Norman made a sound of protest, but Kitty silenced him with a single look, the sort of look that spoke of years of marriage and understood communication.
Isobel came to Andrew's mind unbidden. While she was decidedly fierce—she had thrown a pillow at him, after all—he rather liked that quality in her. It might prove the source of future headaches, but she would at least be capable of holding her own in his world.
Provided, Lord Leyton wasn't present.
Andrew would need to address the manner in which she diminished herself before her father. Isobel possessed far toomuch spirit to allow someone as pathetic as Lord Leyton to dominate her.
Turning back to Norman, Andrew shrugged with affected nonchalance. "There's no means of knowing whether a marriage will prove a mistake until one is thoroughly entrenched in it. And at that point, it's far too late for alternative arrangements."
Norman's eyebrows drew together, disbelief still evident on his features. "And you truly believe you won't come to regret this decision? No reservations whatsoever?"
Andrew projected every ounce of confidence he could muster, despite the uncertainty churning in his gut. "None." He met Norman's gaze steadily. "This game unfolded precisely as it ought. I'm one step ahead."
Norman said nothing, but Andrew saw the warning in his cousin's eyes clearly enough, a silent message that spoke of concern and doubt.
It didn't matter whether Norman believed this marriage was wise. At the end of the day, Andrew would do what he must for his business and his reputation.
And if that meant salvaging his name by marrying a woman with a history of fleeing down the aisle in the wrong direction—well, he would chain himself to her side and drag her to the altar if necessary.
Eleven
Isobel looked at the white fabric on the bolt, running her fingers over the silk, a pit of dread opening in the bottom of her stomach. Or perhaps it wasn’t entirely dread. Maybe there was a small flush of excitement there too. An anticipation of what was to come with the Duke of Foxdrey and the heat he instilled into every fiber of her being each time he touched her.
I cannot think like that. I’m not going to beg for that man to touch me.
Joan held up a pearl button. “What do you think about this for the back of your wedding dress?”
How hard would it be for the Duke to undress me if those are the buttons on the back of the dress?
Isobel’s cheeks warmed. “I think they might need to be a touch bigger. Something that looks a little more refined.”
Refined. Not easier to undo. I am not thinking about him undoing anything.
Reaching into another little box, Joan pulled out a button that was a little bigger, the pearl shining in the light that flooded through the window. “Well, do you think this one is better?”
Isobel shook her head and handed the button back to Joan. “I think you were right about the smaller button. The maid might have to take a little longer to help me unbutton it, but the dress will be more stunning.”
Joan grinned and went back to the little buttons, taking one to show the seamstress. “I can’t believe the Duke is asking you to get an entirely new dress. A wedding dress isn’t cheap, especially when you’re going to be marrying a man of his social standing.”
It was as if Joan was walking on air since the news of the wedding. All she could talk about were the details that the Duke of Foxdrey would be arranging, wondering what the venue would look like for the reception. If Isobel had to hear one more question about flowers, she thought she might scream.
And then there was the way Father was parading around the house in his drunken glory, celebrating the fact that he had no debt by drinking himself into a stupor. At least if he was happy, he wouldn’t be bothering Joan.
Though there was still the worry that once Isobel was gone, Joan would have to endure their father.
Joan stepped beside her, taking the fabric from between her fingers. “If you keep staring at that fabric for too long, you’re going to make the seamstress think that the one you selected a few days ago isn’t good enough.”
Isobel forced a laugh and stepped back. “Maybe you should be the one designing the rest of the dress. You’ve already picked the silk and the buttons. Perhaps you should choose the ribbon or a lace?”
“No.” Joan shook her head, looping her arm with Isobel’s and pulling her over to the seamstress. “For you, dear sister, only a simple dress would be suitable. One that allows your beauty to shine through.”
“But with a stunning train,” Miss Hopkins, the seamstress, said while nodding to the dais. “If you would step up so I may take your measurements?”
Isobel looked at the white fabric on the bolt, running her fingers over the silk, a pit of dread opening in the bottom of her stomach.
She had stood in a dressmaker’s shop once before, surrounded by lace and silk and hopeful smiles, believing herself on the brink of something permanent. Dreadful, and permanent.
That gown had been chosen quickly, dutifully, with very little discussion of buttons or trains.
