Page 85 of A Deal for the Duke’s Virgin

Since her input was apparently not required at this stage, Thalia took the opportunity to look around.

The modiste’s shop was covered in a thick carpet that muffled all sounds. Red velvet curtains hung at the windows, carefully arranged so as not to obscure the view of the mannequins from outside while also not allowing gawpers to peer inside.

Aside from the ribbon wall, each wall seemed full of things. One wall was covered with buttons and laces, while another was covered from floor to ceiling with bolts of fabric. Low, padded sofas stood between the mannequins, and a low step led into another room at the back of the shop with even more mannequins and fabrics.

There were already a few other customers in the shop, wandering quietly to and fro, but the modiste’s attention was focused entirely on Thalia.

I am a duke’s betrothed, after all, she thought grimly. A future duchess.

She slipped across the room to inspect the bolts of fabric. Most modistes had their wares displayed in a similar way, but this shop was of course much larger and more impressive.

The last time I went to a modiste was for a new bonnet and gloves. I had to use my allowance, and I was terrified I would not have enough money. But Christian is paying for my wedding dress, so I suppose money will not be a problem this time.

Gingerly, she reached out to touch a rich green and gold brocade, a shimmering, heavy fabric that looked as though it were made for queens. Before, Thalia could barely have hoped to afford a ribbon made of that material. Now, it seemed that a dress made of it might be possible.

Perhaps there are some benefits to marrying a duke after all.

Someone appeared behind her. Daphne or Laura, no doubt.

“What do you think of this one?” Thalia asked, eyes on the fabric.

A low, nasty chuckle sounded in response. “I think it’s a very pretty fabric. It would be a pity for it to be spoiled by such an unattractive wearer.”

Thalia whipped around, eyes wide, and found herself face to face with Emmeline Hartridge once more.

Oh, bother. What have I done to deserve this?

Emmeline was in a gown the shade of butter, the sort of color that would drain anybody else but left her looking bright and beautiful and sunny. She smiled nastily, leaning forward. Thalia leaned back, just a little.

“I hear that congratulations are in order,” she purred, “on account of your engagement.”

Thalia swallowed. “Ah. Yes. My engagement.”

Her bravery from that day had vanished, it seemed, although she noticed that Emmeline was not wearing any beads or embellishments on her dress this time.

Emmeline straightened up, running her eyes over Thalia with a disdainful sniff. “What the Duke sees in you is anybody’s guess,” she muttered, half to herself.

Thalia tilted her chin. “Thankfully, you don’t h-h-have to guess.”

Oh, wonderful. Her stutter came back.

Emmeline noticed. Of course, she did. Her smooth face creased into a smile.

“Oh, I don’t h-h-h-h-have to, do I?” she mocked, grinning. “You are ridiculous. Well, if you are determined to ruin yourself and make quite sure that you are never happy again, then go on. Marry him. You’ll spend the rest of your life fighting off endless mistresses and lovers. The man is insatiable.” Her voice dropped as she added the last part, leaning forward with a nasty smile.

“Well, that is my c-concern, not yours,” Thalia managed.

Could she ask the modiste to make Emmeline leave? Probably not. Thalia might be a future duchess, but Emmeline looked as though she spent a great deal of money in modistes. It was never a wise idea to make anybody choose between you and somebody else.

It might not go the way you planned.

“Oh, not my c-c-c-concern, is it?” Emmeline snorted, tossing back her hair. “You are ridiculous.”

“I might say the same about you, Emmeline.”

Both women froze at the familiar, masculine voice.

Emmeline turned slowly, her face falling in almost comical horror. Christian stood there, watching her, a grim expression on his face.