A Kiss at Midnight

“You shouldn’t be working!” Rosalie cried. “It’s just wrong, all of this, and seeing you there in that chemise like a dishcloth. I didn’t know.” She threw down her brush and pulled open a deep drawer. Inside were stacks of pristine white chemises.

Rosalie snatched one. “Miss Victoria won’t even notice, not that she would care because she isn’t like her mother. She likes silk for her chemise,” the maid said, jerking Kate’s chemise over her head and throwing it to the side. “I prefer a nice cotton, as sweat stains these terribly. But there, if you aren’t dressed properly to the skin, you aren’t really a lady, when all’s said and done.”

The chemise settled around Kate like a translucent cloud. It was trimmed with exquisite lace.

Had her father lived and had she debuted, she would have worn garments like this all the time, not fraying, tired garments in sober grays and blues that made her look like the poor relation she was.

Her mother had left her some sort of small dowry, but without the chance to meet any eligible men, it hardly mattered. For years she’d been telling herself to leave the house, to go to London, to find work as a governess . . . anything to escape. But that meant deserting the tenants and the servants to Mariana’s haphazard and unfeeling oversight.

So she hadn’t left.

An hour later her hair was curled and tousled and swept up into an approximation of Victoria’s. Her face was dusted with rice powder, the better to approximate the pampered look of her sister’s skin; she was swathed in pale pink, and her lips were painted to match.

She stood in front of the glass waiting for a moment of startled recognition. To realize that she really looked like Victoria, that she too would be accounted a great beauty.

Not only did she not resemble her sister, but she would be accounted a beauty only by a blind man. She looked too angular and the dress hung oddly from her shoulders.

Rosalie plucked at one sleeve. “You’re broader in the arms than Miss Victoria,” she muttered.

Kate glanced down at her offending limb and knew exactly what the problem was. She spent at least two or three hours a day in the saddle, trying to manage the estate the way her father’s bailiff had done, before her stepmother threw him out of the house. Her arms were muscled, and lightly colored from the sun. She couldn’t imagine that other young ladies faced that particular problem.

What’s more, her cheekbones were too pronounced, her eyebrows too sharp. “I don’t look like Victoria,” she said, a bit dismally. She had vaguely hoped that fashionable clothing would transform her, making her as beautiful as her sister. A woman whom all the ton considered a diamond.

She looked more like a flinty stone than a diamond. Like herself.

“The style doesn’t suit you,” Rosalie admitted. “Pink wasn’t the right idea. You need bold colors, more like.”

“You do know why I have to look like Victoria, don’t you?” Kate knew perfectly well that Cherryderry had followed her up the stairs and positioned himself outside her stepmother’s bedchamber, intent on hearing the entire conversation.

Rosalie set her mouth primly. “Nothing that I shouldn’t know, I would hope.”

“I am to accompany Lord Dimsdale on a visit to Pomeroy Castle, and I need to make everyone there think I’m Victoria.”

The maid’s eyes met her own in the mirror.

“It won’t work,” Kate said, accepting it. “She’s just too beautiful.”

“You’re beautiful too,” Rosalie said stoutly. “But in a different way.”

“My mouth’s too big, and when did I get so thin?”

“Since your father died and you started doing the work of ten people. Miss Victoria, bless her soul, is as soft as a pillow, but she would be, wouldn’t she?”

Kate eyed the material draped over her bosom. Or rather, where her bosom ought to be. “Can’t we do something about my chest, Rosalie? In this dress, I don’t seem to have one at all.”

Rosalie plucked at the extra material. “You’ve a nice little bosom, Miss Kate. Don’t worry. I can’t do much for it in this dress, but I’ll find others that will work better. Thanks be to God, Miss Victoria has more gowns in her chambers than a modiste would after a year’s labor.” A moment later she had tucked two rolled-up stockings into the front of Kate’s chemise, and that was that.

It was odd how her similar features resulted in such a different appearance from Victoria’s. Of course, she was five years older. All ruffled and curled and made up, she looked like a desperate aging virgin.

Panic was a new sensation. Never having been offered the chance to dress like a lady, at least not for years, Kate had rather forgotten that her nubile years were passing.

She’d be twenty-four in a few weeks, and she felt as long in the tooth as a dowager.

Why hadn’t she noticed that she wasn’t rounded and charming and delectable anymore? When had bitterness entered her bloodstream and—and changed her from a young girl into something else?

“This isn’t going to work,” she said abruptly. “I don’t have the faintest resemblance to a young debutante who took the ton by storm.”

“It’s a matter of wearing the right clothing,” Rosalie said. “You don’t look your best in this gown, miss. But I’ll find a better one for you.”

There wasn’t much Kate could do but nod. She had thought . . .

Well, she hadn’t thought much about it. But she knew that she wanted to be married, and to have children of her own.

A sharp pang of panic rose into her throat. What if she was already too old? What if she never—

She cut off the thought.

She would do this visit for Victoria, for her newfound sister’s sake. After that, she would leave, go to London and parlay her modest inheritance, the money her mother had left, into a marriage license.

Women had done that for years, and she could do it as well.

She straightened her shoulders. Since her father died, she had learned what it felt like to be humiliated: to tuck your hands out of sight when you saw acquaintances for fear they would see the reddened fingers. To hold your boots close to the horse’s side so that no one saw the worn spots. To pretend you left your bonnet at home, time after time.

This was just a new kind of humiliation—to be dressed as lamb while feeling like mutton. She would get through it.

Five

B y the time Kate escaped to her room hours later, she was exhausted. She had been up at five that morning to do three hours of accounts, then was on a horse at eight . . . not to mention the emotional toll taken by the day’s charming revelations. At dinner, Mariana had been snappy even with the viscount, and Victoria had wept softly through three courses.

And now the dogs—the “rats”—were waiting for her, sitting in a little semicircle.

There was no more fashionable accessory than a small dog, and Victoria and Mariana, with their characteristic belief that twenty-three ball gowns were better than one, had acquired not one small dog, but three.

Three small, yapping, silky Malteses.

They were absurdly small, smaller than most cats. And they had a sort of elegant sleekness about them that she found an affront. If she ever had a dog, she’d want it to be one of the lop-eared, grinning dogs that ran out to greet her when she stopped by the cottages on Mariana’s lands. A dog that barked rather than yapped.