Chapter 22
Arabella did not expect the following morning to feel so… composed.
It was not that she lacked memory of the night before.
Quite the opposite. It lingered with an insistence that colored even the simplest motions of her day, from the way she fastened her gloves to the moment she caught her own reflection and found herself pausing, as though she might recognize something new there.
And yet, for all of that, she moved through her morning with a steadiness that surprised her.
By the time she stepped into the carriage beside Jane and Cissie, the matter had been folded neatly away—not forgotten, but set aside, as though she had granted herself permission not to examine it too closely just yet.
“Do not tell me,” Jane said at once, settling back against the squabs with an assessing glance, “that you mean to arrive at the modiste and pretend you have not already decided upon every detail.”
Arabella smiled faintly. “I have decided upon very little, I assure you.”
“That is untrue,” Cissie said, with quiet certainty. “You have brought the gown with you.”
Arabella’s hand rested lightly against the large bandbox opposite her, where the deep green silk lay carefully packed. “Only because I thought it prudent to see what might complement it.”
Jane’s expression brightened at once. “Then we are already at an advantage, for I have resolved my own costume entirely.”
“You have resolved it every day for the past week,” Cissie returned dryly.
“And each day, it improves,” Jane said, undeterred. “A dove. Entirely in ivory and pale silver. Soft feathers at the shoulders, but nothing excessive. I refuse to resemble a cushion.”
Arabella laughed softly. “I think you will be quite striking.”
“I intend to be,” Jane said. “Though I suspect I shall be overshadowed entirely by Cissie, who has chosen something far more charming.”
Cissie gave a small, almost reluctant smile. “A rabbit,” she admitted. “Though I had hoped to keep it quiet.”
“A rabbit?” Arabella repeated, her interest immediately caught. “How delightful.”
“It is not meant to be ridiculous,” Cissie added quickly. “There will be structure to it. Soft grey, perhaps, with a fitted bodice. And ears that are not—” she hesitated, searching for the word, “…exaggerated.”
Jane waved a dismissive hand. “We shall see whether you maintain that restraint once you are before a mirror.”
Their laughter carried them the rest of the way into town, light and easy, until the carriage came to a halt before the modiste’s shop.
Inside, the familiar scent of fabric and starch greeted them at once, the quiet industry of seamstresses moving through the room with practiced ease. Bolts of silk and gauze lined the walls, and the modiste herself emerged with a pleased expression at the sight of them.
“Ladies,” she said, inclining her head. “You return with purpose, I hope.”
“With great purpose,” Jane replied, already moving toward a display of trims.
Arabella allowed herself to be guided toward the central table, where she carefully set down the bandbox and opened it, revealing the dark green gown within. The silk caught the light even in the subdued interior, rich and deep, the color of shaded leaves.
The modiste lifted the gown with careful hands, letting the silk fall open across the table as she studied it from several angles, her expression thoughtful.
The modiste leaned in slightly, her approval evident. “Exquisite.”
“It was a gift,” Arabella said, and she felt an unbidden heat fill her cheeks.
“This shade will serve you exceedingly well, Your Grace. The Duke has chosen very well,” she said at last. “Particularly for an evening affair. There has been a great deal of interest in woodland themes of late. It is quite the fashion, I am told.”
Jane smiled. “Of course, Lady Lampton is perfectly aligned with the moment.”
“Indeed,” the modiste replied. “Several ladies have already commissioned pieces for the same event. It promises to be… well attended.”
There was the slightest pause before she continued, her tone smoothing into practiced neutrality.
“And much anticipated.”
Arabella met her gaze, catching the faintest shift beneath the politeness. Not curiosity, exactly. Not even judgment. But awareness.
“I should like something that does not compete,” Arabella said evenly. “It need not be elaborate.”
“Of course,” the modiste said at once. “Elegance rarely requires excess.”
She gathered the gown carefully over her arm. “If you will permit me a few moments, Your Grace, I have several notions I should like to consider properly.”
Arabella inclined her head. “Take what time you need.”
As the modiste disappeared into the back room with the gown, Arabella’s attention had already begun to drift as Jane and Cissie moved nearer, their conversation shifting in tone without her quite realizing when.
“I nearly forgot,” Jane said, lowering her voice just enough to signal that what followed was not meant for the room at large. “I heard something yesterday that you will wish to know.”
Arabella looked up at once.
“Your half-sister,” Jane continued, with a glance between them, “was at the tea room last week. And she was not… discreet.”
A quiet stillness settled around the table.
“In what manner?” Arabella asked, her voice even.
Jane hesitated, as though weighing how much to say. “She spoke of your marriage. Not directly, but with sufficient implication that no one could mistake her meaning. That it was hurried. That it was… convenient.”
Cissie’s expression tightened. “She was less careful than that, from what I heard. Charles mentioned it last evening. There are things being said at the club as well.”
Arabella’s fingers stilled against the edge of the gown.
“What things?” she asked.
Cissie glanced at Jane before answering. “That His Grace was not always as he is now. That there were… excesses. That his reputation was not built on restraint.”
Jane added quietly, “And that your marriage was arranged to manage the consequences of those excesses.”
For a moment, Arabella said nothing.
She had expected some degree of scrutiny. It would have been na?ve to think otherwise. But to hear it spoken so plainly, so casually, as though her life were a matter for speculation—it settled differently than she had anticipated.
“And you said nothing?” she asked, though her tone remained measured.
Jane’s eyes widened slightly. “On the contrary. I said a great deal. Enough, I think, to make it clear that such talk would not be entertained in my presence.”
“As did I,” Cissie added. “Charles was quite put out, though I suspect not for the reasons he claimed.”
Arabella inclined her head, a small gesture of acknowledgment. “I am glad of it.”
But even as she said it, something lingered beneath the surface of her composure. Not doubt, precisely. But a quiet, persistent awareness that the matter did not end there. Those conversations continued in rooms she did not enter, among people she would never hear.
Jane reached for a length of pale ribbon, holding it against the green silk. “It will pass,” she said lightly. “Such things always do.”
“Perhaps,” Arabella replied.
The fitting continued, the modiste offering suggestions, Jane and Cissie weighing in with varying degrees of enthusiasm, but Arabella found her attention divided.
She responded when required, smiled when prompted, and allowed herself to be turned this way and that as measurements were taken and trims selected.
But her thoughts had begun to move elsewhere.
By the time they took their leave and stepped once more into the carriage, the earlier lightness had not returned entirely.
“Will you tell Eleanor?” Cissie asked, after a moment.
Arabella looked out the window, watching the familiar streets pass by. “I do not know.”
“It may be best that she hears it from you,” Jane said gently. “Rather than from someone less inclined toward discretion.”
“Yes,” Arabella said. “It may.”
But the thought of it settled uneasily. Eleanor would worry. She would act. And Arabella was not yet certain what action she herself wished to take.
“And His Grace?” Cissie asked, more carefully now. “Will you tell him?”
Arabella’s gaze shifted, her reflection faint in the glass.
“I am not certain of that either.”
The answer lingered between them, unchallenged.
When she returned home, the house greeted her with its usual quiet order, Poppet appearing at once at her feet, weaving affectionately between her steps as she made her way inside. Arabella bent to lift her, pressing her cheek briefly against the soft fur before setting her down again.
The afternoon stretched before her, unstructured, and for the first time in several days, she found herself alone with her thoughts, which came quickly.
Should I tell Eleanor?
Should I ask James what he had heard? Or Roderick, perhaps, who seemed to know more than he ever said.
And Maxwell, should he be told what was being said of him, of them?
She crossed the room slowly, her hands clasped lightly before her.
He had been honest with her. More so than she had expected. And yet, there was something in her that hesitated. Not from fear of his reaction, but from uncertainty about what it would change.
To speak of it would make it real between them, but to leave it unspoken would allow it to remain… contained.
Arabella paused near the window, her gaze unfocused.
She did not doubt him or who he was today, which, perhaps, was the most curious part of it all. The doubt lay not in him, but in the world beyond their walls. And in how much of it she wished to carry into what they were building between them.
By the time the light began to fade, her decision had settled quietly into place.
She would give herself time to understand what she wished to say and how. And until then, she would allow a small, careful distance to remain, not cold, not unkind, but preoccupied.
A space in which she might think clearly, without the weight of everything pressing at once.
* * *