Eleanor fled before she could respond, before the tears burning behind her eyes could fall, before she could do something foolish like hope.
But despite everything, despite all her carefully constructed walls and reasonable resolutions, Eleanor felt the smallest crack forming in her defences.
A crack that let in just the tiniest sliver of light.
Of possibility.
Of hope.
Chapter eighteen
Second Day of Wooing a Wife
"Arms up, if you please, my lady."
Eleanor raised her arms obediently as the modiste, a brisk Frenchwoman named Madame Laurent, draped shimmering fabric across her shoulders. The woman had arrived precisely at nine o'clock with two assistants and enough fabric samples to clothe half of Hertfordshire.
"The emerald silk would be lovely for the ball gown," Madame Laurent mused, stepping back to assess the effect. "It brings out the green in your eyes. And for the walking dress, perhaps this soft grey wool? Very elegant. Very refined."
"I really don't need a ball gown," Eleanor said for what felt like the hundredth time that morning. "I don't attend balls."
"Every lady needs a ball gown," Madame Laurent said firmly, as though this were an incontrovertible law of nature. "You never know when theoccasion might arise. A neighbour’s celebration. A family wedding. Your husband might wish to host a gathering."
Eleanor opened her mouth to explain that her husband would be returning to London and there would be no gatherings, but Madame Laurent continued before she could speak.
"Besides, a lady should have at least one gown that makes her feel beautiful. Not practical. Not sensible. Beautiful." The modiste's eyes were kind. "When was the last time you wore something simply because it pleased you to wear it, my lady?"
Eleanor couldn't remember. Everything in her wardrobe was practical, serviceable, designed for estate management and charity work.
"The ball gown is not for anyone else," Madame Laurent said softly. "It is for you. So that when you look in the mirror, you see a woman worthy of admiration. A woman who deserves beautiful things."
Eleanor's throat felt tight. "The expense—"
"Has already been approved by Lord Madeley." Madame Laurent smiled. "He was quite specific in his instructions. I am to provide you with whatever you desire, cost be damned. His exact words, my lady."
Eleanor felt her face flush. Aubrey had done this, had told the modiste to spare no expense.
For her.
"Very well," Eleanor heard herself say. "The emerald silk for the ball gown. And the grey wool for the walking dress. And perhaps..." She hesitated. "Perhaps one more day dress? Something in blue?"
Madame Laurent's smile widened. "Excellent choice, my lady. I have the perfect shade, like a winter sky attwilight."
The fitting continued for another hour. Eleanor was measured, pinned, draped in various fabrics while Madame Laurent and her assistants discussed hem lengths and necklines and sleeve styles in rapid French.
By the time they finished, Eleanor felt simultaneously exhausted and oddly exhilarated. She had just been fitted for three new gowns. Beautiful gowns. Gowns that had nothing to do with practicality and everything to do with making her feel lovely.
She was just seeing Madame Laurent to the door when Mrs Williams appeared, slightly breathless.
"My lady, Lord Madeley has requested that you join him for luncheon. In his bedchamber. We've set up a small table."
Eleanor blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"Luncheon, my lady. His lordship was quite insistent that you dine together today. Everyday."
"But I…" Eleanor stopped. "I always take luncheon in my sitting room."
"Yes, my lady, but his lordship specifically requested your company." Mrs Williams' expression was all knowing. "The table is already prepared."
