Chapter 10
“This way, then—it’s just up this street.”
Esther strode forward, her creamy brown spencer brushing the roadway ahead of them.
It was an absolute coincidence—absolute blind coincidence—that he was going up to town that day to purchase the special marriage license.
Any other reason would have sounded—and very likely would have been—absolutely frivolous.
As it was, Frederic was available to escort Lady Caroline and his mother to the modiste.
“I sent an express to Mrs. Gray as soon as I heard about the engagement,” Esther explained. “She has been busy in preparations for your wedding ensemble and may already have some items prepared.”
The faintest blush crept to Caroline’s cheeks. It gave her a warm, welcoming look. Frederic looked away.
“My mother, you see, is a woman of extensive preparation. Though they have been prepared for our—” His tongue stumbled over the word wedding, “—you’re not obligated, of course, to accept any of these items.”
Caroline smiled at him gratefully, a small, shy smile that peeked out like a ray of sun from under her blue velvet bonnet.
His gaze lingered on her face for a moment.
It was so pleasing, somehow—and so familiar.
He rubbed a hand across his jaw. Her face struck him so that he was sure he had seen it somewhere before.
He frowned. Where could they have possibly crossed paths?
Surely, he would have remembered her more clearly?
He shrugged it off. It didn’t particularly matter. Even if he had seen her, they couldn’t have had any serious connection before this point. In any case, she was at least pleasant which was more than he had expected from a marriageable partner from among the ton.
His mother was bent on her mission to the modiste and had outpaced them by several steps. She turned back and hurried them forward.
“It’s two streets up and one to the left,” Esther said. “It’ll be a short enough walk.”
“I believe, madam, that you could find the way to Mrs. Gray’s in your sleep,” Frederic observed.
Esther brushed his comment away with a sweep of her hand, keeping her sharp eye on the shop windows as they passed. Lady Caroline followed her.
“Do you come often to Mrs. Gray’s, then?”
“Yes, I suppose,” Frederic said as he stepped around a costermonger’s cart. Fresh fruits, it seemed. He’d have to mention them to Carlyle. “My mother is particularly fond of Mrs. Gray and the quality of her work. Hopefully she’ll meet with your approval.”
“Surely, she will. I’m—I’m not terribly familiar with modistes and their craft. My aunt switches frequently and generally just sent my sizes when I needed new clothing.”
She rubbed her glove absently—the one that covered a scar. Frederic tried to appreciate the wisdom in her aunt’s preferences, but Lady Caroline didn’t need to be hidden any more than a lily tousled by a storm.
“You’ve had an advantage, then, in discovering different levels of craftsmanship. Honestly, I don’t know that we’ve had a different dressmaker since my brother was quite young.”
“Your brother?” She looked at him in surprise. “I didn’t—I mean—” She flushed then a touch of anxiety crept into her eyes. “I wasn’t aware you had a brother. Does he live at home?”
“He does. He’s quite young—only sixteen—and hasn’t been presented yet, but,” he said, noting her confusion, “don’t worry—he won’t pester you—at least, not when I’m around.”
“Oh no! It’s not that! It’s—” She fidgeted with her reticule for a moment. “I’m sure he’ll be wonderful.”
Frederic glanced at her. A bit of nerves was common, expected even, in situations like this.
“It will soothe your feelings to meet him. He’s an excellent boy—quick, considerate, and helpful to me at least.”
She sighed but tried to smile. Frederic nodded to the shop window.
“We’re coming up on ‘the district,’ now as the young ladies call it. More and more of these windows will be filled with all sorts of things interesting to future duchesses.”
The distraction worked. Lady Caroline smiled, and her eyes traveled over the shops and their wares.
Blue bonnets with red ribbons and green bonnets with brown ones—and a particularly well-trimmed waistcoat in a steady shade of navy blue.
Frederic’s eyes flicked over a mannequin dressed in a bonnet and walking dress then drifted to Caroline.
Pink, perhaps, or a light blue? He didn’t know which color would suit her best or which he even preferred.
Even with her scar, her face looked like a painting and felt like a stirring sermon.
He imagined himself an artist. His medium: fabric.
How would the new gown frame the delicacy of her profile?
How could it capture the disarming sweetness—
He bumped into a gentleman passing them, who opened his mouth to complain, glared at the two of them, and then rolled his eyes.
Frederic, for the first time in many years, blushed. Who did that man think he was? It was clear he thought them, a gentleman and a lady dressed and comporting themselves as appropriately as anyone else, a pair of thoughtless youths.
The Duke of Blackmore wasn’t any more addlepated—or twitterpated—than anyone else. He was marrying out of duty—an obligation to right what had been wronged. Surely it was not a crime to walk the street in broad daylight next to any woman of his choosing, much less—
“Have you come often to London?” Lady Caroline asked. Her bright eyes flicked over a pair of costermongers then back to a grocer calling out the front of his shop. “There’s so very much to see.”
“No,” Frederic answered shortly, still simmering over the gentleman’s exasperated glance. Lady Caroline lowered her eyes.
“That is,” he amended, softening his tone. “I have been to London before, but only once or twice a year and almost always on business.”
A large group of ladies passed them. Several of them smiled at him. He frowned and looked away.
“There are so very many people,” Lady Caroline said, moving closer to him. “I—I hardly know where to walk.”
He reached out his hand to her then pulled back. She could manage herself, surely. And yet—
“We’re almost there, dear,” Esther called back over her shoulder. “It should be—there, now!”
A smartly dressed girl with pink ribbons in her hair bowed them into the shop.
“The modiste is waiting, Your Grace. She has been anticipating your arrival.”
Caroline stepped forward. Frederic’s eyes pulled to her face like a boat to the sea. Wonder flickered over it then delight, followed quickly by a blush of self-consciousness. He smiled.
“After you, my lady.” He gestured her forward. “After all, while I am tangentially involved, we are not necessarily here to purchase a gown on my account.”
“Mrs. Gray,” Esther led Caroline forward, “may I present the Lady Caroline, the Duke of Blackmore’s betrothed.”
The modiste’s eyebrows shot up like shutters.
Frederic frowned. His mother, no doubt, had written of an engagement but had tactfully neglected to name the parties involved.
He raised his chin. It wasn’t tactful to be ashamed of her future daughter-in-law.
He stepped forward and placed Caroline’s hand on his arm.
“We are very grateful for your services, Mrs. Gray,” he said, bowing, “both in the past in service to my mother and now, in the present, in service to my wife.”
“Future wife,” Esther corrected. “But, I believe, Mrs. Gray—you said you had some pieces prepared.”
Mrs. Gray bowed. Despite her name, she was a young matron, perhaps not older than five and thirty, with crimpled brown hair and an easy, open face.
“After a busy three days, Your Grace, I have a gown, a manteau, and a pair of gloves, just as you asked. They aren’t quite finished yet, but they’re ready enough for a proper fitting.”
They stepped forward into a small sitting room, spanned on one side with a tall mirror set in a carved frame painted gold. On the other sat a small table and two chairs of hard, polished wood.
Mrs. Gray moved to a hook next to the mirror on which hung an ephemeral silk dress. Frederic squinted at it.
“The dress is silver lamé.” Mrs. Gray passed a quick hand over her creation. “It shines like a star when the light hits it.”
Caroline gently stroked the fabric as she might have a small kitten.
“It’s a very beautiful dress,” she said. “Thank you for going to so much trouble on my behalf. I couldn’t be more pleased.”
Mrs. Gray bowed. Esther smiled triumphantly.
“Would you like to try it on, dear?”
Caroline’s smile peeped out of her bonnet like a daisy through the snow. Frederic retired to one of the wooden chairs and sat down. If his mother’s habits were any indication, he had full opportunity to rest while Caroline disrobed and changed robes. He blinked. Changed into her gown, he meant.
In a surprisingly short time, she emerged. Frederic caught his breath. He couldn’t swear to the dress shining like starlight, but Lady Caroline certainly did.
“My compliments, Mrs. Gray. Your handiwork is even more exceptional than usual.”
Mrs. Gray bobbed a curtsey then turned back to Lady Caroline.
“There’s a manteau here, trimmed with point Brussels lace. It’s—if I say so humbly, your ladyship—one of the best pieces I’ve ever produced.”
She lifted another shimmering garment off an adjacent hook. The ladies touched it reverently.
“Oh, how I wish sometimes that my son Philip would have any use for a piece like this!” Esther breathed. “But perhaps I am yet to eager for him to be presented to the world.
“I’ll be sure to tell him you said so,” Frederic said. “He could wear this lovely manteau to his own wedding, perhaps?”
His mother scowled at him, but Lady Caroline laughed. Esther’s face softened.
“If you tuck your arms just so,” Mrs. Gray said, “no one will be able to see your hands.”
Caroline froze. She opened her mouth then closed it again.
“How delightfully clever!” Esther rubbed the fabric between her fingers. “Really, Frederic, don’t you think so?”
Frederic frowned.
“Perhaps I am not as familiar with feminine fashion as I ought to be—but ought not brides to have hands like anyone else?”
Lady Caroline bent to examine the hem, obscuring her face, and said nothing. Esther shot him a pointed glance.
“Manteaus are and have been fashionable for ages, Frederic. You astonish me.”
“There’s an excellent friseur, Your Grace, who could be available the morning of the wedding to—” She glanced quickly at Caroline. “—to arrange Lady Caroline’s hair in a flattering way.”
Esther nodded.
“Something long and flowing,” she suggested, “that may—drape—across her face a little—something to add to the mystique.”
Frederic snorted. Mystique, indeed. Lady Caroline colored deeply.
Her eyes clouded, and she clasped her hands in front of her.
He remembered that posture—if not in the exact pose, then definitely the emotion of it.
He, too, had muddled through the sea of advice he had received and even more frequently regretted. He cleared his throat.
“That style hardly seems necessary—or the fashion, unless my eyes have deceived me. There certainly isn’t anything that Lady Caroline would need to hide.”
Mrs. Gray’s eyes dropped where they must have collided in the same path with Lady Caroline’s. She curtsied politely.
“I meant no offense, Your Grace.”
No duchess of his would be required to feel like her scars or weaknesses needed to be hidden. Esther stepped forward.
“Of course, you didn’t mean any offense, Mrs. Gray. What a notion! You merely followed instructions and quite aptly, I might add.”
“It’s terribly convenient,” his mother said, lowering her tone to a rough whisper, “that Mrs. Gray has found a way to—obscure any disadvantage that might appear on Lady Caroline.”
“What disadvantage could possibly appear on her?” Frederic glared at his mother. “She’d shine like the moon whether she was wearing lamé or plain cotton muslin.”
His mother clenched her jaw, but he ignored her. He turned his eyes to Lady Caroline.
“What does the lady say? I’d dearly like to hear her opinion since we’ve done her the disservice of talking to everyone but the lady who will actually wear the dress.”
“I—I appreciate very much—” Lady Caroline looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes travelled up the silver dress and to her own face then dropped again. “Perhaps it would be prudent, just at first, to—explore—a new style. Thank—thank you for your recommendations, Your Grace.”
His mother looked like she had swallowed a canary. Lady Caroline turned to a mirror.
“I am accustomed to my appearance,” she continued, more confidently. “Perhaps others are not, as yet, and it could be helpful to introduce them more gradually–-to stifle unnecessary gossip.
His mother nodded approvingly. Frederic shifted in his chair.
“You should get used to the gossip. People can—and will—say all manner of nonsense about you. Don’t heed them.”
“I don’t mind for myself.” She pulled one of the new gloves onto her hand. “But I would dread further gossip on my husband’s account. It may affect you more than you have yet predicted.”
“Very wise, dear—it behooves you to be so considerate of your future husband and his station.” She turned to Mrs. Gray. “We’ll send Carlyle next week to pick up the package. Would you mind, Frederic, reminding him to come?”
Frederic nodded coldly.
“If the bride has no objections to the arrangements,” he said, taking no trouble to push the stiffness from his voice, “then I see no reason why the groom should. I will remind Carlyle next week.”
He stood up, looking for his hat and keeping his eyes away from the ladies. It was Lady Caroline’s decision, after all, and the reasons weren’t—as much as he disliked them—necessarily bad.
His mother and Lady Caroline finished their preparations with Mrs. Gray, and he followed them out of the shop. They walked together, just ahead of him, their heads together. Lady Caroline glanced back at him. He frowned, tipped his hat to her, and continued walking.
She could wear what she wanted to her own wedding. It didn’t matter to him whether or not she showed up in a sack, so long as she appeared in time for the ceremony.