Mary stepped closer and rested her hand on the table, her voice gentle. “The ton’s always sneering, love. You’re marrying for you and your father’s debts, not them. Why not add something of yours? Jasmine centerpieces, like your favorite perfume? It’d be a nod to your heart.”
Celine’s eyes softened, remembering one of the items on her list—create a perfume.
“Jasmine,” she murmured, a spark of warmth breaking through. “And maybe a syllabub, spiced with clove, like I’ve been mixing. It’s bold, like… like me.”
She gave a smile, small but genuine, her fear of losing herself in marriage subsiding under Mary’s care.
“Aye, that’s my girl,” Mary said, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Your mother would be proud, seeing you shine. Don’t let the ton dim your light.”
A knock interrupted, and the butler entered, carrying a large parcel wrapped in muslin, along with a sealed letter tucked beneath the ribbon.
“From His Grace, the Duke of Wylds,” he announced with a bow, his gray livery pristine. “And an invitation, My Lady.”
Celine’s heart skipped a beat, her fingers trembling as she took the parcel, the morning room’s warmth suddenly stifling.
“Thank you, Stokes,” she said, her voice steady despite her fast pulse.
The butler retreated, and Mary raised a brow, lingering as Celine broke the seal and unfolded Rhys’s note.
Celine,
This is your wedding, not the ton’s. Choose what brings you joy, not what silences their whispers. Wear these as you wish, or not at all.
I’ve secured us an invitation to Lady Worthing’s ball. Join me, and let’s show them just how bright you can burn.
Rhys.
Her cheeks warmed, for the words echoed Mary’s. Did everyone else but her notice the way her joy dimmed with each new choice?
She untied the parcel, revealing two dresses. The first was a wedding dress—ivory silk, sleek and elegant, with delicate jasmine embroidery. The very one she’d fallen in love with at Madame Dubois’s but rejected for not being showy enough for the ton.
“Helena and Dahlia,” she murmured, realizing her friends had conspired with Rhys.
It was the only way he could have known about the dress. After Mary’s words, she was glad they’d gone behind her back, her heart lifting at the dress’s authenticity.
The second dress stole her breath. It was a masterpiece of emerald-green silk, its daring cut nearly identical to the dress she’d been wearing when she first met Rhys. Its neckline was deep, the fabric shimmering.
“He remembered,” she whispered, her fingers tracing the silk.
Mary chuckled, peering over her shoulder. “That man’s got good taste, I’ll give him that. The wedding dress isyou, love—pure fire. And that green one? You’ll set that ball ablaze.”
Celine’s laugh was shaky, her flush deepening. “It’s too much,” she said, folding the note, though her eyes lingered on thedresses. “He says it’s my choice, but… why does he care what I wear?”
Her voice wavered, her fear of marriage clashing with his sincerity.
“Because he seesyou,” Mary said firmly, adjusting Celine’s sash. “Not the ton’s puppet. Wear what makes you feel like Celine, not a duchess.”
Celine nodded, her relief mingling with anticipation, the invitation in her hand a promise of fire.
“Jasmine centerpieces, then,” she declared, her voice steadier. “And this dress for the ball. Here goes nothing.”
“Look at her. It’s almost like she has no shame.”
The ballroom at Lady Worthing’s Grosvenor Square mansion shimmered under a cascade of chandeliers, their crystal facets scattering light across swirling silks, polished boots, and gleaming jewels. Laughter and violins wove a glittering tapestry, but Celine stood at its edge, her emerald-green dress and its bold cut feeling like a beacon for the ton’s scrutiny.
It was just like she had thought when she had attended the masquerade ball—they only flocked around her because they didn’t know who she was.
Now, she was just Celine.
