We made each other a promise. We tied ribbons around our fingers and swore it.
We vowed we would never kiss again.
Though how can I resist, when the rose blooms so high in her cheeks? Surely she doesn’t blush from the exertion of pulling my corset ties, as that was nigh on an hour ago. She has since dressed me, buttoning my dress, smoothing my stockings, lacing my shoes.
Jewels are saved for last. She brings the necklace the viscount gifted me. He’ll be waiting, pacing among the guests.
“Let him wait,” I whisper, pushing it from her hands.
Cynthia Hamill 