“That is the most beautiful gown I have seen in my life,” Marigold said, fixing her spectacles.
Isolde reached in and pulled out the underpinning, a silky-smooth chemise, flaxen stockings, and a modified set of stays. “They are all embroidered with vines and bees.”
“It’s perfection,” Celestine reached out to touch the undergarments.
Ariadne sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the gown. Three months ago, something like this would have been a dream and fantasy, but now she held the proof of her husband’s wealth in her hands.
She did not know how to feel about it.
“Why are you not happy?” Marigold asked, drawing Ariadne’s attention from her musings.
“I—I feel guilty,” she said. “This feels wrong.”
“Is His Grace unhappy with this marriage, too?” Celesting asked.
She took in a deep breath, “No, not as far as I can discern. In fact, we’ve made some sort of bond these last few weeks, but looking at this, I feel… conflicted.”
“Do you not like the city?” Marigold asked.
“I haven’t been out that much, to be honest,” Ariadne replied. “As exciting as I believe London will be, I know the simplicity of country life is going to be better.”
“Not me.” Celestine sniffed. “London is tip-top.”
Rolling her eyes at her sister, Marigold asked, “I know your marriage was not the best way to start, but when we met yesterday, His Grace did not feel too off-putting or unwelcoming to me.”
“Oh, he is a man married to his schedules, drinks more coffee than any human should, he is surly and snappy at times, yet beneath it all, he has a good heart,” Ariadne said.
“Sounds like the best match for you,” Isolde said, grinning.
Narrowing her eyes, Ariadne asked, “That’s different. You three required a firm hand, or you would have sent Mother to bedlam. I had to become a warden to keep you in line.”
“Which is why I fear the day the two of you will lock horns.” Celestine’s eyes sparkled. “You need someone with a will to match yours—and His Grace certainly fits the bill.”
“You are all saying I am a termagant.” Ariadne’s eyes were narrow slits.
“You are a termagant,” Marigold said.
Puffing out a breath, Ariadne stood. “And with that, I will go to my rooms. I hope you are all ready for your proper debut tomorrow.”
A chorus of yeses—one a bit reluctant, Isolde probably— came back at her, and she smiled while heading back to her rooms. After handing her gown to her maid to be pressed again, she called for a bath and tucked her head into Cedric’s room.
He was absent, but she did not find it odd. He was probably in his study, elbow deep in work. After her bath and dressed in one of her newer nightgowns, a maid came in with a tray of a light supper meal—one she had not called for— and a card.
“From His Grace, Your Grace,” the maid curtsied.
“Thank you,” she flipped the card over first and read her husband’s slashing hand,
You promised to eat and rest today. I understand the chaos of preparations today that stopped you from resting, but you have not eaten much. Don’t disappoint me.
With a small smile, she flipped the card over.
And please, read to Emily for me tonight. I will be up for a while.
Her smile widened as she tucked into her meal, and fifteen minutes later, she entered Emily’s rooms to find the little girl twirling a small muslin dress before her mirror.
Brows lifting, Ariadne asked, “Emily, sweetheart, what are you doing?”
“I want to find the best gown for the ball tomorrow,” Emily said proudly.
