Page 24 of Taken By the Icy Duke

Victor cleared his throat, as if weighing his words. “I refer to your wife’s wardrobe. Forgive my bluntness, but her garments speak more to her family’s humble purse than they do to your status as Duke of Rivenhall.”

A flicker of perplexity crossed Gilbert’s face. Indeed, he had noticed Diana’s gowns were of modest cut and cloth, but he had never considered them unsuitable; they suited her graceful figure well enough to his eye. Still, he could not dismiss Victor’s insight into the ton’s unyielding scrutiny and biting criticism.

“Surely you do not suggest that her attire is so lacking? I have seen nothing to?—”

“You may see nothing amiss, but the ton most assuredly will,” Victor cut in smoothly. “Cruel though it seems, appearances matter greatly in our circles. To silence rumors of neglect or disinterest, you should furnish her with all the latest fashions; fine silks, Parisian trims, and jewels befitting her new station.”

Gilbert frowned, considering. Memories of how earnestly Diana had tried to meet him halfway, her quiet dignity in the face of the dowager countess’s insinuations, made him realize how vulnerable she would feel entering a drawing room filled with judgmental eyes. “You believe new gowns will dispel any suspicion that I hold her in low regard?”

“Precisely.” Victor picked up his reins again, then shot Gilbert a pointed look. “All your protestations about caring for her will ring hollow if she is forced to make do with dowdy frocks. If you desire to show her—and the world—that she is truly your duchess, you must invest in her image.”

Gilbert’s features eased as realization dawned. He pictured Diana standing in a shimmering satin gown, her dark hair adorned with only the subtlest of jewels. An image of confidence, grace and belonging.

“I see your logic. Diana deserves the best, and I confess I would not have her pitied or judged for want of a few yards of cloth.”

“Then let that be your first endeavor upon returning to town,” Victor said, stepping up into the saddle. The horse shifted slightly, stamping its hoof. “A well-appointed modiste will ensure your duchess enters every drawing room in London looking the picture of poise and prosperity.”

Victor’s words lingered as Gilbert considered them. He had never given much thought to gowns or jewels, save for their usefulness in appeasing the whims of society. But as Victor spoke, an image rose unbidden in his mind.

Diana in shimmering silks, her dark hair swept up to reveal the graceful curve of her neck, her bearing regal and self-assured. The thought unsettled him. It was not vanity that drove him to picture her thus; it was the realization that such a transformation would silence any whispers about herunworthiness. It was not just a matter of appearances; it was a declaration of her place by his side.

Gilbert swung onto his own horse, nodding firmly as he settled into the saddle. Renewed determination burned in his eyes, chasing away some of the doubt that lingered in his expression.

“I thank you, Victor. You have given me much to consider. We shall make our arrangements, and I will see to it that Diana’s wardrobe is addressed at once.”

“Excellent.” Victor guided his horse onto the winding path leading away from the estate. The sky had since brightened to a pale blue, and the lingering clouds were tinged pink at their edges. “In that case, I will await news of your arrival in London. You know where to find me.”

Gilbert raised his head and stretched back his shoulders. “I promise it shall be soon. When next we meet, I expect we will have silenced every wagging tongue in the city.”

“You do know,” Victor said, his tone laced with caution, “once you and Diana step back into London’s circles, the gossip will not simply vanish. There will be those who will test the strength of your union and attempt to unravel it purely for their own amusement.”

Gilbert’s jaw tightened, his grip on the reins firm. “Let them try. They will find us unyielding.”

Victor tilted his head as a shadow of doubt crossed his eyes. “I hope for your sake, and hers, that you are right. Good day, Your Grace.”

With that, the two men spurred their mounts forward, hoofbeats echoing across the dew-kissed fields. As they cantered away, Gilbert found his mind turning over Victor’s sage counsel. Rumors, scandal, the demands of rank; these issues had preoccupied him for days. But the thought of outfitting Diana in a manner that would both please her and thwart the ton’s malice awakened something fiercely protective in his soul.

He pictured Diana’s reaction to his suggestion that they take a trip to the finest modiste in London. Would she be pleased? Embarrassed by the sudden indulgence? Grateful for his support?

Gilbert would ensure that his duchess was equipped with all the weapons society demanded: beauty, finery, and, most of all, the resolute loyalty of her husband.

Chapter Twelve

Diana paused at the threshold of her new bedchamber in Rivenhall House in London, the echo of carriage wheels over cobblestone still ringing in her ears.

A soft gasp escaped her lips when she caught sight of a brilliant swath of emerald-green draped over her bed. The fabric glimmered under the glow of the mid-afternoon light streaming through tall windows. Despite her fatigue, curiosity urged her forward, and she reached out to run her fingertips across the gown’s smooth surface. Its delicate sheen, threaded with gold filigree along the bodice, made her stomach flutter with excitement and awe.

A single folded sheet of fine stationery lay beside it. She recognized Gilbert’s neat script immediately:

Diana,

I trust you will wear this tonight. The color, I think, shall flatter your eyes all the more.

—G

Heat spread across her cheeks as she read the words once, then twice more, her mind snagging on the casual confidence with which he spoke of her appearance. The gown was exquisite; surely more lavish than anything she had ever owned. Its rich hue called to mind forest glades and moonlit waters, and she imagined how it might transform her reflection in a mirror.

She could hardly believe it was meant for her. She had grown accustomed to modest frocks and the whispers of disapproval that followed her through the ton.

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