Lightning lashed the stormy skies over the city, and rain dripped down the window, obscuring Perry’s view. She stared at it, watching each drop coagulate and streak toward the bottom of the pane, not allowing herself to think of anything else. Behind her, an abigail silently arranged the blond curls of her wig over her shoulder. Every so often she’d catch a glimpse of herself in the mirror of the vanity, and the sight always made her gaze jerk back to stare at the young woman in red. The Moncrieff had arranged for everything. The red silk dress had been laid across the bed for her when she arrived, with a note from the duke. He thought the color would suit her, a sign of what she’d become. All it did was remind her of Garrett—of that night at the opera when she’d worn red silk and this whole mess had begun. “There we are, miss. You look beautiful,” the abigail murmured shyly. Perry didn’t even have the heart to ask her name.
