The Last Groom on Earth by Kristin James Page A

more times. She folded her arms on her desk and dropped her head to rest on them and sat for several minutes, wishing that Bryce Richards had never come to town.

Seven
    A ngela straightened and took a step back from the mirror. The stiff, wide farthingale beneath her skirt knocked over a small vase as she moved. Muttering an oath, Angela righted the bottle. Elizabethan dresses were romantic, but she was beginning to discover that they were completely impractical. When Kelly had shown her this dress last week, she had immediately decided she would wear it to Tim’s costume party instead of the Maladora costume. Maladora might be sexy, but the slinky dress couldn’t compare to the way this one made her waist look tiny or the way the stiff lace collar rising behind her head framed her face delicately. She had not given a thought to how difficult it was to wear.’
    Now she did. It had been a real struggle to get it on by herself, and it seemed as if everywhere she went the thick roll of material that made her skirts stand outstiffly to either side of her hips knocked into things. How had the women back then ever gotten around? Also, the brocade dress, along with the petticoats and farthingale, weighed her down, and the stiff collar, braced against her shoulders, was making her back ache.
    Angela had considered not going to the party at all. She didn’t really want to. Ever since that scene with Bryce in her office, she had not felt much in the party mood. She had given up her idea of enticing Bryce into going to the party with her, and without him, it had lost much of its appeal. If it had been anyone but her longtime partner giving the party, she was sure she would have ducked out of it. But this was Tim’s big production every year, and he would be very hurt if she didn’t come. Besides, it would be decidedly unprofessional, since so many of the people they dealt with in their business would be there.
    Angela turned first to one side and then the other, inspecting herself in the mirror. The heavy brocade gown was ivory colored and shot through with gold threads, subtly glittering. It was wasp-waisted in the Elizabethan style with a stiffened bodice that pushed her breasts up until they threatened to overflow the square-cut neckline. A long rope of fake pearls was twisted around her throat several times like a choker, then fell in a long loop down to her skirts, as she had seen once in a picture of Elizabeth I. A stiffened lace collar rose from the neckline and up behind her head, framing her face. The final touch was an ivory snood, of the sort often worn by the doomed Mary, Queen of Scots, upon her head. In the back her thick red hair was gathered up into a golden net attached to the bottom of the cap, and in the front the snood came downin a point in the middle, touching the center of her forehead. Pearls lined the edge of the heart-shaped, stiffened front.
    It was the effect she had desired—more, really. She looked foreign, mysterious, romantic. She wondered what Bryce would have thought of it if he had seen her in the costume. It had been him she had thought of when she saw the dress and decided she wanted it instead of the Maladora costume. But then, after the way they had parted in her office, she didn’t have the nerve to ask him again to go with her. Bryce might be attracted to her, but he did not want to be, and Angela was not about to make a fool of herself over him.
    The doorbell rang, surprising Angela, and she sidled through the doorway, careful not to bump the farthingale into anything else. When she opened the door, she simply stood there for a moment, her jaw dropping open in shock. Bryce Richards stood before her.
    But what a Bryce! It wasn’t the man she knew, but a dark-haired, silver-eyed gambler. He was dressed in black, with a white shirt underneath; ruffles cascaded down the front of the shirt and flowed from his wrists. A black string tie was fastened around the collar, and a black felt hat was