That evening, she prepared for their first public outing in thetonas man and wife. It was a grand Christmastide ball hosted by Lady Featherstone, and everyone who was anyone would be in attendance.
“Please hold still, Your Grace,” Margie said.
Isla felt she was far too efficient in this task, pulling her dark blonde hair into an elegant knot and securing a simple string of pearls around her neck.
“I am sorry, Margie,” Isla said. “I am nae used to all this.”
“It is no problem, Your Grace. You will get used to the London standards. I much prefer the country as well, though,” she said with a small smile.
“Perhaps…”
Isla stood before the tall mirror, studying the woman reflected there. The sapphire velvet gown clung elegantly, its modest décolletage and long, pointed sleeves a study in restrained beauty. It was exquisite. Too exquisite, perhaps.
Yet no finery could quite disguise what lay beneath. The uneven texture of her cheek still caught the light, the faint, rope-like scars on her arms only just hidden by the rich fabric. She had cleaned up well, she supposed… but the face staring back at her felt like a stranger’s.
A mistake.
The Duke’s words echoed in her mind as she prayed for strength. She hated that she was still dressing for a man who had made it painfully clear he found her undesirable. Yet, she knew she had a role to play.
“A bit of perfume, Your Grace,” Margie said as she dabbed her wrists. “Scents of honeysuckle, lavender and heather.”
Isla brought a wrist to her nose and inhaled deeply. It was a lovely scent, and she hoped that it would bring her some comfort in the night ahead. It made her think of the summer winds of Scotland, and she smiled genuinely.
“That is most kind. Thank ye, for the addition, Margie.”
With a final look in the mirror and a nod, Isla walked to the hall and lingered at the top of the stairs, listening to a conversation below.
“You will go to bed on time, and I will be sure that we go to Hyde Park tomorrow, Oliver,” the Duke said, perfectly coiffed, cloaked, and gloved for the evening’s festivities.
“Oh, I will, Papa! I just want to see Isla before I do, to say goodnight! Is that all right with you?”
“Very well?—”
“Wow! Look, Papa!” Oliver shouted as he pointed at her.
The Duke turned toward the grand staircase at the sound of her step. She watched his gaze sweep over her, giving her newfound confidence as she strode down.
Yes, I do still have some effect on this man…
“Papa,” Oliver whispered, a smile lighting his face. He nudged his father’s leg with his knee. “Go to her, Papa. Tell her she looks like a fairy queen. She does, doesn’t she?”
The soft command broke the Duke’s trance. He blinked and strode toward Isla. He offered his arm as she reached the bottom, his touch formal and distant.
“You are ready, Duchess,” he whispered to her. His voice was huskier than usual. “The carriage awaits us.”
Oliver rushed over to Isla then, throwing his arms around her legs. She bent down and ruffled his hair playfully before planting a soft kiss on his head.
“Sweet dreams to ye, Oliver,” she said with a smile. “I will see ye in the mornin’.”
“You really do look like a queen, Isla,” the boy said as he gave one last squeeze. “Won’t you be cold?”
“Ye are too kind to me, lad… but thank ye. This dress is far too lovely for a great coat. I will suffer for fashion but thank ye very much.”
“Shall we?” The Duke said once more, leaving no room for argument.
Isla simply nodded to him as he led her out the door, down the stairs, and into the waiting carriage.
The vehicle moved slowly down the cobblestone street as Isla took in the sounds of the London night.
