The slap was loud enough to stop a ballroom orchestra on the other side of the wall.

The thick cream envelope arrived at the cliffside house on Saturday morning, delivered by a uniformed courier.

Norah opened it in the library while Roman reviewed shipping manifests at his mahogany desk.

She pulled out the heavy cardstock, embossed with gold leaf: THE ANNUAL RHODE ISLAND MARITIME GALA Honoring the Benefactors of the Atlantic Heritage Fund

Attached to the card was a smaller, handwritten note from the gala committee: We look forward to welcoming Mr. and Mrs. Roman Calder.

Norah looked across the room at Roman. "Arthur March is on the committee board for this gala, isn't he?"

Roman didn't look up from his papers. "He was. Gavin removed him from the board yesterday afternoon. But March still holds two tables."

"He wants us to come," Norah said softly. "It's a public stage. He knows everyone will be watching to see how I handle being in a room full of people who used to invite me to dinner as Julian's wife."

Roman set his pen down and looked at her. "You don't have to go, Norah. We can stay here. I can buy the port contracts through a third-party brokerage tomorrow morning."

Norah walked over to his desk, setting the gold-embossed invitation down on his papers. She reached up and touched the gold thimble resting against her collarbone.

"My mother sewed three of the gowns that will be worn in that ballroom tonight," Norah said, her voice quiet but filled with an iron resolve that made Roman's dark eyes light up. "She spent fifty hours putting beads on silk for women who didn't even know her last name. She never got to walk through the front doors of the Bellevue Mansion. I am not going to hide in this house because Arthur March and Selene want to whisper about me."

Roman stood up slowly, stepping around the desk until he was standing close enough to feel the heat of her breath. He reached out, his long fingers trailing down the side of her neck, gently caressing the thin gold chain of her thimble.

"What do you want to wear?" Roman asked softly.

Norah smiled—a small, brilliant smile that transformed her pale face. "Something navy. And very, very expensive."

At four o'clock that afternoon, a sleek black town car arrived at the house carrying two tailors from New York, accompanied by four large garment bags.

When Norah stepped out of the dressing room two hours later, even Mrs. Gable let out a soft gasp of admiration.

The dress was a masterwork of midnight-blue silk velvet, custom-fitted to accommodate the subtle, beautiful curve of her fourteen-week pregnancy. It had long, elegant sleeves, a modest square neckline, and a sweeping skirt that pooled softly around her feet. Around her neck, resting right above the velvet neckline, hung her mother's gold thimble on its mended chain, flanked by a simple, breathtaking three-carat diamond pendant Roman had given her an hour earlier.

Roman stood in the foyer, wearing a perfectly tailored black tuxedo. He looked at his wife, his dark eyes sweeping over her from her dark hair pinned up in soft curls to the silk hem of her dress.

He walked over, offered her his arm, and bowed his head slightly.