Page 28

"Just a couple more pins . . . and voilà!" Mrs. Potter grinned triumphantly as she stepped away from Callista's dressing table.

The housekeeper had pleaded to dress Callista's hair for the evening, and Callista hadn't had the heart to refuse the request. Though had she known her friend would spend the next thirty minutes tugging and twisting her tresses into a complicated style, she might have tried a little harder.

"What do you think?"

Callista tilted her head from side to side as she peered into the dressing table mirror. "I think you are nearly as talented decorating people as you are cakes."

Mrs. Potter's mouth hung slightly agape as she struggled to find an appropriate response. Callista laughed softly. "That was a compliment, I promise. You make the most beautiful petit fours I've ever seen."

Callista looked back to her hair and admired the soft draping around her face that exposed a center part before pulling back into an elaborate twist at the crown of her head. A few wisps had been left to curl around her face and along the back of her neck.

"I should have paid better attention to what you were doing," Callista said.

"I've never tried anything more complicated than the serviceable bun I always wear.

" With no mother to instruct her on things such as hairstyling, and with no time to pour over fashion magazines, Callista's education in the fashion department was rudimentary at best.

Pleasure bloomed on the housekeeper's face. "I'll be happy to give you a few tips later, if you'd like."

"That would be lovely." Callista rose from her chair, clad only in her underclothes. "I suppose I best get dressed. We've forced the gentlemen to wait quite a long time."

Mrs. Potter waved her hand. "Pish posh. It's good for them to wait a little. Builds up the anticipation. Can't make a grand entrance without sufficient anticipation."

Grand entrance? Oh, dear. "We're just having dinner, Mrs. Potter. This isn't one of your fancy New York balls." Thank heaven. Callista knew next to nothing about dancing or society etiquette. "I'm just a bookbinder whose kind employer threw her a birthday party."

The housekeeper stepped close and placed a motherly hand on Callista's arm. "Sweet girl, you're much more than a bookbinder. You've become a treasured part of our family. Let us spoil you a little tonight. It will bring us pleasure."

Callista surrendered with a sigh. "All right. But I really don't care for being the center of attention."

The smile Mrs. Potter offered in answer carried a rather mysterious air as she moved to the bed to collect the beautiful new gown. "Well, you best prepare yourself, for when you walk down the stairs in this dress, no one will be able to look anywhere else. Especially Mr. Griffin."

A thrill shot through her at her friend's words, though she quickly dampened the warmth rising through her midsection.

Donning a pretty dress would not change the truth of who she was—a poor bookbinder's daughter with no social standing.

Even if Everett did have feelings for her, his family would never approve.

His mother especially, with how much she valued social prestige.

Besides, Papa needed Callista. Without her help, the bindery would flounder. Family had to come first.

"Tonight is about you, my dear," Mrs. Potter said as she slid the confection of yellow chiffon and golden taffeta over Callista's head.

"Tomorrow you can return to your life of bookbinding, but tonight .

. ." She smoothed the fabric and turned Callista to face the full-length mirror standing near the washstand. "Tonight, you are a princess."

Callista sucked in a breath as Mrs. Potter moved behind her to do up the buttons at the back of her dress.

She barely recognized the elegant creature reflecting back at her.

The vee of her neckline left her throat and collarbone exposed as gathered chiffon draped across her body in Grecian style from each shoulder to the bottom of her ribcage.

Another swath of gossamer fabric wrapped her waist before forming a bow at her back.

Small rosettes at her shoulders connected the draped chiffon to the shiny gold taffeta of a slightly darker hue that formed the back of the bodice.

Callista turned slightly to get a partial view of the back as Mrs. Potter finished the last hook.

The bodice dipped in a vee along her shoulder blades, with chiffon rosettes decorating the edge.

The chiffon overskirt lay in gauzy layers atop the taffeta and cascaded like a waterfall of sunshine nearly to the floor, leaving a slender border of golden taffeta exposed along the hem.

"Don't forget the gloves." Mrs. Potter held out a set of long, elegant gloves in a matching yellow hue.

"There are gloves, too?" Callista owned a small white pair she wore to church, but never had she owned a pair of dancing gloves that stretched above her elbows.

"Of course." The housekeeper smiled as she helped Callista slide her fingers into the appropriate holes.

"This really is a fairy tale, isn't it?"

Mrs. Potter chuckled. "Tonight is whatever you wish for it to be."

A dangerous thought. For giving herself what she wanted tonight would undoubtedly increase her heartache when the magic ended and reality returned with the sun.

'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.

Tennyson's words filled Callista with almost enough courage to banish her nerves.

She turned toward the door and pressed a hand to her fluttering belly.

Hoping the poet knew what he was talking about, she set aside the cautions of tomorrow and stepped into the promised wonders of tonight.

"How long does it take to change a dress?" Everett grumbled as he prowled the length of the entryway for what felt like the fiftieth time since Callista had disappeared upstairs.

Was she having second thoughts about accepting the gift? It did stretch the bounds of propriety. In an effort to draw her closer, had he, in fact, pushed her further away?

Lightfoot stepped into his path and clapped his back with his good arm.

"Easy there, Griff. You're going to erode the marble with all that pacing.

Look." He nodded toward the butler sitting in an armchair, flipping through a copy of Scientific American .

"You have Timens fretting about how he's going to repair the ruts in the flooring. "

Timens glanced up long enough to raise an eyebrow at Lightfoot's ridiculous claim then went back to reading whatever article had captured his attention.

"I know you've been away from society for five years, but surely you remember how women like to linger over their toilettes before a special event."

"Callis—Miss Rosenfeld is not like society women.

" Praise the Almighty. "She's not one to fuss over her appearance.

" And yet, her appearance always stole his breath.

Probably because there was no artifice involved.

No vanity. No intent to lure or entrap. Just a simple, wholesome beauty that radiated from her kind heart.

"Ah. But you failed to allow for Mrs. Potter.

" Lightfoot nodded sagely as if his statement had unlocked some vast mystery.

It hadn't. "Our matron of the manor sees Miss Rosenfeld as something of a daughter, you know.

A young chickadee in need of feminine guidance.

She's taken Miss Rosenfeld in hand, mark my words.

In fact, you might not even recognize . . ."

Lightfoot's sentence dissolved as his eyes widened, and his jaw went slightly slack.

Everett spun to face the staircase and immediately his lungs seized.

Nothing so mundane as breathing belonged in the perfection of this moment.

The vision descending the stairs could have sprung directly from his dreams. He'd known instinctively that she'd look glorious in yellow, but his heart hadn't been prepared for the reality of Callista Rosenfeld in a ball gown.

She wore no jeweled necklace or dangling earbobs, but she didn't lack for accessories.

The shy smile curving her full lips enticed like the finest perfume, and the rich depths of her glossy, dark eyes as they sought out his gaze outshone any polished gemstone.

The fabric of her skirt swooshed softly as one step after another brought her closer to him. Her gloved hand floated along the railing, barely grazing the polished wood. He imagined his arm replacing the balustrade, and pinpricks of delight rose along his skin.

Once his lungs recalled the mechanics of respiration, Everett moved forward to meet her at the base of the stairs.

He extended his hand, his fingers trembling slightly in anticipation of her touch.

Her lashes lowered demurely, and a dusky rose blush kissed her cheeks.

Slowly, she placed her fingers in his, and her lashes lifted.

"Thank you for the dress, Everett," she whispered. "It's beautiful."

"You're the beautiful one." He lifted her fingers to his mouth and pressed a kiss to her gloved knuckles. "Happy birthday, Callista."

Her shy smile blossomed into a dazzling grin. "The happiest."

His heart thumped with wild abandon, like the hooves of a deer bounding across the prairie and leaping into the air every few strides simply for the joy to be found in soaring. With her hand in his, nothing seemed impossible.

A ponderous voice echoed to Everett's left, making him aware of his butler's presence.

"Shall we go in to dinner, sir?"

Everett never took his gaze from Callista. "May I escort you, my lady?" He held out his arm.

Her fingers found their way into the crook of his elbow as if they knew the path by heart. "I'd be delighted."

So would he, if he could somehow convince her to become his permanent dining companion.

Everett seated Callista in the chair next to his as Timens and Mrs. Potter brought in a bevy of dishes and arranged them around the table. Callista exclaimed over each one, making his housekeeper beam with pleasure.

In keeping with the festive nature of the evening, his staff joined them at the table.

A possible miscalculation on his part, since they all seemed determined to relate embarrassing stories from his youth.

However, Callista's laughter combined with the fond way she gazed at him after each story—as if she longed to know everything about him—erased his humiliation and left him feeling rather euphoric.

It helped that she readily shared stories about her own past, unafraid to poke a little fun at herself as well.

The finest company in New York society could not compare with the gathering at this table.

Everett couldn't imagine why he'd ever coveted the superficial pleasure that came with wealth and prestige.

Not when there was authentic joy to be had in the company of humble people who cared nothing for appearances, connections, or politics and everything for friendship, encouragement, and genuine amiability. A fellowship that fed the soul.

Dinner slid into dessert and dessert into coffee.

Lightfoot and Timens slipped away as scheduled while Mrs. Potter distracted Callista with baking tips.

Everett scanned the doorway every few minutes for his valet's signal.

When Lightfoot finally appeared and sent him a nod and an annoyingly unsubtle wink, Everett nearly jumped from his chair.

Callista turned to him, tiny lines appearing between her brows. "Is everything all right?"

"Fine." He smiled and ordered himself to cease acting like an inexperienced youth.

He was Everett Griffin, for pity's sake.

The American Adonis, charmer of women, and stealer of hearts.

He'd lost count of how many ladies he'd captivated over the years.

Yet, he'd never cared for any of them the way he cared for Callista.

And he wasn't that shallow charmer any longer, nor did he wish to be.

Not when he finally understood the power of genuine respect and ardent affection.

Callista was a priceless treasure, and not simply because she possessed the ability to see past his scars to the man beneath.

She'd beguiled him with kindness, courage, faithfulness, and artistic sensitivity.

Should her face ever be marred by tragedy—heaven forbid—his love for her would not dim, for Callista's true beauty emanated from her soul.

He extended his hand, and she fit her palm to his without hesitation or question.

"I have one final gift for you this evening," he said as he helped her to her feet. "If you'll return with me to the parlor?"

"Another gift? You've given me far too much already."

Yet he wanted to give her more. He wanted to give her everything.

Everett tucked her hand into the crook of his arm as they rounded the dining table and exited into the hall. "No money was spent in the procurement of this final gift, I promise. It falls well within the bounds of your birthday rules."

"Well, in that case . . ." She squeezed his arm and smiled up at him in a way that set his pulse to thrumming.

Timens stood in front of the closed parlor door and sketched a brief bow before opening the door with a flourish and ushering them inside.

Callista's indrawn breath brought his attention to her face as she took in the changes that his men had wrought.

Furniture had been moved to the edges of the room, rugs had been rolled up, and dozens of candles had been lit and positioned around the periphery.

A warm glow filled the room, and hope unfurled in his breast.

"Will you dance with me, Callista?"