“There is every need,” Elizabeth said.
Charlotte laughed awkwardly. “Your Grace, truly, my sisters are the ones requiring proper wardrobes. I merely accompany you everywhere like a respectable piece of furniture.”
“You are far prettier than furniture,” Joan informed her.
“Most furniture is prettier than Charlotte’s wardrobe,” Penelope added.
Charlotte gasped in mock outrage. “I supported this family for years, and this is my reward?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Irene replied sweetly.
Elizabeth rose decisively from her chair. “Come along.”
Charlotte quickly realized resistance was futile. The dowager swept toward another display while seamstresses scrambled after her. Moments later, Elizabeth triumphantly selected a gown of rich deep burgundy silk trimmed with cream lace and delicate gold embroidery.
Charlotte stared at it helplessly.
It is beautiful.
The gown would cling softly to her figure without appearing improper, and the warm colour would complement her brown hair and eyes perfectly.
“Oh,” Harriet breathed. “That is lovely.”
Joan nodded eagerly. “Very elegant.”
Penelope grinned wickedly. “The duke shall stare scandalously.”
Charlotte nearly dropped dead on the spot.
“Penelope,” she hissed.
Elizabeth looked entirely pleased with herself. “Victor will adore it upon his fiancée.”
Charlotte’s face burned immediately. There it was again. That dangerous flutter low in her stomach whenever Victor was mentioned.
Worse still, Charlotte could suddenly picture his reaction with alarming clarity. She imagined those green eyes slowly travelling over the gown, imagined the heated intensity that sometimes entered his gaze when he looked at her too long.
Good heavens.
Her pulse betrayed her instantly.
“You are blushing,” Irene observed.
“I am overheated; it is warm in here amongst all this fabric,” she said.
“You always claim that,” Joan said suspiciously.
Charlotte focused desperately on the gown instead of her increasingly dangerous thoughts. Victor would likely saysomething outrageous and improper the moment he saw her in it. He would smirk in that maddening way of his and lean too close and somehow make her entirely forget how to form coherent sentences.
The truly humiliating part was that she now anticipated such moments.
“You must try it on,” Elizabeth insisted.
Before Charlotte could protest further, she was swept away by seamstresses toward the fitting rooms while her sisters called encouragement after her.
Inside the dressing chamber, Charlotte allowed herself one long exhale. This arrangement with Victor was becoming perilous indeed.
Because somewhere between arguments, kisses, false engagements, and impossible generosity, the Duke of Mulford has begun occupying far too much space in my thoughts.
