She smiles and gives me a peck on the cheek. “You used a British word while talking about him.”

I laugh. “Did I? Your dream come true. See? He’s not a tosser. A right sight better than your Mr. Gandy.” I point at her screensaver collage of the British model.

“I wouldn’t go that far. Okay, okay.” She raises her hands in surrender. “Do you want to borrow my good-luck burgundy dress?” She stands to go to her closet but then stops, smacking her forehead with an “oh!” Her head whips around and she smiles.

“Actually no, not my dress. He needs to see the real you and he’ll never be the same again. Wear your mom’s dresses and make him fall him in love with you until he dies.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

Cloudless Climes

At Aiden’s home, I take advantage of his conference call with Tokyo to put away my mum’s tea dress in his closet. In case we go out tonight. The dress is sea gray with white roses printed along the full skirt. I caress the petal-soft silk, loving the way it blends with Aiden’s ubiquitous navy, black and charcoal suits.

I step back to take a picture with my new Nikon but as I focus, the lens zooms in on the hand-carved wooden box on the tall armoire in the back. The sun glows upon it like a shrine. There is something so reverential about its throne-high position that I rise on my tiptoes to go investigate.

“Miss Snow.” A quiet voice thwarts my snooping. I jump, looking back at the closet door. Mrs. Davis is standing there in her white apron and navy velvet flats.

“I’m sorry I startled you, Miss Snow,” she says with a smile. I take a small breath and say a silent, nonscientific thank you to luck for sparing me the embarrassment of being caught snooping on my…whatever he is. Dream, mission in life, blood of my veins, oxygen of my lungs. I stop before I decide to give up science and become a bad poet.

“No, I’m fine, Mrs. Davis. I was just absorbed.”

“Oh, please, call me Cora.” She smiles as she waddles inside. She sees my dress and her smile becomes a grin. “What a beautiful dress!” Then her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “Between us, Miss Snow, it’s nice having some girly things around for a change. I’ve never seen other girls here before.”

I almost hug her. “Thank you,” I say instead. “And please call me Isa.”

“Well, Isa, I came to ask if you need anything washed? Or something from the store?”

“Oh, no, but thank you! I brought my things.” I lift my empty rucksack as evidence.

She smiles. “Very good. I hope you stay this time, Isa.” She starts padding out of the closet but then stops and looks at me. “Mr. Hale is a good man. Difficult, yes, but good.” She nods once and walks off.

I watch the bow of her apron, thinking of Mr. Darcy’s housekeeper, Mrs. Reynolds, recommending her master to Elizabeth Bennett at Pemberley.

She opens the bedroom door and freezes. Because standing there, with an enormous purple box under one arm and his hand hovering over the doorknob, is none other than my Mr. Darcy.

“Cora?” He frowns in surprise, his eyes scanning the bedroom. When he spots me in the closet, he manages to smile and frown at the same time.

“Hello, Mr. Hale, sir. Just passing through, looking for dirty laundry.”

He smiles with his full dimple. “I’m sure you found plenty.” He tilts his head toward me.

She laughs, waits for him to lean against the wall and slips out of the door.

“Thank you,” Aiden says behind her, who knows for what.

“Anytime,” she answers, her footsteps echoing down the hall.

Aiden enters the bedroom, looking at me with a raised eyebrow. He sets the giant box on the bed and saunters to me.

“Charming my staff?” He smiles, pulling me close to him. He traces my lower lip with his thumb.

“I have to charm whomever I can these days.”

I’m about to ask about the purple box but he leans in, his lips millimeters from mine. “I don’t believe I have kissed you in my closet yet,” he whispers.

I get lost in his lips, kissing him hard like the kiss might morph into more nights here, more of my dresses blending with his suits. When my breathing becomes so loud that even Cora in the kitchen can hear it, he chuckles and frees my lips.

“Oxygen, Elisa. Come, I have something for you.” He wraps his arms around my waist and walks us to the bed.

“Open it,” he whispers in my ear.

I examine the purple box—it’s almost as tall as me. No bows, no frills, no names. It takes about two minutes to unwrap the sleek orchid paper and soft tissues. Finally, with a deep breath, I push aside the last gossamer layer.

“Oh!” I gasp.

Right before me, with a magic from fairy tales, is the most beautiful dress any woman, anywhere, has ever seen. It’s a long, strapless gown like an inverted rosebud. The layers drape exactly like petals. Their color is astonishing. The very top layer is the lightest turquoise, then each one underneath deepens gradually to azure, cerulean, marine, cobalt, indigo and, last, midnight blue.

My eyes fly up to his, as I understand the meaning behind the extraordinary color. He smiles and lounges on the bed, propping himself on his elbow.

“I told you,” he says. “I always want my eyes on you.”

I start launching myself at him but then remember that I must not startle him. So I freeze midair, probably looking quite ridiculous. He catches me before I plop on the bed, tucking me to his chest.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

“Yes, it really is an unforgivable crime to want to hold the man who bought you a dress but you can’t because you’re afraid of getting crushed to death.” His voice is hard again.

“I’m not afraid.”

He looks away, mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like “you should be”. I can sense all warmth evaporating from the room so I deploy my distraction technique.

“So tell me about this dress. It’s stunning!” I run my fingers through the material. It’s soft and fluid, like dewy petals.

It works. The dimple puckers in his stubbly cheek. “I thought it’s time for you to have some of your own dresses. Not your mother’s or your roommate’s. Yours.” He folds back the corset and shows me the tag inside. On it, is embroidered:

Elisa C. Snow

“Like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies”

I read the next line of Byron’s poem with a fiery band in my throat. It takes a moment to find the words. Even when I do, I simply dissolve in his neck, kissing his fragrant skin.

“Thank you. I think I’m going to sleep with it on.”

“Lucky dress.”

“Are you ever going to tell me Byron’s significance?”

His eyes shift as though he is reading something. “It’s just a beautiful poem, Elisa.” He shrugs but I have the feeling he is not telling me everything. I push it aside for now.

“Did you make Benson learn embroidery?”

He chuckles. “Not yet. This is a local designer, Margolis. He specializes in 1950s vintage, I’m told.”

He caresses my jawline while I try very hard not to jump him again. I know Margolis. I have spent a good amount of time in the last four years drooling at its store windows, Audrey Hepburn style.

“He’s yours whenever you want something,” Aiden says. And there it is, that finite, terminal tone in his voice.

“So does this mean you’re taking me out on a date?” I smile because that tone makes me want to wail.

“As it happens, I am.”

“Where?”

He watches me for a moment as though he is not sure he wants to tell me, or perhaps even take me at all. But then he answers. “A place I think you’ve wanted to see for a while.”

“You’re not paying for a trip to NASA, are you?”

He laughs. “No, but that reminds me—not that I need reminders. I put some money in your bank account, and before you ask, I memorized your number when I saw your checkbook on your desk.”