"Deny what?" All innocence, Corinna adjusted her tiny, tight yellow bodice.
"That you ruined Tris's new pump." Alexandra didn't wait for confirmation. "And all for naught, as it turns out. He's determined to avoid the ball, and nothing you do will convince him otherwise. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves."
Though Juliana didn't try to play coy, she didn't look ashamed, either. "We did it for you. We thought if Tristan attended—"
"Our other guests won't welcome him. Stop dreaming, will you? I'm not going to marry him, and nothing you do will change that." Nothing Tris could do would change that, either. Not even middle-of-the night kisses that made her melt. "Now, Griffin is paying for this ball for the express purpose of finding me a husband. I'm planning to do my best to have a proper attitude and make the most of it."
The sound of applause came from the doorway. "I missed the majority of that speech," a voice came from behind them, "but I heartily approve of the last part."
They all turned to see Griffin.
At the sight of them, his eyes all but popped out of his head.
"Aren't our dresses exquisite?" Performing a few happy waltz steps, Corinna turned in a circle.
"Um, yes. Pull your sleeves up, Juliana, will you?"
She tugged at them, but the dress was designed to be off the shoulder. "They won't go."
One by one, he eyed their dresses' waistlines—as high as possible to enhance pert young busts—and their low-cut, cleavage-baring necklines—if one could call them that, since they weren't anywhere near their necks.
"You're all going to cover"—at an apparent loss for words, he patted his own chest—"with one of those scarf things, right?"
"A fichu?" Madame sniffed. "I think not. These are evening gowns, my lord."
"They don't look like the pictures my sisters showed me."
"Those pictures were but a starting point, my lord. By the time the fashion plates make it here from France, they're already somewhat out of style."
"We wouldn't want to be wearing last month's fashions," Juliana added. "These dresses are the thing."
"Am I to understand that this month's thing is for fashions to display your entire—"
"Griffin. Good news. The foundry will have the new part cast by the end of the day." Tris walked in, scanned the room with a low whistle, and settled on Alexandra. "Holy Christ, you ladies will put every other woman to shame."
"My sisters won't be wearing these dresses," Griffin said.
"Of course they will." Tris tore his gaze from Alexandra and turned to his friend. "While I take apart the pump, you'll want to head out to the vineyard and see that work on the new pipeline is resumed."
"Very well." Griffin turned to leave, then swiveled back. "I'm not paying for those dresses," he warned. "Not until they're made decent."
Madame Rodale gave a little French-sounding "hmmph."
"You'll pay for them," Tris disagreed. "Don't you want men to find your sisters attractive? Irresistible? Marriageable?"
"Not if they're men like…"
"Like us?" Tris suggested helpfully.
Griffin's "hmmph" put the mantua-maker's to shame. "I need to get to the vineyard," he muttered and left.
"Madame has finished with my dress and Corinna's," Juliana announced. "We'll just go to our rooms and take them off." Grabbing Corinna's hand, she pulled her out the door.
Madame's two pasty-complexioned assistants fluttered around Alexandra, pinning her dress here and there. Tris stood watching. Wondering what she should say now that he'd kissed her—wondering if he'd kiss her again—she shifted uncomfortably.
"Stand still," Madame said. "Else Mariette might poke you."
She stiffened and met Tris's gaze. "Don't you need to work on the pump?"
"You're beautiful."
"Thank you," she whispered.
"Of course, you're always beautiful—it has nothing to do with the dress." He spoke conversationally. "You'd be beautiful in a shapeless burlap bag. And you'll be beautiful when you're a hundred years old, because your beauty comes from inside. It's what makes me want to be your friend."
She didn't say anything, because she didn't know what to say.
"I want to apologize," he continued, "for the way I treated you the last time we were together—"
"Are you finished?" she interrupted, addressing the assistants. The two girls were standing back, watching her and Tris as though they were performing a most fascinating play.
"Oui," Madame said briskly. "Remove the dress carefully, please, and bring it down the corridor to the armory, if you will." Since the armory was just an empty room with rusty weapons all over the walls—Alexandra figured it hadn't been renovated since before the Civil War—Griffin was allowing them to use it as their sewing room. "Come along, Mariette, Martina. We have much to do before tomorrow."
Tris waited until their footsteps had receded down the corridor. "Do you expect their names are really Mariette and Martina?"
She laughed, loving his irreverence. "No, I think their names are Mary and Martha."
They shared a smile before he sobered. "As I was saying…"
"Yes?" She'd never seen him look quite so uneasy.
"The last time we were together, I didn't treat you much like a friend."
"No, you didn't," she agreed quietly. He'd treated her as much more.
And he'd kissed her.
"I didn't look at you the way one looks at a friend."
"I didn't look at you like a friend, either." They'd looked at each other like lovers; there was no other way to put it.
And he'd kissed her.
"I held you too close."
He certainly had; she could still feel his body against hers. His almost-naked body.
And he'd kissed her.
"I'm sorry for all of that," he concluded. "I still wish, more than anything, to remain friends."
She blinked. That was it? He still wanted to be friends? For him, nothing had changed last night?
Of course, nothing had changed for her last night, either—on the surface, that was. Marriage still wasn't an option. But clearly they'd crossed a certain line. Surely, regardless of the fact that they couldn't act on their mutual feelings, they could acknowledge them and admit that they were more than simple friends.
"I can scarcely even imagine going back to a distant,
