Page 33 of Taken By the Icy Duke

Moments later, Alison swept into the room, her cheeks pink from the brisk morning air. Her gaze fell immediately on Diana, still in her dressing gown, and then to the dark-blue gown draped over the chair.

“Diana, forgive the intrusion, but I simply could not wait,” Alison said, her voice bright with excitement. “I had to see how you are settling into life as a duchess.”

Diana smiled wryly, gesturing for Ruth to continue her preparations as she turned her attention to Alison.

“As you can see, it is still quite early in the day for duchessing. Though I did receive this,” she added, nodding toward the gown.

“That is stunning. Did Gilbert choose it?” Alison stepped closer, feeling the rich fabric, and admiring the accompanying jewels.

“He did,” Diana replied, a faint blush rising to her cheeks. “It seems he intends for us to make quite the impression at the theatre tonight.”

“Diana,” Alison said with a teasing grin, “you have already made quite the impression… on him, it seems.”

It is a new world, Alison,” Diana shook her head, her smile softening. “I am learning how to navigate it, one gown and one gesture at a time.”

“And how do you feel about it all?” Alison pressed gently.

“Unsure,” Diana admitted after a pause. “But there are small, precious moments when it feels as though this might not just be an arrangement. Last night… and this morning…” She glanced toward the letter and gown. “It feels as though we are finding our way.”

Alison nodded thoughtfully. “Then hold on to that, Diana. It sounds like you have been given something many in your position never have: a chance.”

She turned toward the bellpull just as Ruth returned with word that the servants were preparing her bathwater and setting up the portable tub in the adjoining room.

Ruth returned to help Diana dress, and Alison sat by the window, her chatter filling the room with its familiar warmth. But Diana’s thoughts remained on Gilbert: his note, his choices, his steady presence. She resolved to meet him tonight, not as a woman uncertain of her place, but as a true duchess, ready to stand by his side so they could face the world together.

For the second time, she dared to believe that their union could be more than duty, more than necessity. Perhaps, it could grow into something real.

Diana stepped down from the carriage into the bright midday sun, smoothing the front of her day dress as she cast a glance at the tidy facade before her.

Overhead, a modest sign readMadame Beaulieu: Modiste de la Cour, and despite the unassuming exterior, she could sense the promise of finely crafted garments awaiting within.

Stepping inside, she found herself instantly greeted by a waft of lavender sachets and the rustle of silk. Bolts of luxurious fabrics in every hue crowded shelves and tables, while prim and efficient assistants hurried by with pins and measuring tapes in hand.

A petite woman with keen blue eyes and impeccably coiffed hair approached, sweeping a graceful curtsy. “Your Grace,” she murmured with reverent warmth. “Welcome to myestablishment. I am Madame Beaulieu. It is my great pleasure to serve you.”

Diana inclined her head politely, only now realizing how much her new title still took her by surprise. “Thank you, Madame,” she replied softly. “I look forward to discussing the particulars of a new wardrobe.”

“Of course,” Madame Beaulieu responded, leading Diana deeper into the shop.

They passed tall mirrors framed in gilt, plush chairs draped in patterned shawls, and mannequins clad in unfinished gowns awaiting final touches. Assistants scurried about, their expressions briefly turning to awe once they became aware of Diana’s presence. A few customers discreetly peered from behind muslin curtains, no doubt curious to see the new Duchess of Rivenhall.

Madame Beaulieu led her to a private fitting area at the back of the shop; a cozy alcove shielded by a brocade screen. Soft lamplight glowed from a crystal chandelier overhead, illuminating the large mirror and raised platform in the center.

“Please, Your Grace,” she invited, directing Diana to step onto the low dais. “If you do not mind, we shall begin by assessing measurements and discussing designs, that we may best flatter your figure and suit your station.”

The modiste’s assistants fluttered about in a well-choreographed flurry. One carefully removed Diana’s pelisse, while another helda tape measure, waiting for Madame Beaulieu’s signal. Diana felt a hint of self-consciousness prickle the back of her neck.

When Alison and I prepared for the Season, we had only our family’s modest purse and a small local dressmaker, and we carefully considered every yard of cloth and every penny spent.

Now, the vastness of available silks and embellishments seemed almost overwhelming.

Madame Beaulieu, noticing her hesitation, offered a reassuring smile.

“Do you have any preferences, Your Grace? Certain colors or styles that you favor?” she asked, speaking gently but confidently. “We can follow the modern silhouettes, or something a trifle more traditional; whatever best aligns with your tastes.”

Diana considered the question. Her mind darted back to the modest gowns she had often worn, to how she and Alison would pore over fashion plates they could scarcely afford to copy. Yet she now bore the title of duchess, with all the expectation and freedom the designation entailed.

Clearing her throat, she lifted her chin. “I…should like designs of simple elegance,” she ventured. “Fabrics that move well and do not overwhelm. Subdued embroidery, perhaps, rather than gaudy ornamentation.”

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