Fellows shared his smile. “That, my friend, is true.”
Sinclair took another sip of whiskey, studying Fellows over the glass. “You love it,” he said. “You’re a part of them now, and you’re lapping it up.”
Fellows gave him a conceding nod. “The Mackenzie brothers are as loud, foul-mouthed, and arrogant as they ever were.” He glanced at the gathering behind Sinclair, and a roar of male laughter punctuated his statement. “But I find them easier to take these days. I find everything easier to take.”
“Marriage does that to a man,” Sinclair said. “I well remember.”
Fellows’s look softened slightly—as much as Fellows ever softened—first into fondness for his wife, and then into something like sympathy for Sinclair.
Last year when Sinclair had been here, he’d been morose indeed. This year was different. Bertie had already made it different.
He knew Bertie was in the process of ripping the scars from his wounds and letting the blood flow, but it was a healing flow. Sinclair didn’t want to look at what was happening to him too closely, because danger always came when he examined something too minutely. It was enough, for now, to simply bask.
“Christmas morning then,” Fellows said. “After whatever Daniel and Ian are putting together to impress the children.”
“Give me a signal,” Sinclair said. He lifted his empty glass in toast to Fellows, then retreated down the hall to his brothers and brothers-in-law, their laughter, and more whiskey.
“I can’t wear this.” Bertie stared into the mirror in shock.
Beth, next to her, resplendent in Mackenzie plaid, laughed at her. “Why not? You look a picture.”
But that was just it. It was a picture.
The young woman who looked out of the large gilt-framed mirror at Bertie was a complete stranger. Ringlets of sleek brown hair brushed bare shoulders, which were hugged by a bodice of light blue silk. The bodice’s short sleeves ended above her elbows in a cascade of ivory lace. The underskirt was a panel of the same light blue with an appliqué of vines in darker blue across it. An overskirt of striped dark and light blue taffeta was gathered back over a small bustle, the excess fabric left to cascade in soft folds to a hint of a train.
“It’s made over,” Isabella said, sounding apologetic as she rearranged folds in the overskirt for the dozenth time. “There wasn’t time to fit you for anything new. But I think the effort was worth it.”
“Of course it was.” Ainsley, as fair and gray-eyed as her brother Sinclair, winked at Bertie, smiling wryly at Isabella’s worry. She held out a pair of delicate high-heeled boots in white leather. “Try these, Bertie. We went through our wardrobes to see what might fit you. Eleanor and you seem to be of a size.”
Bertie’s eyes widened. “You are all being so kind, but I can’t wear a duchess’s shoes.”
“Yes, you can.” Eleanor followed Ainsley to join in the admiration. “I bought these long ago but never found occasion to wear them. No reason to have them collecting dust lying about in my dressing room. Not that they are dusty—I cleaned them off and polished them to every inch. Or my maid did. I tried to, but she took them away from me, telling me I couldn’t possibly go down to the ball with boot polish under my fingernails. Not that there isn’t photographing chemicals under my fingernails—there always is, but that seems to be fine with her. But boot polish, heaven forbid.” Eleanor threw her hands up in mock horror.
Ainsley guided Bertie to a chair and sat down in front of her. “She means, please wear them, Bertie. Someone ought to.”
Before Bertie could stop her, Ainsley had pushed Bertie’s skirt to her knees and thrust first one boot than the other on Bertie’s feet. Bertie reached down as Ainsley started to lace them.
“Here, you can’t do that,” she said nervously.
“Of course, I can,” Ainsley answered, not stopping. “I’ve been lacing boots for ages. If you bend too far forward, my girl, you’ll wrinkle the dress and Isabella will have apoplexy. The maids are busy, and here I am. There, it’s done.”
Ainsley helped Bertie to her feet and walked her to the mirror again. The McBride and Mackenzie wives gathered behind her in a sea of silks and jewels.
The height lent by the boots made the skirts fall cleanly to the floor and thrust Bertie’s bosom out a little. She laughed at herself.
“I look like Cinderella.”
“And we’re your fairy godmothers,” Isabella said, straightening the skirt again.
“Not your wicked stepsisters,” Eleanor said.
“And you don’t have to be in by midnight,” Juliana said, fluffing out the lace on Bertie’s sleeves. “In fact, it would be rude to leave Hart’s ball early.”
“You won’t lose your slipper either.” Ainsley smiled at her in the mirror. “I laced those boots quite firmly.”
Eleanor looked thoughtful. “I never did understand the part in the story where the sisters cut off bits of their feet to fit into the shoes. Surely the prince’s emissaries would notice them bleeding all over the floor. Unless the sisters had enormous corns, and that’s what the writer meant.” She grinned at Bertie, the gleam in her eyes belying her prattle.
Cat, who’d been invited to come down and watch the proceedings, sat with her head down over her notebook, her pencil moving. Bertie had hoped she’d take an interest in the pretty dresses, but she only glanced at the ladies in their splendid gowns before returning to her notebook.