Chapter 23
“What am I going to do, Orange?” Thalia murmured, running her fingers over the cat’s smooth fur. “None of this was meant to happen. I’ve gotten myself tangled deeper into this mess than I thought, and I haven’t even managed to help a single one of the orphans.”
The clock struck eight. She had slept poorly last night, unsurprisingly, and would be surprised to learn that she’d had even one hour of sleep. Breakfast would be served shortly, but she had no appetite.
How long would it be until news of her escapade broke? Not long, surely. Nothing ever took long to come out in London.
Orange meowed, tilting his head up at her, then stood up on his hind legs to rub his forehead against her chin.
With a sigh, Thalia rolled onto her back, staring up at the ceiling. At once, Orange jumped up onto her stomach, curled up, and lay down, purring contentedly, a heavy weight on her ribs.
“I didn’t plan to marry,” she said aloud. “I know it’s foolish, but I feel as though I’ve been tricked somehow. And how will things work between me and Christian? Society will be shocked, since we’re quite a mismatch. I’ll be a duchess. How can that be? I hardly believe it myself.”
Orange purred again, closing his eyes. He seemed likely to go to sleep. Thalia, who had changed into her daydress, resigned herself to having a fuzz of orange fur over her clothes. That was simply the way things were when one had a cat.
She stroked his soft head, scratching behind his ears.
“What are we to do, Orange? How will I manage this? What should I expect?”
The cat blinked sympathetically back at her but did not, of course, offer any suggestions.
Thalia was just beginning to wonder whether she ought to get up, and if so, how she would dislodge the cat, when footsteps sounded down the hallway. She lifted her head just before the door crashed open. Orange hissed and leaped down, streaking out of the room in a gingerish blur.
Jonathan stood there, faintly out of breath, clutching a crumpled scandal sheet in one hand.
Uh-oh.
“Have you something to tell me, Thalia?” he breathed. “It’s all in this scandal sheet.”
She swallowed thickly, sitting up. “Jonathan, I can explain…”
“No need,” he said crisply. “It’s all in here.
And this is Samuel Blackwick’s paper, which is one of the most reputable in town.
Nothing is printed in this rag without the Duke of Thornhill’s say-so, I can tell you that.
And here’s the whole, awful story. You, at some awful little pub, with the Duke, no less. You kissed him.”
“His sister was also there,” Thalia managed weakly. “We weren’t unchaperoned.”
“It was the middle of the night, and you kissed him. All the chaperones in the world wouldn’t have saved you.” He gave a disdainful sniff and threw down the paper. “That article has been read by just about everybody in London by now. Read it, if you dare.”
“Jonathan, I know you are angry, but—”
“Angry? I am not angry.”
She blinked up at him. “What?”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Oh, no, I’m not angry. Didn’t I tell you? I received a visitor this morning at the crack of dawn. Can you guess who it was?”
Thalia shook her head numbly.
Jonathan stalked over to her bedside and leaned down, grinning.
“It was the Duke. He’s aware of the article in the scandal sheet.
He confessed to it all, and we’ve come to an arrangement.
You’ll be married. I hardly believed him at first, but then he produced a special license. You’ll be married within ten days!”
Thalia’s heart sank. Ten days? That was a good deal sooner than she would have expected. No wonder Jonathan was thrilled.
“I…” she began weakly, but he spoke over her.
“It’s excellent news. I gave him my consent at once, and it’s all arranged.”
“Jonathan, I—”
He shot her a sharp look. “I hope you aren’t planning to do something foolish, like refuse to marry him. That simply isn’t an option for you now, Thalia. Now, get up and prepare yourself. That odd sister of his is arriving shortly with a friend. They will take you shopping for a wedding dress.”
With that, he turned and strode out.
Apparently, her agreement was neither wanted nor needed.
No change, then, she thought bleakly.
“Goodness,” Daphne breathed, sitting back in the carriage and fixing Thalia with a long, curious look. “You certainly have been through some adventures.”
“I wouldn’t call them adventures,” Thalia mumbled. “Between my brother and all my other concerns, I’ve barely had time to breathe. I am just so tired.”
“I can imagine,” Laura murmured, frowning.
She still hadn’t explained why she had left for Scotland in the first place, but Thalia had seen her wince when she spoke of her suffering. Did her friend feel guilty? Maybe.
It hardly mattered anymore.
“I had hoped that Christian would be here,” Thalia confessed. “I hoped to talk to him about things.”
Daphne and Laura exchanged quick, knowing looks.
“For what it’s worth,” Daphne said reassuringly, leaning forward, “I think you two are a good match. Really, I do. But you can talk to him later. There’ll be time for talking, I’m sure, but a wedding dress really cannot be rushed. Ah, we’re here.”
On cue, the carriage rolled to a halt outside a large modiste’s shop, its pointed roof reaching up to the sky. The women clambered out, and Thalia stared up at the place, open-mouthed.
I am shopping for my own wedding dress. How wild. I wish my stepmother were here.
A pang of dismay made her gulp. There’d been no opportunity to talk to Augusta about the change in her fortune.
No doubt Jonathan had not yet told her, and since Augusta slept late, she had likely not read the scandal sheets.
Neither had there been any opportunity for Thalia to talk to her since she’d been hustled from her room directly to the door and from there into Daphne’s carriage.
It would have been nice to shop for wedding dresses with Augusta, despite her aversion to shopping. No doubt that was why Thalia had never been to this particular modiste, despite the fact that Daphne assured her it was the finest one in London.
Giggling, Daphne took one arm, and Laura took the other, and Thalia found herself frog-marched into the shop.
They were greeted by a tall woman with pursed lips and large, doe-black eyes that did not quite suit her thin face. She wore black, as did the various assistants dotted anxiously around the room.
“Welcome,” she said in a heavy French accent. She spread her hands out, as if she’d conjured the place solely for Thalia’s benefit, and smiled benignly. “I understand that you are here to find the perfect wedding gown.”
“Yes, that’s so,” Laura said eagerly, stepping forward.
Together, she and the modiste began to talk in quick, clear French, pausing to inspect Thalia with equal parts approval and uncertainty. Daphne wandered off to inspect a wall of ribbons sprouting from the thickly papered walls like mold.
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.