Chapter Nineteen
Isabella blew out a shaky breath. “How do I look?” she asked her maid, Partridge. She studied herself in the mirror. Did the yellow of the gown make her hair look dull? “Perhaps I should wear the blue after all.”
“If you wish,” Partridge said, her voice carefully neutral.
Five gowns lay on the bed. Isabella had tried them all on. The pink had been too girlish, the blue too plain, the white too formal, the green too severe, and the cinnamon brown too matronly.
The yellow had seemed hopeful, joyful.
Isabella glanced at the clock. She was trembling with a mix of apprehension and anticipation. It lacked ten minutes to two. This gown would do—it would have to do—there was no more time.
But I want to look perfect for him.
“Perhaps I should try the blue again.”
“Miss Isab
