Chapter 7
“Stop fidgeting,” Rose’s mother snapped, stabbing a hairpin into her skull as if to tack her thoughts in place.
“I’m not fidgeting,” she said, biting back indignation, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her.
Lady Whiteridge sniffed, unimpressed, and resumed her campaign. “You will hold your head high, Rose. No slumping, no wet-eyed trembling. You are not being led to slaughter; however, your expression may suggest otherwise.”
She cast a sidelong glance at the seamstress and the maid, who pretended not to notice. Both attendants were from the Carden staff and selected for their discretion, flanking her, their arms laden with pins and muslin and whatever else was required to transform a girl into a duchess.
“We do not want to appear weak,” she snapped at Rose. “The Whiteridge name, though diminished, is not in the habit of facing public humiliation.”
The mention of public humiliation was enough to summon a flush to Rose’s cheeks, visible even beneath the powder and artful shading her mother insisted upon. She laid her thin hands passively in her lap, flexing them once to assure herself they still belonged to her.
“I will do my best, Mother,” she murmured, not because she expected it to matter, but because anything else would be considered insubordination.
The morning light clawed through the frost-dimmed windows, catching on every metallic surface in the guest suite and painting Rose’s reflection into a parade of distorted, unhappy brides.
The mirror above the dressing table caught her square in its maw: a pale face half-pinned beneath her mother’s impatient fingers. She watched as her mother yanked her hair into an eye-watering configuration.
“This style reflects that of a Grecian column,” Lady Whiteridge exclaimed. “It will draw the eye to your better features, my dear.”
The wedding gown was a paler shade than her own skin, nearly blue in the harsh morning.
“You’ll see that I’ve taken the liberty of replacing the sleeves of your dress with bands of seed pearls. They will be far more flattering against arms like yours.”
The bodice was high, the line severe, and the skirt belled with enough crinoline to trap a fainting girl for hours. She could barely breathe, and the rising panic in her chest only made her more aware of the pressure.
Her mother finished the last pin and stepped back, surveying her daughter’s reflection with the ruthless satisfaction of a general reviewing troops before battle.
“Better,” she pronounced. “You may actually pass for a young lady today, rather than a penitent.”
Rose bit the inside of her cheek to keep from replying.
Outside the door, the Carden household drifted through its rituals with hushed precision. She clung to the familiar rhythm, reminding herself that a world existed beyond this room.
The seamstress made a show of smoothing the skirt. “Ah, we need gloves and slippers,” she said. “One moment, my lady.”
The maid trailed after her, evidently unwilling to be left alone with the mother of the bride.
Lady Whiteridge waited until the latch had fully engaged before speaking in a voice that could have frozen honey. “We are agreed, then. You will walk down that aisle with a smile. You will not cry, and above all, you will not disgrace yourself further by—”
A knock came at the door, soft and apologetic. This time, a different servant peeked in, bobbing a curtsy so shallow it was barely visible.
“I beg pardon, but the baby is—”
“Lizzie is crying,” Rose supplied, letting the name be a balm to the prickling tension. She turned to her mother, hopefully.
Lady Whiteridge waved her hand. “See to it, then. Quickly.”
But as Rose made to rise, her mother put a hand on her shoulder, surprisingly strong, voice harsh and unforgiving.
“Before you go,” she started, making her words an order, not a request.
Rose stilled, feeling the pressure even through layers of fabric and bone.
“You must remember your duty,” Lady Whiteridge continued.
“Not only to that child, or to your own sentimental fancies, but to the family name. This is not a storybook, Rose. You have been given the rarest of second chances. Do not squander it on idealism or…” She wrinkled her nose, as if the next word offended her mouth.
“Feelings. You must be clever. Wives who are not clever are the unhappiest.”
The echo of nunnery discipline had followed her even here, into the perfumed heart of Carden Hall.
Rose closed her eyes.
When she did not answer immediately, Lady Whiteridge prattled on, “You must keep the duke satisfied in every sense. There will be rumors. There will be temptations. If you expect to keep your place, you must—”
“That is enough, Mother,” Rose said brusquely. She regretted it at once but could not unsay it. “I am marrying him for the child, not for myself. I have made that clear.”
A flicker of regret crossed Lady Whiteridge’s face, but was gone just as quickly. She rose, smoothing the non-existent wrinkles from her own gown.
“Very well, then. Attend to your duties.” Her mother hesitated, then spoke in a gentle tone. “Try not to let them see how afraid you are.”
Rose nodded. “Yes, Mother.”
As she left, Lady Whiteridge paused in the doorway, turning back to deliver the last blow. “And Rose? Do not trust him. Men like His Grace need only themselves.”
The door shut, leaving Rose gritting her teeth in the aftermath.
She stood, letting the skirts fall around her, and stared at her reflection one last time. She did not recognize the girl in the glass; she was so perfectly arranged, so obviously a forgery.
With careful hands, she gathered the train and made her way to the nursery. The chilly air in the hallway felt like a balm after the suffocating heat of her mother’s presence. Though each step came down more like a walk to the gallows than a bridal march, at least she was on her own.
At the nursery, the sound of Lizzie’s cries reached her first: a determined wail that summoned Rose more surely than any bell.
The nursemaid hovered uncertainly, but Rose waved her aside, reaching for the baby, gathering her in her arms to press her to her heart.
She could feel Lizzie’s heart beating a steady pulse against her own.
The room was warm and sunlit, the world outside erased for a moment by the circle of their embrace. Rose rocked her, murmuring gentle reassurances until the wailing ebbed into a series of soft sighs.
“There you are, darling,” Rose whispered. “We’ll get through it, I promise.”
She did not know if she was speaking to Lizzie or herself.
From the corridor, she could hear the faint rustle of her mother’s dress, already moving on to the next battlefield. Rose held Lizzie tighter, letting the warmth soak into her frozen hands.
She would go back. She would finish the preparations, stand in front of the world, and become the duchess her mother wanted her to be.
But for this moment—just this one—she was simply Rose, and Lizzie was hers, and the world could wait outside.
The chapel at Carden Hall was a miniature cathedral of pale stone and leaded glass, built for ancestors who believed in the spectacle of repentance.
On the morning of her wedding, Rose stepped across its threshold and felt the air close around her, all cold sanctity, and the heavy, drowning perfume of lilies.
The nave was brimming with the titled and the merely ambitious. The ton had arrived in droves, hungry for scandal. Even the local gentry, uninvited but undeterred, craned their necks from the vestibule for a glimpse of the bride, whisked away from a convent.
Rose’s parents somehow conjured her siblings from wherever they had traipsed off to.
Her elder brother, Basil, stood with their father in the vestibule, faces locked in stoic masks.
Her younger sister Violet, already taller than Rose and twice as pretty, watched with wide, unblinking eyes from a front pew.
Rose kept her gaze fixed on her father’s shoes as they began the march. The slippers were shined to a military polish, the steps perfectly measured. She could feel the weight of every eye, a physical pressure against her skin.
At the altar, the duke waited. In a cutaway coat of midnight blue, he looked tall and commanding, except for his hands, which were clenched so tightly his knuckles were white as bone.
As Rose reached him, her father leaned in, eyes fixed forward.
“Stand tall,” he muttered.
Then, he surrendered her arm. The duke’s hand was warm and dry, trembling just enough to betray the statue-like mask on his face. Rose nearly flinched at the heat of him.
“You look beautiful,” the duke whispered, the words intended only for her.
Rose turned her face away, her profile carefully neutral. “You don’t need to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Be charming,” she said softly. “We’ve made a deal, haven’t we?”
“Of course we have.”
As the vicar began the preamble, the duke’s thumb brushed the inside of her elbow through the thin silk of her glove. It was a fleeting, proprietary touch that seemed to draw a boundary around them, isolating them from the hundreds of staring eyes.
He leaned in, his breath disturbing the delicate lace of her veil. “You don’t have to be afraid, Rose.”
“I’m not,” she replied, though her pulse hammered a frantic denial against his palm.
“Liar,” he mouthed, a faint, wolfish curl to his mouth.
The vicar turned to the congregation. “If any man can show just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace.”
The silence that followed was agonizing. Rose caught sight of Lord Aldworth, who offered a wink that felt like a lifeline.
“Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife?” the vicar intoned.
The duke didn’t hesitate. “I will.”
The words were not a mere response; they were a deliberate force that claimed the air between them.
When it was her turn, Rose found her voice strong and clear. “I will.”