Chapter Six
The news had spread faster than she’d expected.
Whispers, stares, a sudden hush in the milliner’s shop when she stepped inside to collect new gloves. The quiet outrage behind narrowed eyes, the lifted brows, the murmured words just barely masked as compliments.
"A merchant’s daughter. To a duke."
"Her father sold buttons, did he not?"
"No title, no pedigree—only a dowry and that chin."
Lydia held her head high and let it all slide past her like sleet against glass. Her boots clicked steadily on the flagstones of Bond Street, the hem of her green walking dress brushing against the edge of her petticoats as she moved.
She felt the eyes on her, but she refused to acknowledge them.
Let them talk, she told herself.
Let them seethe and speculate and tally up the weight of her father’s gold against the purity of the Montclair bloodline.
Let them clutch their pearls and write clever little remarks in their private diaries.
The invitations had already gone out that morning, engraved, monogrammed, and delivered with Montclair wax seals, no less.
The Duke of Hawthorne was to marry Miss Lydia Grantham of West Cheapside, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.
She passed a cluster of ladies outside the tea shop on Hanover Street. The eldest leaned in to whisper behind a lace-edged fan. One of them, young, blonde, and very well dressed, stared directly at Lydia with open disdain.
Lydia stared back, and the woman blinked and looked away.
That’s what I thought, Lydia said silently.
She returned home by early afternoon, brushing off the chill of the city with a brisk shake of her coat. Emma was waiting in the front parlour, legs tucked beneath her on the faded sofa, a half-eaten scone in one hand and a pile of discarded invitation samples in the other.
“Afternoon,” Emma said, without looking up. “You’re late. Also, a woman in a bonnet shaped like a naval frigate called you a social disease. Thought you’d like to know.”
Lydia dropped her gloves onto the nearby table. “Let me guess. Lady Poppy Willingham.”
“She had the expression of someone who’d just swallowed a sour grape and declared it fashionable.”
Lydia smirked and dropped onto the seat opposite her. “They’re furious. Which means it’s working.”
Emma’s smile faded slightly. “Is it?”
Lydia hesitated.
The invitations had gone out. The banns were waived. In a week, she would stand in front of a bishop in St. George’s, Mayfair, and become Her Grace, the Duchess of Hawthorne.
No one could ignore her then.
And yet…
“Everything feels like it’s happening around me,” Lydia admitted quietly. “I’m in the middle of it, but also... watching it, like it’s someone else’s life.”
Emma gave her a soft look. “Because you haven’t decided yet if it’s what you want.”
Lydia stared at her gloved hands. “It’s what I need.”
“Not the same thing.”
There was a long silence.
Outside the parlour window, the bells of a distant church chimed the hour. Somewhere down the street, a cart rolled past, wood wheels clattering over cobblestones.
“I went to see Hawthorne House again yesterday,” Lydia said.
Emma perked up. “And?”
“It’s grand,” she said. “In that haunting, needs-a-new-roof sort of way. The drawing rooms are beautiful but faded. The portraits are all watching you. It smells like old money and extinguished hope.”
“So it matches the duke perfectly.”
Lydia laughed, despite herself.
“Did you see him?” Emma asked.
“No. He was out. Or hiding. I can't decide which.”
“Well, you are marrying him.”
“Yes.” Lydia met her best friend’s gaze. “And that means I have to look like I belong there.”
Emma tilted her head. “And do you?”
Lydia didn’t answer.
She waited until Emma had left for the evening before retreating to her father’s study. The room still smelled faintly of tobacco and ink. She lit the lamp, opened the desk drawer, and pulled out the engagement announcement.
The words were printed cleanly on heavy cream stock, embossed with the Montclair crest.
The Duke of Hawthorne is pleased to announce his engagement to Miss Lydia Grantham, daughter of the late Mr. John Grantham of London…
She traced the edge with one fingertip.
The name looked out of place. Her name. Stark and alien beneath all that finery.
She folded the card in half and set it aside.
Then she pulled a sheet of paper toward her and began to sketch the curve of a collar, the slope of a shoulder, the flare of a sleeve.
A gown. Her gown.
If they were going to whisper, she’d give them something to talk about.
***
A week later, Lydia’s bedroom was quiet, save for the soft rustling of satin and the occasional clink of pins in a porcelain dish.
Sunlight streamed through tall windows, casting golden squares across the floorboards. The scent of lavender water and pressed linen hung in the air. It was sharp, clean, and almost too perfect.
Lydia stood in her chemise and corset, arms raised slightly, as Charlotte gently guided the gown down over her shoulders.
The fabric whispered into place. Ivory silk, tailored to the line of her body, every seam hand-stitched, every fold deliberate. The bodice hugged her ribs before flaring into a skirt that moved like a sigh when she turned. No lace. No glitter. Just structure. Clean beauty. Power in simplicity.
Charlotte stepped back to admire it, her blue eyes wide. “It’s… stunning.”
Lydia smoothed her palms over her waist, quietly steadying herself. “Thank you.”
Emma, seated on the edge of the chaise with a comb in one hand and her hair in a messy knot atop her own head, added, “And just think, if the marriage turns out to be a disaster, at least the dress will be remembered fondly in scandal sheets.”
Lydia laughed softly.
Charlotte’s gaze lingered on the gown. “Where did you have it made?”
“I didn’t,” Lydia said, turning toward the mirror. “I made it myself.”
Charlotte blinked. “You… made this?”
Lydia nodded. “Every stitch. Started with a sketch. Took me four nights. I couldn’t sleep anyway.”
There was a long pause before Charlotte said, with quiet wonder, “You should do this. Professionally, I mean.”
“It used to be my dream,” Lydia murmured. “Before everything.”
Emma chimed in, “And after today, you’ll have the name, the resources, and—most importantly—the sheer stubbornness to do it.”
“I don’t think ‘The Duchess of Hawthorne’s Dress Emporium’ is exactly what the ton is hoping for,” Lydia said dryly, but there was warmth behind the words.
Charlotte moved to her side with a small silver pin. “Then let them be surprised.”
Lydia met her eyes in the mirror and offered a soft, grateful smile.
Charlotte pinned the final section of her hair and gently lowered the veil into place, letting the sheer fabric fall like morning mist over her shoulders.
There was a knock at the door. A maid poked her head in and murmured, “The carriage will be ready in ten minutes, Miss.”
“Thank you,” Lydia said.
The maid disappeared again.
Emma stood and adjusted the veil slightly, a critical eye on the angle. “You know,” she said, “if anyone asks, I fully plan to say you designed this look. Just to irritate Lady Penelope something-or-other.”
Lydia smirked. “I encourage that.”
But the room was quieter now. The mood had changed.
Something about the silence settled heavier on Lydia’s shoulders, not the weight of the dress, but something older. Deeper. The press of a hundred unspoken expectations.
She glanced once toward the empty armchair by the hearth, a place she had, foolishly, half-expected to see Lady Beatrice sitting.
She wasn’t coming. Not for this part, just the ceremony.
And Lydia knew why. She didn’t need a dramatic speech to understand that her future aunt-by-marriage had chosen silence as her protest. Not a scene, but not support either, and certainly not approval.
Lydia swallowed down the sudden well of emotion that rose in her throat.
Not grief. Not quite. But close.
Your father is gone, she told herself. Your mother’s long buried. You’ll walk down that aisle alone, but you’ll walk nonetheless.
Her fingers clenched slightly at her sides.
You are going to be a duchess. You will not cry or falter. You will survive this because you chose this. This is the price of power.
Emma cleared her throat softly. “Alright. Do we like the veil? Do we love the veil? Is the veil saying, “I am unapproachable yet also deeply desirable?”
Lydia exhaled a laugh. “It’s perfect.”
Charlotte brushed a bit of lint from the hem. “They’ll talk, of course. But you look like a woman who planned this. Not one who stumbled into it.”
“I did plan it,” Lydia said, straightening. “Every inch.”
She stepped toward the door. Her hands were steady. Her back was straight.
And whatever the rest of the world believed about her class, her motives, her worth, they would have to say it after they bowed to her.
***
The scent of beeswax and old stone filled the air, mingling with fading summer roses and the ever-present tension of an assembled crowd with nothing to do but watch.
Lydia stood at the head of the aisle, her hand lightly resting on the arm of the steward her solicitor had arranged to escort her, a necessary stand-in for a father long gone.
The hush inside St. George’s was not reverent. It was calculated.
The pews were full, lined with ladies in silk and feathers, gentlemen in finely tailored morning coats, gloves spotless, expressions even more so. Fans fluttered. Cravats bobbed. Eyes followed her every movement with interest disguised as politeness.
There she is. The merchant’s daughter. The duchess-to-be.
No one said the words aloud. They didn’t have to. Lydia could feel them in the stifled whispers behind gloves, the subtle tilt of heads, the glint of speculative laughter quickly disguised as smiles.
She held her chin high.
The gown rustled softly as she stepped forward. She moved like water, fluid, gliding down the aisle on practiced feet. Her pulse beat behind her ears, but her hands were steady.
At the far end stood Nicholas.