Celine’s jaw tightened, her nails were now digging crescents in the palm of her hand. “Swooning? Oh, please!” she snapped, pacing the rug. “It’s practical. Father’s debts, my future—Rhys needs his inheritance, I need security. It’s on paper, nothing more.” Her words rushed out, her blush clashing with her icy tone.
Dahlia’s fan paused, her smile sly. “Then why do you keep blushing? I bet he’s got you dreaming of crossing items off your list.Feel alive. Wasn’t that your last addition?”
Celine had scribbled that last bit after she got home from her night with her friends, certain that the list was something she really wanted to follow. She was tired of feeling stifled. She wanted to feel more. To feeleverything.
She heaved a sigh. “What if I admitted something? Would you judge me if I said that I’m a bit intrigued by him? Not affection, just… curiosity?” Her gaze dropped, her heart pounding in her chest.
Helena leaned forward, her tone gentle. “Judge you? Celine, we’re sisters in spirit. Our spinster vow was for freedom, not chains. If the Duke of Wylds intrigues you, then we’re happy—thrilled, even. Marry the damn man!”
“More than happy!” Dahlia echoed, clapping, her eyes bright. “And think, Celine! You’ll finally check ‘kiss a man’ off your list. A duke’s kiss must be divine, all smolder and fire!” She winked.
Celine’s lips twitched, a laugh breaking through. Her shoulders dropped as relief washed over her—an odd, buoyant warmth she hadn’t expected.
“You’re both impossible,” she said, sinking into a chair. “I’m not kissing anyone, not even him. It’s business, I swear it. But… thank you.” Her eyes met theirs, her gratitude shining through. “I was scared that you’d think I’d betrayed us. I think that has also been one of the reasons I’ve been… hesitant.”
Helena smiled, reaching for her hand. “Spinster or duchess, you’re Celine, and we love you so, so much.”
“You know what this means, right?” Dahlia asked, her eyes glinting with mischief.
“I don’t understand—” Celine started, but she was interrupted by Dahlia’s excited giggle.
“We’re going dress shopping!”
Celine stood before a gilt-framed mirror in Madame Dubois’s shop, the rustle of taffeta and silk filling the air, the scent of lavender mingling with the crisp starch of new fabrics.
Her blue muslin dress felt plain amid the opulence, her black hair pinned loosely under a straw bonnet, her blue eyes wide as she gazed at a wedding dress displayed on a mannequin.
The dress was made of ivory silk, its lines sleek and elegant, with delicate jasmine embroidery tracing the bodice and hem—a quiet beauty that stirred her heart. Yet her promise for a “most enviable wedding” loomed, demanding grandeur to silence the ton’s sneers.
“I’m certain if her mother were still alive…”
The words of Lady Beatrice and Miss Langley still haunted her. Was that how the ton saw her? A pathetic, motherless spinster?
I’ll prove them wrong. This wedding will show them.
Helena and Dahlia flanked her, their heads bobbing as they surveyed bolts of lace and satin. Helena, her curls neat, held aswatch of gold-trimmed tulle, her gaze assessing. Dahlia, vivid in her crimson shawl, clutched a fashion plate, her green eyes sparkling with romantic fervor.
“Celine,” Dahlia said, her voice bright, “that dress is divine! It’s you—bold but not fussy. Try it on!”
Celine’s fingers brushed the silk, her breath catching, a rare smile softening her face. “It’s… beautiful,” she agreed softly.
She imagined herself in it, not as a duchess or a stone-cold spinster, but asherself. Doubt crept in almost immediately. Would it dazzle enough?
“But it’s too simple.” She stepped back, her hands twisting her reticule. “The ton expects a spectacle.”
Helena’s brow arched, her tone measured. “Simple? It’s elegant, Celine. You’d outshine every chandelier in St. George’s. Is this about the ton or you?” Her eyes searched Celine’s, sensing the tension beneath her friend’s resolve.
Celine flushed, her gaze dropping to the polished floor. The shop’s hum—clinking pins, Madame Dubois’s murmured French—faded.
“It’s… both,” she replied, her voice wavering. Her fear of marriage rose to the surface, her mother’s loss a shadow. “I told the Duke I’d make them choke on envy. A plain dress won’t do that.”
Her words lacked conviction, her heart drawn to the jasmine-embroidered silk.
Dahlia tossed her fashion plate onto a velvet chair and put her hands on her hips. “Plain? It’s a dream, Celine! Like something Penelope Lovelace would write—heroine defies the ton in quiet splendor. You’re not marrying for them, are you?” Her tone was teasing, but her eyes held concern, her romantic heart sensing Celine’s struggle.
“I’m not marrying for myself either. I’m marrying for… necessity,” Celine said, her voice low. She turned to a rack of dresses, her fingers grazing a gaudy confection of gold lace and puffed sleeves, its ostentation screaming wealth. “Father’s debts, my future—it’s a deal, not a fairytale. This one’s better.”
She lifted the golden dress, its weight heavy in her hands. Her chest tightened as she forced a smile.
