Isobel rolled her eyes, glancing at her sister in the mirror as Miss Hopkins began to work pinning in some of the looser sections of the dress. “I hardly look like an angel, Joan, but thank you for saying such. I do think you’re biased though.”
“I am biased, but you should grow used to people telling you how good you look. Now that you’re going to be a duchess, people are going to be falling over their own feet to flatter you.”
“They’ll only wish to flatter me in the hope that being associated with me will benefit them.” Isobel scowled in the mirror, already thinking about the useless societal drama she’d have to endure. “It’s the Duke who has the title, not me.”
“And yet, the wives will all want to speak with you in hopes that it propels them and their husbands into better social standing.” Joan sighed, leaning back in her seat. “Perhaps this will be a chance for you to make friends other than myself.”
“I hardly have a need for more friends,” Isobel said, her tone teasing. “I have my hands full ensuring that you’re not too much trouble.”
“Isobel,” Joan said, her tone scolding. “This is a chance for you to start over with your life. You won’t have the burden of protecting me from Father anymore, which means you can be free. It’s what you’ve always wanted.”
A lump rose in Isobel’s throat, making it a little harder to breathe. “You’ve never been a burden.”
“Don’t lie to me.” Joan stood, starting to move around the room, looking at ribbons for a moment before turning. “You have done more than I could imagine, and I know you’ve been longing for a day when you didn’t have to. You might not see it that way, but I can tell you’re miserable.”
“I’m not miserable.”
‘Not in the last few days maybe. You seem to have a new life breathed into you with the Duke around.”
Isobel said nothing to that, not knowing how to tell her sister all that had transpired between her and the Duke. Even if she could, she would hardly advertise the kisses or the touches or the way he seemed to bring to life some part of her she hadn’t known existed.
Instead, Isobel focused on turning when Miss Hopkins asked her to turn. The seamstress deftly pushed pins in places the dress needed to be adjusted. Meanwhile, Isobel stared straight ahead, but each time she glanced at the dress, there was a tightening in her chest.
Can I really do this?
Joan smiled, going over to a rack of lace veils. “We’re going to have to pick out one of these too. Since the dress is a little plain, do you think there should be something more decorative on the veil? We could go with this one. The lace is so intricately woven!”
“You have a good eye,” Miss Hopkins said, glancing over at the veil Joan held up. “One of my seamstresses completed that only yesterday. A passion project of hers, she called it. It’s the only one of its kind as she’s insistent on not making more like it.”
The veil was gorgeous. Tiny flowers, vines, and leaves all twined together and moved with the flow of the fabric. Isobel couldn’t help but stare at it for a moment. The piece was nothing short of a work of art.
“I can see that look on your face,” Joan said, folding the veil neatly. “We’re getting this veil as well. If this is the man you’re truly going to marry, then you deserve to look the way you wish to look on your wedding day.”
“I doubt the Duke wants me spending money on a veil. He already got us both dresses.”
Still, she wanted the veil more than she thought she would. It was a beautiful piece.
“If I do get it though, the Duke might lose the wager he’s made with me.” Isobel bit the inside of her cheek before nodding. “Very well. I suppose by keeping the dress more of a simple style, there is room in the budget.”
With a mischievous grin, Joan handed the veil to one of the clerks to be boxed up before sitting on the chair in front of the dais. “You have a wager with the Duke?”
“I do.” Isobel looked at herself in the mirror, trying to process everything that was happening. “He thinks that he’s going to win, but little does he know that I’m competitive by nature. I’m going to win that fight.”
Joan sighed and shook her head, a slight look of disapproval cast. "Really, Isobel, unless the man is cruel to you, is there any reason to antagonize him?"
"You don't understand," Isobel said quietly, her fingers twisting in her lap. "This isn't just about a game or winning some petty argument. This is a man who built his fortune on others' ruin. Who profits from the very vice that destroyed our family. Father gambled away everything we had at the Mayfair Fox, Joan."
"But the Duke isn't Father."
"Is he not?" Isobel's voice was sharp. "He may not be the one rolling the dice, but he is the one who provides the table. The house. The temptation. And now I'm bound to him. What's to stop him from ruining me the way he's ruined countless others?"
Joan was quiet for a moment. "So, you think if you keep your guard up, if you stay one step ahead of him, you can protect yourself?"
"I have no choice." Isobel looked away. "I cannot allow myself to be vulnerable with a man whose entire livelihood is built on exploiting weakness. I will not be another casualty of the Mayfair Fox."
Twelve
Andrew stood outside the church doors, his hand resting on the cool stone. Behind him lay his old life: the endless parade of women, the calculated charm, the careful distance he'd maintained from anything resembling real emotion. Before him lay something terrifyingly unknown.
