Page 37 of His Unwanted Duchess

“Stephen,” Beatrice responded absently.

Picking at the purple bow, she undid it with a sort of reverence and lifted the lid. Inside was a profusion of more crepe paper, along with a neatly written note containing the name and address of a famous French modiste whose pieces were too expensive for Beatrice. The woman was extremely fashionable, and her prices had increased exponentially with her success, but shewassupposed to create the finest dresses in London.

Despite herself, despite everything, Beatrice felt a frisson of excitement. The hideous dress that the Marquess had provided for her was still hanging in her cupboard, mostly because the material was not terrible and might be used for something. It served as a reminder of just how much the man had hated her.

“A wedding dress,” Helena breathed, coming to stand beside Beatrice. “Come, you must try it on at once.”

Half an hour later, Beatrice was standing in front of the mirror, staring at her reflection.

The dress, needless to say, was beautiful. Fashionable, yes, but not a paper-doll copy of other wedding dresses she had seen. And, more to the point, it suited her. It suited herperfectly.

The dress was not white exactly, more of a faint, blush pink, the silken fabric layered with silvery gauze. Rather than clashing with her red hair, it seemed to bring out the golden hue in her coppery locks, making her hair seem even more vivid and beautiful, her skin even smoother and creamier.

The neckline was perhaps a little too low, but Beatrice had to admit it hugged her bosom very nicely, and the pearls and silver studs on the bodice shone and glittered in even the faintest light. The bodice was not too tight, surprisingly well fitted considering that the modiste did not have her measurements.

Below the waist, the gown fell to the ground in swathes of silk, gauze, and rich silvery embroidery almost drowning out the faint pink. There was a pair of shoes in the bottom of the trunk, matching blush pink with pearls and silver trim on the toes.

I don’t believe I’ve ever felt more beautiful,Beatrice realized, with a shiver.

Oh, she knew that a woman was meant to feel that way on her wedding day, or when she put on her wedding gown for the first time, but so far, that had notbeen her experience.

Did he choose this for me? How did he know that I would look so beautiful in this? Why did he care? Was it simply that he didn’t want me to embarrass him on our wedding day? I suppose that could be it. I suppose… I suppose the modiste could have picked it out.

“Well,” Helena said, breaking into Beatrice’s thoughts.

Her mother had helped her get into the gown, dealing with the troublesome lacing and the countless tiny, mother-of-pearl buttons at the back. But since then, she had been rather quiet.

“Well?” Beatrice prompted.

Helena ran her fingers over the studded pearls at Beatrice’s waist. “I was just thinking that the modiste is the most expensive one in London for a reason. She has impeccable taste. You look absolutely ravishing, my darling girl.”

Beatrice flashed a nervous smile. The haunted beauty in the mirror smiled back. “Do you think so? I thought perhaps the Duke had chosen it himself.”

“Perhaps. He might have chosen the color. But you know how useless men are when it comes to this sort of thing. It must have cost a fortune, I must say.”

“Don’t you think he is being a little too generous?”

Helena met Beatrice’s eyes in the mirror. “I don’t, actually. He ruined your prospects, you know. Yes, he exposed the Marquess—who was quite clearly never suitable for you, I have no idea what your papa was thinking—but at what cost? It is my opinion that the good Duke was thinking only of himself, how to best expose a man he did not like. It was thoughtless. What if youwerein love with the Marquess and looking forward to marrying him?”

“He knew that I wasn’t,” Beatrice answered absently before she could think twice.

At once, she knew she’d made a mistake, and her eyes shot up to meet her mother’s in the mirror.

Helena’s gaze was fixed on her. “And why would the Duke know such a thing?”

Beatrice swallowed dryly. “Well, anybody could tell that I didn’t care for the Marquess.”

“I think you are a better actress than you give yourself credit for, Beatrice. Anna herself was not entirely sure what it was that you wanted. Even I was not sure. Still waters run deep, and you are so used to concealing your feelings that you don’t even know what they are anymore.”

Beatrice flinched. “That’s not true.”

“No? Well then, darling, why don’t you tell me exactly what you’re thinking at this very moment?”

I am thinking that I don’t understand the Duke, not at all. He warned me that I wouldn’t, but I suppose I thought I would be cleverer than him, in the end.

I am wondering why he cares whether I feel pretty or not in my wedding dress, considering that our marriage is to be a white one, with no children or any semblance of an ordinary life.

I am afraid that I will become fond of him.

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