Chapter 19
The carriage rolled gently along the cobbled streets at the heart of London. Aurelia leaned closer to the window, her gloved hand brushing the polished glass.
It was finally happening. Percival had agreed to go to the ball, and now they were headed to oversee important preparations.
She wasn’t sure where they were going, but whatever the ‘important preparations’ were, she was excited. Because it was good to be back in London.
The city was alive, dazzling, and intoxicating.
It wasn’t like the quiet outskirts, where Whitmore Estate stood in shadows and silence.
Here, every street was vibrant. Ladies in bright bonnets strolled arm in arm, merchants called out their wares, and a mickle of carriages gleamed underneath the sun.
Aurelia’s lips curled into a smile. She had missed this—the colors, the noise, the liveliness of the city.
“London looks quite pleased to have you back,” she murmured, almost to herself.
Across from her, Percival sat with that familiar grace. His broad shoulders were relaxed against the velvet seat. His gaze was also fixed outside, but his expression was unreadable.
Despite his silence, his presence was commanding, like a dark silhouette against the lively brightness of London.
The carriage eventually slowed to a halt in front of a building. Aurelia blinked when she noticed where they had stopped. She leaned forward, peering through the glass.
Her brow creased. “This is Maison De Soie,” she noted softly.
Percival had mentioned having to oversee important preparations, but she had not expected such a striking, elegant building to be their destination. Its windows glowed like polished gems, and golden letters curled above the entrance: Maison de Soie.
Her confusion must have been evident on her face because Percival’s voice broke through the quiet. “You should have a new gown for the ball.”
Her breath caught. She turned to look at him, torn between smiling and gasping. Although his words were so simple, the meaning was not lost on her.
He had noticed. He had thought of her.
For a moment, she only stared at those blue eyes of his. Her chest heaved with something she dared not name.
She was to have a new gown. Not for appearances, but for her.
The footman appeared, interrupting the moment. He pulled open the door with a bow.
Aurelia looked at him with a smile. It was time to step out. She gathered her skirts, ready to rise, when she noticed Percival had not moved.
“You’re not coming?” she couldn’t help asking, her voice soft.
His eyes flicked to her face. “I will wait here,” he replied simply.
Aurelia furrowed her brow. As the footman stood by the door, she hesitated. Because as much as Percival loved to hide his feelings, sometimes she could see right through him.
And, at that moment, the truth was clear enough. He was giving her space, careful not to impose himself in a place meant for women’s fittings. A small act of courtesy, perhaps.
But Aurelia did not want to be alone.
She took a deep breath. “Come with me.” Her voice was warmer now, edged with something unspoken.
Percival didn’t say a word at first. His gaze sharpened, and she could see a flicker in their blue depths. Silence fell between them, so terrible that she wondered if she had crossed a line.
But when he nodded, relief washed over her.
“As you wish,” he spoke lowly, before rising from his seat.
Aurelia beamed, unable to hide her glee.
The modiste’s shop smelled faintly of lavender and silks. The wooden frames showcased different gowns, their fabrics shimmering in the sunlight. The air was still, as though one was entering a temple of beauty.
The duke and duchess stepped inside. At once, a thin woman noticed their presence and approached them with a quick bow. She was Madame Lisette, the famed modiste of Mayfair.
However, when Madame Lisette straightened and spotted the tall figure beside Aurelia, her breath caught. Her hands trembled, and she bobbed a curtsey.
Aurelia’s brows drew together.
How odd.
But then it became clear to her when the modiste stammered out, “The D—Duke of Whitmore.”
Of course, the rumors that her husband was a fearsome beast must have reached the modiste.
Aurelia’s chest tightened. She, too, had once believed those rumors. That he was a beast, a shadow who became a duke, with scars too gruesome for daylight. That he was as cold as stone, unfeeling, unloving.
How foolish she had been.
The months she had spent at Whitmore Estate had proved differently. He was not cruel, nor monstrous. He was merely… wounded. A man stitched together with restraint and shadows. A man who guarded his heart so fiercely that few dared to look beyond the armor.
She looked at her husband, but his face betrayed nothing. He seemed accustomed to Madame Lisette’s fear. He stepped forward, carrying himself with that usual command that was so quiet yet filled the entire room.
Dread coiled in Aurelia’s gut. She was not pleased. He did not deserve the whispers, the stares, the tremors he inspired simply by existing.
She faced the modiste, tilting her chin up. “I would prefer a much more welcoming atmosphere.” She smiled softly, but a hint of protectiveness had crept into her tone.
Percival’s gaze flicked to her as she stared at the modiste so intently. Until Madame Lisette cleared her throat.
“Your Grace,” she spoke, her French accent smooth. “Tell me, what kind of gown would you like?”
Aurelia pressed her lips together, thinking of something that was not already in her colorful wardrobe.
“Something dark.” Her mouth curved.
“Dark?” Madame Lisette blinked slowly, clearly surprised. “Most ladies prefer ivory, jewel tones, or pastels for such an occasion.”
“Yes.” Aurelia nodded in agreement, then lifted her chin. “But I want black. Elegant and simple. A gown that will speak without words.” Her gaze slid, almost unconsciously, to Percival. “Something that matches… the duke.”
Madame Lisette’s brows rose, but a small smile tugged at her lips as if she understood more than Aurelia had intended to reveal.
“As you wish, Your Grace. Black it shall be. Strong lines. Clean elegance. A touch of daring, yes?”
Aurelia laughed softly. “Yes, exactly that.”
“Then you will leave all to me.”
With a graceful nod, the modiste clapped her hands. Two assistants came forward instantly. They gathered silks as smooth as midnight water, the finest laces, and a corset designed to sculpt the body into art.
As Aurelia allowed herself to be led into the fitting cabin, she caught Percival’s gaze one last time. Just like she had sensed, his eyes followed her, sharp and unblinking.
Before she disappeared inside, she didn’t miss the way they darkened, as though he could already imagine her in black silk and could not decide whether the thought thrilled or tormented him.
After what felt like an eternity, Aurelia finally stepped out of the fitting cabin. This time, the air seemed to freeze, her appearance monopolizing the room’s attention.
The gown hung over her like liquid night, black silk that caught the light with a soft glow. It hugged her figure in a way that made her curves both graceful and sensual. Her pale skin glowed against the dark fabric, her hair flowing like water down her back.
For a moment, Aurelia stood there, smoothing the fabric over her hips. But when she looked up, her movements halted.
Percival was staring. He had already half-risen from his chair, one hand braced against it as if he had forgotten himself. His blue eyes were locked on hers, glimmering with something raw and hot.
It wasn’t just admiration. It was hunger.
Silence stretched between them.
Aurelia wasn’t sure what to do. She had never seen him look so mesmerized. She couldn’t bring herself to look away, not when his eyes slid over her every curve.
Her cheeks flushed when his gaze lingered on her neckline, before trailing down to her waist and then lower.
Her breath caught. The air between them thrummed with unspoken desire. She swayed slightly under his stare, fighting hard for composure.
“Do you… approve?” she asked softly, her voice almost trembling.
Percival’s jaw flexed, his throat working as though speaking had suddenly become too difficult.
“Approve?” he repeated, his voice rougher than usual. He paused, his eyes still on her, and for the first time, he did not bother to hide it. “It is… perfect.”
The compliment sank into her with a spark. Her lips parted; she was unable to control the warmth spreading through her. She swallowed, hoping her knees would not buckle.
Then, with a satisfied nod, she turned back toward the fitting cabin to change.
When she had vanished behind the curtain, Percival waved a hand to Madame Lisette.
“Make ten more,” he spoke quietly when the modiste had stepped close enough.
She blinked. “Ten, Your Grace?”
“In different colors,” he said firmly, as though he dared her to question him again. “Send them all to Whitmore Estate.”
Madame Lisette’s lips parted in surprise. But she quickly composed herself and gave a low bow. Her face softened.
There was no mistaking it; the Duke of Whitmore cared. Perhaps too much for his own good, but enough for those who dared to look closer.
When Aurelia reemerged from the fitting cabin, Percival was composed again. He stood tall, the very picture of restrained power.
However, when they walked out of the shop, she noticed the glint in the modiste’s eyes, and she smiled back.
It warmed Aurelia in ways she hadn’t expected to know that the woman’s fear had transformed into admiration.
Outside the shop, the carriage stood waiting for them. But Aurelia wasn’t ready to climb in just yet. She had not been in Mayfair for months, and the smell of late autumn tempted her.
She glanced up at Percival, her eyes bright. “Could we take a walk in the park?” she asked.
His brow rose faintly. “The park?”