown?

"Everyone out!" Isolde said, suddenly shaky. "Might you send my lady's maid in as you depart? I must hurry. There is not nearly enough time to prepare myself for tonight, if I am to appear worthy of that dress."

As soon as her sisters left, Isolde turned to face the oval mirror beside her vanity. A startled, anxious young woman looked back, and as Isolde met her own eyes, she whispered, "Do not be foolish, girl. It cannot be him. He would not do this for me. The gown could be explained, perhaps, but he certainly would not write such… enchanting words." She expelled a breath. "But tonight, you will find your future husband."

After all, if she could not find her great love story in the most heaven-sent dress ever created, then perhaps she deserved to be a spinster.