To hell with Bromton and his wounded pride, his twisted sense of honor, and his stupid castle. She would live here, surrounded, during the Season at least, by her family. Shewouldtransform tragedy into triumph, one extravagant evening at a time.
In that spirit, she set out to shop. With the solicitous and kind assistance of the milliner, Katherine discovered something else she’d been wrong about—a pretty hat could indeed, on occasion, enhance one’s person. Next, she visited a jeweler. She admired his pieces as he cleaned and restrung her mother’s pearls.
Armed with her hat and her mother’s pearls, she stopped at Gunther’s for some refreshment. Then, unfortunately, her day went awry.
Her new maid deemed the shop far too crowded, and there, in the busy street, she recognized a lady with whom she’d made her curtsey to the queen. She could not remember the lady’s name, yet her gaze remained fixed. The lady held the hand of a small child, the child with a face near-identical to the lady’s.
The phantom punch came out of thin air.
While Katherine had been hiding in the country, busily priding herself on reducing her wants, life had moved on without her.
The pink-cheeked child smiled up at her mother, with worlds of love and possibility shining in her eyes.
Envy filled Katherine’s mouth like raw cotton—thick and fibrous and steeped in something awful and bitter.
Why had claiming their place been easy for those other ladies?Why?
Heated and weary, she knocked on the carriage ceiling and asked to proceed to the next destination on her list—the modiste Bromton had suggested.
The sight of a single child had hollowed out her heart. The vacant space cried out, not just for her husband, but for the hope for family he’d resurrected. She ran her fingers absently across her throat. There was some small chance she could be with child after last night, wasn’t there?
Wetness gathered behind her lids. What good would that bring? If Bromton had convinced himself that she was better off without him, even a child would not bring them back together.
She sank back against the carriage cushions and dropped her hand. Despair threatened to engulf her once again. She forced herself to think of Julia. Of Markham. For them, she must, at least, present a brave face to theton.
The modiste’s shop was small and neat with walls lined by bolts of fabric and interspersed with mirrors. Tables and chairs scattered about the main area, each table cluttered with the latest fashion plates. The modiste greeted her with great excitement.
“Your dresses,” she said in a faint accent, “are ready to be fitted.”
“Mydresses?” she asked.
“Yes,” the modiste nodded enthusiastically. “I followed your instructions, and I promise you the results will not disappoint.”
She frowned. “Are you certain?”
“Of course,” the modiste replied. “The marquess delivered your message in person, just last week.”
Katherine could only nod. How had Bromton obtained her measurements? She pursed her lips. No doubt, Julia had been involved. And the seamstress in the village. Hadeveryoneshe’d ever known conspired to bring her together with the marquess?
Traitors, one and all.
The modiste and her assistants brought out three evening dresses, each more exquisite than the last.Infuriating.
How could one man be both thoughtful and thoughtless all at once?
“You have fine taste,” the modiste said. “However, only one dress can be finished by the evening.”
She had no place to wear any of the dresses, but she selected the green.
The dress was as daring as it was beautiful. A white underdress comprised of two layers of gauze gathered at the waist. Fern-like leaves edged with gold thread embellished the base, but the true masterpiece was the heavier taffeta manteau that fitted over the dress and then descended into a long train.
Embroidered to complement the underdress, the manteau cinched just above her waist, making her appear taller and thinner while boldly hinting at the cleft between her breasts. The dress’s puffed sleeves revealed a small length of her upper arms, before they disappeared within the matching kid gloves, stitched of leather so fine they felt like an extension of her own skin. Her favorite part, however, was the pleated fichu that rose up from the low-cut bodice, lending the dress Elizabethan court-style elegance.
The dress was at the height of fashion. Indeed, it was fit for a queen. Was this how Bromton saw her? A grand lady of consequence?
She struggled to quell another mortifying flicker of hope. She had no proof Bromton had ever truly seen her. He was a man who held patriarchal bloodlines above honesty, dignity, and respect. This dress was meant to suggest consequence—hisconsequence, not hers.
She wondered when she’d have the opportunity to wear such a masterpiece as she allowed the ladies to undress her and help her back into her clothes.
