Page 114 of A Murder at Kew Gardens

“To match your beautiful eyes.”

“Now I am crying.” A tear rolled down my cheek as he got down on one knee.

“Rosalynd Heliotrope Rosehaven, will you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”

“With all my heart. Now, get up and kiss me.”

He kissed me—properly, passionately. And for a long lovely while, the world faded away and all that existed was us.

Chapter

Forty

Dearly Beloved

The question of the wedding gown settled itself the next day when Madame Delacroix descended on my morning room, a contingent of assistants trailing in her wake.

I had written to her apologizing for the upheaval to her shop and offering to pay for any damage she’d incurred. She’d declined my offer. But maybe she’d changed her mind.

As it turned out, she’d come on a different purpose altogether.

"Lady Rosalynd. You are to be married to the Duke of Steele. I offer my warmest felicitations."

"Thank you." I didn’t wonder how she knew. All of London knew, if the mountain of correspondence we’d received was any measure, every letter clamoring for an invitation. Most would be disappointed. The wedding breakfast had been fixed at one hundred guests and not one more. For the ceremony itself, only family and the closest of our friends would be present. The answering of the letters had been delegated to Grandmother's secretary and Steele's, both of whom had my sincere and lasting sympathy.

Of course, we had sent an invitation to Her Majesty. I had not expected her to accept, and she had not. What arrived instead was a note in a hand I recognized from Windsor, three lines long, regretting that she could not attend and offering her congratulations. Grandmother planned to have it framed.

"When is the wedding, my lady?" The modiste asked.

"In two days."

"Then there is no time to be lost."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your wedding gown. It must be magnifique." She snapped her fingers, and two assistants came forward with boxes. "Behold, Lady Rosalynd."

The wrapping came away, and a shimmering splendor was revealed.

"The tissu is silk, of course, with tiny pearls worked into the bodice. The sleeves are adorned with fleurettes." Another snap, and the second assistant stepped up. “Silk roses sewn down the length of the train and its hem, as well.”

Speech deserted me altogether. "But how? When?"

"I am a romantic at heart, my lady. How could I fail to anticipate where your romance with the Duke of Steele would end?" She indicated the gown, and then the train, with the air of a general displaying captured colors. "So I took the liberty of designing the most beautiful wedding gown in England for you. Splendid, is it not?"

"Yes." It was the most beautiful gown I had ever laid eyes on, and I said so. She accepted the tribute as no more than her due.

In the next breath, Madame Delacroix became all business. "Now. It is made to your measurements, but adjustments will be required. Two days. We have not a moment to lose."

Chrissie arrived at a run, skirts gathered in both hands. "I heard Madame Delacroix was—" She caught sight of the gown and stopped as though she had walked into glass. "Oh, Rosie. It's stunning."

"I have not forgotten you, Lady Chrysanthemum. You are to attend your sister, n'est-ce pas?"

"I am."

Another snap of the fingers, and a third assistant unveiled Chrissie's gown.

Chrissie's hands flew to her cheeks. "I am going to cry."