Chapter Ten
“Ivory or cream, Lady Cecilia?”
Cecilia stared at the swatches of fabric Lady Lydia Grantham held up, their subtle differences blurring together like watercolours bleeding into parchment. She had three days until she became the Duchess of Devonshire, and at present, the silks looked entirely the same.
“I... whichever Your Grace thinks best.”
The Duchess of Hawthorne set down the fabrics with the gentle precision of someone accustomed to handling fragile things. Her sharp hazel eyes studied Cecilia with unnerving perception, despite the warmth radiating from her expression.
“Call me Lydia, please.” She gestured to the plush settee in her private atelier, a sun-drenched room above her Bond Street shop that smelled of lavender sachets.
“And while we’re dispensing with formality, might I suggest you actually look at the fabric samples?
Unless you’re planning to walk down the aisle without a dress, in which case we should probably discuss a veil with significantly more coverage. ”
The gentle tease coaxed a surprised laugh from Cecilia’s throat—the first genuine one in days. “I’m sorry. I’m being dreadful company.”
Lydia settled beside her. “I’d be worried if you weren’t a bit distracted. Though...” she tilted her head, dark curls catching the afternoon light, “this feels less like wedding jitters and more like impending execution. Should I be concerned?”
“No! I mean—” Cecilia’s fingers twisted in her lap, a nervous habit she couldn’t seem to break. “The Duke is perfectly... suitable.”
“Suitable.” Lydia repeated the word as though tasting something bitter. “How remarkably passionate. Tell me, Lady Cecilia, does your heart race when you think of him? Or does it simply maintain a suitable rhythm?”
Heat flooded Cecilia’s cheeks. Her heart didn’t just race when she thought of the Duke—it galloped, stumbled, crashed against her ribs like something wild trying desperately to escape.
“Maybe we should rather discuss the dress?” The words emerged sharper than intended. “I would hate to keep you from your other appointments.”
“Actually, I’ve cleared my afternoon.” Lydia rose, moving to retrieve a leather-bound portfolio from her cluttered desk.
“Creating a wedding gown isn’t simply about measurements and fabric, Cecilia.
It’s about crafting the visual representation of a bride’s hopes, dreams, and deepest desires.
So before we discuss necklines and trains and whether you prefer Alencon lace or Valenciennes, perhaps you might tell me what you actually want this dress to say? ”
What did she want it to say?
“I want it to say...” Cecilia’s voice emerged small, uncertain. “I want it to say that I’m worthy of being his wife. I could be... enough. The Duke thinks I was trying to deliberately manipulate him.”
“And were you?” Lydia asked, her gaze steady and non-judgmental.
“No!” The word burst out fierce and desperate.
“I only wanted to know him—to understand the man I was meant to spend my life with before binding myself to a stranger. I couldn’t...
I couldn’t risk my heart again without at least knowing if there was something worth reaching for beneath all that ice. ”
“And was there?” Lydia’s question was soft, carefully neutral.
“Yes,” she whispered. “But he’ll never forgive me. He’ll marry me because honour demands it, not because he wants to. And I’ll spend a lifetime with a man who can barely stand to look at me.”
“Lady Cecilia.” Lydia set aside her portfolio and took both of Cecilia’s hands in hers, her grip warm and grounding. “May I tell you something about the Duke of Devonshire? Something even his closest friends might not fully understand?”
Cecilia nodded, not trusting her voice.
“Nicholas—my husband—he’s known Adrian since Eton.
And according to him, Adrian has spent the last five years building walls so high and so thick that even those who care for him can barely reach him.
He does it to protect himself, you see. After the scandal with Lady Nicole, after society turned on him for something he didn’t do, he decided it was safer to feel nothing at all.
Easier to be ice than to risk the fire.”
“I know about his walls,” Cecilia said bitterly. “I’ve felt them every time he looks at me now—cold and immovable and—”
“Breakable.” Lydia’s interruption was firm, almost fierce. “Walls that seem impenetrable often have cracks we can’t see from the outside. And men who convince themselves they’re carved from stone? They’re usually just terrified of discovering they’ve been flesh and bone all along.”
Something fragile and desperate sparked in Cecilia’s chest. “You think he could forgive me? That there’s still a chance…”
“I think,” Lydia said carefully, “that a man who feels nothing wouldn’t be angry. Indifference doesn’t rage, Lady Cecilia. Only wounded hearts do that.”
The words settled over Cecilia like a benediction she didn’t dare believe. Could it be true? Could the Duke’s fury actually be evidence of something deeper—something that might, with time and patience and determination, bloom into forgiveness?
“Now then.” Lydia released Cecilia’s hands and retrieved her sketches with renewed purpose. “Let’s create a gown that tells the Duke of Devonshire exactly who his bride truly is. Not just cream silk and lace—though we’ll certainly have lots of both!”
Cecilia felt tears prick behind her eyes. “You make it sound like a fairy tale.”
“All the best love stories start as fairy tales,” Lydia said with a knowing smile.
“Besides,” she continued, gesturing to the portfolio of sketches spread across her worktable, “the nuts that are the hardest to crack often contain the sweetest delicacies. And yes, I’m absolutely mixing my metaphors, but the principle remains sound.
The Duke of Devonshire has spent five years convincing himself—and everyone else—that he’s incapable of feeling.
That his heart is permanently frozen beyond redemption. ”
She selected a particular sketch—an elegant gown with delicate embroidery along the sleeves—and held it up for Cecilia’s inspection.
“But I’ve seen enough supposedly ‘cold’ men melt when the right woman applies the right kind of pressure. Nicholas was exactly the same way before I married him—all stern disapproval and rigid propriety. Do you know what finally broke through his carefully constructed walls?”
Cecilia shook her head, utterly captivated despite herself.
“I refused to accept his performance.” Lydia’s eyes sparkled with mischief and memory.
“Every time he tried to freeze me out with icy politeness, I met him with warmth. Every time he retreated behind his title and position, I reminded him he was simply a man. Eventually, he had two choices: either admit he actually felt something beneath all that frost, or maintain his facade until it became so exhausting he collapsed under the weight of his own pretence.”
“And which did he choose?”
“He kissed me in his study during a particularly heated argument about fabric imports,” Lydia said with a laugh. “Rather passionately, actually. Completely ruined my afternoon schedule and my perfectly arranged hair. Best decision he ever made, if you ask me.”
Despite everything, Cecilia felt herself smile. “The Duke has already kissed me. It hasn’t seemed to improve his opinion of me.”
Lydia was quiet for a long moment, her expression thoughtful.
When she finally spoke, her voice carried the weight of hard-won wisdom.
“You have to decide whether trying to reach him is worth the pain of potentially failing. Whether the possibility of love—real, transformative, life-altering love—is worth the risk of perpetual heartbreak.” She paused, then added more gently, “But Lady Cecilia? I don’t think you’d be sitting in my atelier, planning a wedding to a man you barely know, if you hadn’t already decided that some things are worth fighting for. ”
Cecilia stared at the fabric swatches scattered across the table—ivory and cream, delicate lace and rich silk, all the beautiful materials that would transform into her wedding gown.
“Cream,” she said finally, her voice steadier than it had been all afternoon. “I want the cream silk. And Alencon lace for the sleeves—delicate enough to show vulnerability, strong enough to endure. Can we do that?”
Lydia’s smile bloomed like sunrise. “I can absolutely do that.”
The Earl of Bedford’s townhouse felt different when Cecilia returned that evening—darker somehow, as though the very walls absorbed the weight of impending change. In three days, she would leave this place and become someone else entirely. The Duchess of Devonshire. Adrian’s wife.
A stranger bound by law and obligation to a man who could barely stand to look at her.
“Well?” Velma appeared in the doorway of Cecilia’s chambers before she’d even removed her Spencer. “How did it go with the Duchess? Did she try to talk ye out of the marriage? Suggest ye flee to the Continent and live a life of obscure spinsterhood?”
“Quite the opposite, actually.” Cecilia managed a wan smile as she allowed Velma to help her out of her outer garments. “She was... encouraging. Optimistic, even. She seems to think the Duke’s walls might be more fragile than they appear.”
“And what do ye think, milady?”
Cecilia sank onto the edge of her bed, exhaustion settling over her like a heavy cloak. “I think I’ve made a spectacular mess of everything. And I think I’m about to marry a man who despises me. And I think...” her voice cracked. “I think I’m terrified, Velma. Absolutely terrified.”
Velma’s stern expression softened as she settled beside Cecilia, drawing her into a fierce embrace. “Och, lass. Ye knew it would come to this when we first hatched that mad scheme.”
“I know.” Cecilia pressed her face against Velma’s shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of soap and lavender that had comforted her since childhood.
“I just thought… hoped…that when he discovered the truth, he might understand. That he might see I never meant to hurt him, only to protect myself from making another terrible mistake.”
“And instead?”
“Instead, I’ve created an entirely new disaster.
” Cecilia pulled back, swiping at the tears on her cheeks with trembling fingers.
“You should have seen the look on his face, Velma. He looked at me with such... coldness. Such absolute contempt. Like I was something rotten he’d discovered in his study and couldn’t wait to dispose of. ”
“Perhaps that’s just his hurt talkin’,” Velma suggested. “Men don’t show their wounds the way we do, milady.”
Cecilia wanted desperately to believe it. “I don’t know what to do,” she confessed quietly.
“Ye do what ye’ve always done, milady.” Velma joined her at the window, her presence solid and reassuring. “Ye fight. Ye don’t give up.”
Cecilia managed a watery laugh. “You make me sound far braver than I feel.”
“That’s because bravery isnae about feelin’ fearless, milady.
It’s about bein’ bloody terrified and doin’ the hard thing anyway.
” Velma’s expression turned serious. “Now, shall I draw ye a bath? Ye look dead on yer feet, and we’ve got three days of preparation ahead of us.
Best to face it well-rested rather than half-dead from exhaustion. ”
“A bath sounds perfect,” Cecilia agreed, grateful for Velma’s practical nature even in the midst of emotional chaos. “Thank you, Velma. For everything. For standing by me through this madness.”
“Where else would I be?” Velma’s smile was warm and genuine. “Now go sit by the fire while I prepare the water. And try not to spiral into another catastrophe while I’m gone, aye?”
“I think I need some air. Find me in the gardens when the bath is ready.”
The evening air carried the scent of jasmine and secrets as Cecilia wandered through her father’s garden, desperate for solitude after hours of wedding preparations and Velma’s well-meaning fussing.
The garden was peaceful at this hour, shadows lengthening as twilight painted the sky in shades of lavender and gold. Cecilia breathed deeply, letting the cool air soothe her frayed nerves. She needed this—needed a moment of quiet before facing whatever fresh catastrophe tomorrow would bring.
She almost didn’t notice the folded note on the stone bench near the entrance gate.
But the crisp white paper stood out against the weathered grey stone like a beacon, deliberately placed where someone would be certain to find it. Cecilia’s pulse quickened as she approached, some instinct warning her that whatever this was, it wouldn’t be good news.
The note was sealed with wax but bore no crest, no identifying mark. Her name was written across the front in elegant, flowing script.
With trembling fingers, Cecilia broke the seal and unfolded the paper.
The message inside was brief, written in the same elegant handwriting:
Secrets never stay buried in London, my lady.
Cecilia’s breath caught, ice flooding through her veins. She read the words again, searching for some clue, some indication of who might have sent this cryptic warning. But there was nothing—no signature, no hint of the sender’s identity.
Just those words, elegant and threatening in equal measure.
Someone knew. Someone knew about her deception, about Clara Vale, about everything. Someone had left this note specifically for her to find, which meant they had access to her father’s property. Had walked through these very gardens, perhaps watched her from the shadows.
The thought made her skin crawl.
Could it be Adrian? Was this his way of punishing her—playing some cruel game to keep her afraid, to remind her that he held all the power in their arrangement?
The thought made her stomach turn. She wanted to believe he wouldn’t stoop to such tactics, but what did she truly know about the man beneath the ice? What was he capable of when wounded?
Or perhaps it wasn’t Adrian at all. Perhaps someone else knew her secret—someone who might use it to destroy what little remained of her reputation, or worse, to sabotage the wedding entirely.