“Emmie would have adored this,” Cassandra said softly. “She always insisted you had the most beautiful coloring and that you just needed the right setting to show it off.”
“Emmie believed in many things that proved to be illusions,” Sybil said stiffly.
“Did she?” Anthea’s voice was quiet but penetrating. “Or did she simply have the misfortune to trust the wrong man?”
“The distinction seems rather academic when the result remains the same,” Sybil replied.
“Does it?” Cassandra leaned forward, her expression earnest. “Because it seems there’s a world of difference between trusting a man who proves unworthy and never trusting at all.”
“Some risks aren’t worth taking,” Sybil said firmly.
“And some risks,” Anthea said quietly, “are worth everything.”
Sybil turned to look at her friend sharply. Anthea’s face was composed as always, but there was something in her eyes—a flash of old pain, perhaps, or regret.
What did you risk, Anthea? And what did it cost you?
“Voilà!” Madame Dubois stepped back with a flourish. “C’est parfait.You are transformed, ma chérie.”
Sybil turned back to the mirror and felt her breath catch. The woman staring back at her was radiant—no longer the practical spinster who ran an orphanage but someone who looked capable of gracing a duke’s arm and of moving through society with confidence and grace.
Someone who looked like she belonged in his world.
“It’s perfect,” Cassandra breathed. “Absolutely perfect. His Grace will be quite overcome when he sees you.”
Will he? Or will he simply see a convenient solution to his problems, dressed up in silk and lace?
“It’s just a dress,” Sybil said though her voice lacked conviction.
“No,” Cassandra said firmly. “It’s a transformation. You look like the woman you were always meant to be.”
The woman I was always meant to be.Before Emmie’s death.Before the guilt and the exile and the years of believing I deserved nothing more than duty and service.
“I should change,” Sybil said abruptly, suddenly desperate to escape the beautiful stranger in the mirror. “We’ve taken enough of Madame Dubois’s time.”
“Nonsense,” Cassandra protested. “We haven’t even discussed the wedding breakfast or the flowers, or?—”
“There won’t be much of a celebration,” Sybil interrupted. “It will be a small ceremony.”
“Small?” Cassandra looked aghast. “But darling, you’re marrying a duke. Surely there will be some sort of proper celebration at the very least?”
Proper celebration. With proper guests who will whisper about the scandalous Earl’s daughter who somehow managed to snare a duke.
“I prefer simplicity,” Sybil said.
“What about the Duke?” Anthea asked quietly. “Men of his standing rarely favor modest ceremonies.”
“His Grace understands our arrangement,” Sybil said carefully.
“Does he?” Anthea’s gray eyes were sharp, assessing. “Because powerful men rarely agree to arrangements that don’t serve their true interests.”
And what interests might those be?
But even as she asked herself the question, Sybil could hear his voice.Your body seems to have other ideas entirely.
“The Duke gains what he needs from our marriage,” she said though her voice came out less certain than she’d intended.
“Which is?” Cassandra asked with deceptive innocence.
