Genevieve's dressing room was a whirl of lace, stockings, silk, and sparkling trinkets. Her dressing room alone contained more riches than Amelia needed to keep her household running for years. Amelia perched in front of a large mirror, her hands folded neatly in her lap as if afraid to touch anything.
"You look as though I'm about to torture you," Genevieve teased, rummaging through a chest of gowns with far too much enthusiasm. "Relax, Amelia. This is meant to be fun."
"What if Sebastian's right? I don't seduce, I'm prickly." Amelia replied, eyeing the beautiful swathes of fabric Genevieve laid across the bed. All of them in colors far richer than Amelia had worn.
"Perhaps not yet. But by the time Maggie and I are finished with you…" Genevieve grinned over her shoulder. "You'll see. Besides I'm just happy to have my Amelia back. My fun, happy Amelia. Like our season together."
Before Amelia could reply, Maggie, the maid Genevieve had mentioned, appeared beside Amelia and began gently working through her hair, humming under her breath as if this were an ordinary evening.
Amelia caught Genevieve holding up a gown of deep crimson silk, its neckline scandalously low. "Absolutely not," she said, narrowing her eyes.
Genevieve raised a brow. "I was joking, darling. Unless you'd like to see if Sebastian faints on sight."
Amelia snorted, shaking her head. "He's more likely to storm out. I'm not his type of lady that he would notice."
"Oh, he'd notice," Genevieve said with a sly smile. "Men like Sebastian always notice. They just pretend they don't until it's far too late."
Amelia rolled her eyes, though the corners of her mouth tugged upward. "He won't notice. Besides, he'll be too busy grumbling about the entire ordeal."
Genevieve's eyes sparkled. "Or trying not to stare."
Maggie brought up a tin of black powder from downstairs, its subtle floral scent lingering in the air as she worked it through Amelia's hair. The light strands darkened gradually, transforming into an inky shade that seemed to shimmer faintly beneath the candlelight. With practiced hands, Maggie twisted Amelia's hair into an elaborate updo, murmuring approvingly at the result. Her hair hadn't been properly done by a maid in ages.
As the transformation unfolded, Amelia felt herself begin to relax, the tension in her shoulders loosening. She hadn't realized how much she missed this— the friendship, getting ready for a ball, and the laughter and gossip with Genevieve. It felt like slipping into a long-forgotten memory, one that hadn't graced her since the end of her first season.
The gown she finally chose wasn't far from Genevieve's original pick—rich, dark, and daring in a way Amelia never would have considered before. The neckline dipped just enough to make her breath catch, while the sheer sleeves whispered scandal without fully committing to it. It was bold. But tonight, boldness was exactly what she needed.
Maggie dusted kohl around her eyes, the dark lines accentuated their sharpness, turning them from soft and curious to something far more striking, mysterious, even dangerous. The rich red painted across her lips made them seem fuller, the color blooming against her pale skin like a forbidden temptation. Rouge was applied to more than just her cheeks which made her look heated. Amelia hardly recognized the woman staring back at her.
There was confidence there, a boldness that simmered just beneath the surface, coaxed out by the unfamiliar and enticing reflection. Her eyes held a challenge she hadn't dared express in years. For a brief moment, she marveled at the change, the way simple touches could summon a woman she had almost forgotten existed. This wasn't the Amelia who tiptoed around debt collectors and guarded her sister from shadows. This woman looked like she belonged anywhere she pleased.
Then the flicker of memory returned, unbidden. The last time she had felt this way… before The Incident. Her fingers curled tightly around the edge of the dressing table.
Genevieve caught the shift, stepping closer to rest a hand lightly over Amelia's. "You deserve this," she said softly. "To feel powerful, beautiful, even if it's just for tonight."
Amelia met her friend's gaze in the mirror, and the warmth of Genevieve's smile steadied her. "Thank you," Amelia whispered.
"Now," Genevieve said, searching through her earrings for just the right ones, "shall we discuss the brooding rake currently pacing his townhouse? The one who insists he won't help but will have his carriage ready to collect you anyway?"
Amelia laughed, the sound bubbling up before she could stop it. "I have no interest in reforming Sebastian Sinclair. The last thing I need is another rake in my life. One was enough, my father proved that."
Genevieve's grin deepened, the kind that suggested she knew far more than she let on. "Of course not. But it is curious how he keeps finding reasons to linger, isn't it? Besides, he's not a full rake. Not one beyond saving, at least."
Amelia arched a brow, though amusement still tugged at her lips. "He's only doing this because you asked him to. I distinctly recall you threatening to expose his more charitable tendencies."
"Perhaps," Genevieve admitted. "Or perhaps he's found himself intrigued. I have known him a long time, Amelia. He's not a bad man, just one shaped by hard edges and a difficult life. Rather like someone else I know."
Amelia rolled her eyes, though her heart softened at the gentle comparison. She would never admit it, but the thought lingered longer than she expected. "You read far too many novels."
Genevieve stepped back, arms crossed as she admired their work. "He won't stand a chance."
Amelia held the mask up to her face, testing how to secure it. For the first time in days, excitement hummed beneath the nerves.
"Let's hope you're right," she said, a slow smile curving her lips.
"But enough of that, on to the truly entertaining part. I've been waiting all afternoon to watch Maggie school you on the finer points of courtesan deportment," Genevieve announced with a wicked grin. "Maggie, if you please."
"Yes, m'lady," Maggie replied, poking her head around the screen where she had been gathering the discarded gowns.
What followed was an education unlike any Amelia had ever received. There were lessons on how to perch—never sit—on a gentleman's lap with just the right balance of familiarity and restraint, the subtle art of raising an eyebrow to invite a kiss, and the surprisingly strategic uses of a well-placed fan.
By the end of the evening, Amelia's sides ached from laughter, and tears of happiness streamed down her cheeks, threatening to ruin her makeup. It had been years since she had laughed so freely.