“Some stains cannot be removed. In that event, most would consider the cloth ruined, but that is because they are not clever enough to realize the whole garment can simply be dyed a matching color. No more stain, and a new gown. An ideal solution.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her newest lady’s maid while instructing the girl on the proper administration of her duties.
Jane was going to be sick, quite possibly all over the wine-red silk laid out before her. Surrounded by her sisters, her mother, and Lady Wallingham, she sat at a small table in the Bond Street shop of Italian-born modiste Renata Bowman. She could not imagine a greater misery.
“The color is much better, yes? No more yellow for this one.” The dark-haired, elegant dressmaker did not bother to glance over at Jane as she made her statement. Instead, she waggled her fingers in Jane’s direction as though referencing a sofa in need of new upholstery.
“Oooh, I never considered red for her. It is quite dramatic. Do you think it’s a bit too bold?” Annabelle asked Mrs. Bowman, who harrumphed dismissively.
Maureen proffered her own opinion. “She is to become a duchess. Stronger colors will be more suitable, particularly once she begins acting as Blackmore’s hostess.”
Jane’s stomach twisted, her breakfast of baked eggs and biscuits threatening to reappear with unseemly haste.
“Jane!” snapped Lady Wallingham. “You shall not vomit on such lovely damask. If you must cast up your accounts, do so elsewhere.”
All eyes turned to her as she covered her mouth with her hand. “Are you unwell, dearest?” Mama inquired.
Swallowing hard against the gorge in her throat, Jane took two deep breaths and muttered, “I am fine.”
“You don’t appear fine,” said Genie, briefly turning away from a display featuring a pink gown surrounded by five hats. Jane dropped her hand and glared at Genie, who shot her a cross-eyed look meant to tease her out of her doldrums. Jane sighed. Nothing was likely to accomplish that feat.
Meanwhile, the others continued their discussion of Jane’s extravagant trousseau, which was a joint effort of Mama’s fondest wishes and Blackmore’s funds. Annabelle ceded ground on the darker, richer colors, sighing over a midnight-blue velvet pelisse, while Maureen cooed her approval of a russet silk day dress. Mama expressed dismay at the scarcity of ruffles in the designs Mrs. Bowman was recommending. Mrs. Bowman released a string of Italian phrases then pointed at the waistline in one of the illustrations.
“You see this, Lady Berne? Your daughter, she is … how to say … round.” The dressmaker’s long, elegant forefinger ran the length of the gown then tapped the hem. “And breve.”
Jane blinked. Mrs. Bowman thought her brave?
“She is short,” the woman clarified, adding, “We must lengthen.” She demonstrated by pinching her fingers together and separating her hands vertically. “We must create waist. And we must simplify.”
“Oh, but I quite like ruffles,” said little Kate from behind Mama’s shoulder. “Rosettes, as well. Can she not have a few rosettes, Mama?”
Would it not have drawn too much attention, Jane might have groaned. She loathed dress shopping—inevitably it led to mortification and discomfort for someone of her figure—but doing so in the current circumstance was nigh unbearable. This was going to cost the duke an absolute fortune.
While Papa was far from a pauper, his income was perhaps one tenth of Blackmore’s. And with five daughters to outfit for multiple London seasons, a trousseau of this scale would have beggared the family. Fortunately for Jane’s mother and sisters, who relished the thought of shopping for an inordinate number of gowns, silken underclothes, hats, gloves, shoes, and other sundries fit for a duchess, Blackmore had insisted on paying for it all. He had not, however, consulted Jane.
Not on the trousseau. Not on the wedding. Not on the marriage.
She had neither seen nor spoken to the man in the week since she had snatched her slippers from his hand and stomped out of the Berne House library. Indeed, by the time her mother had informed her of Blackmore’s purpose, he’d already concluded his business and departed.
She had rushed from the kitchen to the library, surprising her father by bursting through the doors, wheezing and shouting, “Papa, you mustn’t agree!”
But Papa had simply shaken his head and crossed the room to enfold her securely in his arms, just as he had when she was a child. “It is done, Poppet,” he had whispered against the top of her head. Pulling back, he had braced his hands on her shoulders and given her a loving but stern look. “You must accept this match. And be grateful.”
“Grateful!” she’d squawked.
His hands firm, his voice firmer, he’d given her a tiny shake and replied, “Blackmore is attempting to right a wrong in which he took no part. His miscreant brother has sullied his family’s honor, and he wishes to rectify matters by giving you the protection of his name and title.” She’d started to protest, but he had continued adamantly, “It is a noble sacrifice, Poppet, and yes, you should be grateful. Blackmore has just saved not only you but your sisters from a good deal of misery.”
Stricken, Jane’s head had felt detached from her body, her need to deny the truth strong. But she could not deny it. Her father was right. Blackmore was sacrificing himself, throwing the considerable power he wielded within society—a great, towering lot of it—over her and her family like a protective shield.
It was the only event significant enough to overshadow her bungling-burglar escapade among gossip circles—the Duke of Blackmore, at long last, had chosen a bride. Making Jane his bride established in no uncertain terms that he did not believe the rumors and would not tolerate scandal being attached to her by anyone.
She simply could not fathom why he would do such a thing. Victoria had spoken of Blackmore’s overdeveloped sense of honor and pride, but the Apollo of the aristocracy shouldn’t even be dancing with Plain Jane Huxley, much less marrying her. Noble sacrifice, indeed. They were an appalling mismatch. Besides which, she did not wish to be a duchess. More specifically, she did not wish to be his duchess.
“Am I to have no say in this?”
Her father’s expression had grown grave, though his voice had remained gentle. “I fear you’ve had your say, Jane. When you climbed through Lord Milton’s window, endangering yourself and your sisters, your decision was made. Now, you must set things right. You must do this for them.”
Tears had flooded her eyes, spilling in twin streams down her cheeks. She could see the glare of daylight flashing over the wet trails. Her chest had felt hollow, scraped out clean and left gaping.
Her father had clasped her close again, his hand cradling the back of her head, his arms tight. “He is a good man, Poppet. I would never have agreed to the match if he were not.”
Perhaps he was—the Duke of Blackmore could have married anyone. She could name at least seven beauties of high station, all diamonds of the first water, who would have proven a better fit for him. To settle for the likes of Jane was an inexplicable act of selflessness.
Blackmore was so far above her, he might as well be the moon.
In the end, however, she had agreed to wed him. Because her father was right—she could not toss her sisters’ futures on the rubbish pile simply to escape a marriage she dreaded. Maureen and Genie deserved their chance to dance the waltz and shop for bonnets and wield their fans flirtatiously during their own London seasons. They deserved to do so without the specter of Jane’s horrid mistake clinging to them like a spider’s sticky web.
Now, for the same reasons, she had agreed to this shopping excursion to purchase a trousseau she did not want for a marriage she did not want to a man she … well, a man for whom she was tragically ill-suited. Presently, she heard Mama exclaiming over an illustration of an emerald-green riding ensemble and felt her stomach roll threateningly. Mrs. Bowman explained she would be dropping the waistline on all the gowns a bit more than was fashionable, as it would help Jane appear “less dumpling, more duchess.”
That was when Lady Wallingham chose to insert herself into the discussion, declaring, “Yes, yes. This is all very well. But what of her wedding gown, Mrs. Bowman? Princess Charlotte wore a magnificent confection of silver net. I insist Jane wear nothing short of gold.”
Mrs. Bowman shook her head emphatically and raised a finger. “Gold is too much yellow. No, no, no. For Lady Jane, it must be richer.” She pulled a pencil from her pocket and snapped her fingers at her assistant, who hovered in the background. A small sketchbook appeared instantly. Mrs. Bowman flipped it open and began with quick, decisive strokes. “Bronze. Silk. A bit of ribbon along the bodice.”
Lady Wallingham’s green eyes sharpened on the modiste, who appeared lost in her own thoughts, mumbling occasionally in Italian. “She shall have gold netting. Put it over whatever you like. But Lady Jane Huxley shall wear gold on her wedding day.”
Mrs. Bowman stilled, glancing up at the Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham. A glint of grudging respect entered her dark eyes before she raised her brows and shrugged. Returning to her sketch, she murmured, “A wide sash to extend waist. And gold netting over bronze silk.”
Jane looked at Lady Wallingham, who nodded imperiously. This was much too grand. It was too costly. It was … not her.
She knew that, in some sense, they were all correct. She should be grateful to the duke. She should look forward to becoming a duchess. Even Mrs. Bowman was probably right—she should wear richer colors and lower waistlines and simpler forms. But Jane did not want to wear bronze or emerald green. She did not want to be a duchess.
Most of all, she did not want Blackmore to look at her with the resigned regret she knew she would see on his face for the rest of their lives.
She wanted to run.
To hide somewhere far away.
To lose herself in a story—any story—as long as it belonged to someone else.
Mrs. Bowman held up the sketch for everyone to view. They all sighed and cheered while Jane squinted at it in misery. Surely such an exquisite gown would look ridiculous on her—like stuffing a barn owl into one of Genie’s more elaborate bonnets. Her only solace lay in the thought that perhaps the wedding gown was Mrs. Bowman’s crescendo, the highlight that signaled the end of this Bond Street nightmare. But, as she soon discovered, such wishful thinking was a path to disappointment.
“And now,” the dressmaker announced, flipping to a fresh page, “a few things for the wedding night, no?”
*~*~*