Page 22 of My Dark Duke

“Oh my days,” Polly laughed, “you are an innocent; His Grace has said he will foot the bill for whatever new dresses you require. The man’s pockets run deeper than the Avon Gorge - he can well afford to outfit you in silks and satins, my dear. Now, breakfast is served downstairs. I have left some of the newest issues of La Belle Assemblée on the table. You can peruse them while you break your fast and decide on which fashions you prefer.”

Polly left, still chuckling to herself, while Lillian remained, nervously biting her lip.

Thorncastle’s generosity was beyond doubt, but where was he expecting her to wear all these new dresses?

Still troubled, Lillian made her way downstairs to the dining room. There, she found the table set for one and a selection of breads and cold meats upon the sideboard.

“Coffee, Miss Smith?” Michael, Polly’s husband queried.

He was standing sentry by the sideboard, like a soldier.

“Tea, if there is any,” Lillian answered, gratefully.

Michael hobbled from the room to fetch her tea and Lillian felt a stab of guilt. It did not feel right to have an injured man wait upon her - though she would never voice this thought to Michael. Even though she had only known him a few hours, Lillian knew instinctively that he was too proud to accept any form of pity.

She loaded up her plate with chicken, ham, and when Michael returned, she filled her cup up to the brim with tea. She was ravenous; last night she had been too nervous to eat the fine fare sent from Gunter’s.

Michael slipped away discreetly, leaving Lillian alone. Without an audience, she tore into her bread, slurped her tea, and ate with a child’s abandon - and table manners.

Once her hunger was somewhat sated, she pulled across one of the copies of La Belle Assemblée, which Polly had left for her.

Lillian flicked through the pages, examining the fashion plates nervously. Did Thorncastle expect her to wear something similar to the gowns depicted here? In her twenty years, she had never had any need for a ball gown. The dances in the local assembly rooms in Linton were open to all with the means to purchase a voucher, and people did not overly care for fashion.

She flicked to the next page, where a plate depicting a lady in an elegant evening gown caught her eye. The dress was rather daring, with a low neckline and a short waist. The sleeves, which fell somewhat off the shoulders, were full, while the skirts fell to the floor in an elegant cascade.

For a moment, Lillian imagined herself wearing such a gown; the description described the material as being made from emerald green, Spanish tulle, which would admirably compliment her hair…

Lillian pictured herself in the dress; her hair piled high atop her head, wearing kid-skin gloves and ballroom slippers. She would clutch a fan, as all ladies of means did, and perhaps have a reticule on a gold chain hanging from her elbow.

At her side, in dark evening attire, would be the duke, regarding her with eyes that were filled with warmth and admiration…

It was there that Lillian’s fantasy ended; the duke, generous as he might be, regarded her as his mistress. She doubted that there was much he admired about her, apart from her body.

She pushed her plate away, her appetite now vanished. Mercifully, before despair had a chance to overwhelm her, Polly appeared.

“Did you find anything of interest?” she asked, peering over Lillian’s shoulder to look at the page.

“Oh, that would suit you perfectly, Miss Smith,” Polly declared, as she viewed the fashion plate. “We’ll bring this with us to the modiste.”

Lillian made to protest, but Polly hushed her. “If His Grace wishes to spend his fortune on you, then we must not argue. When you’re ready to leave, let me know and I shall have Michael meet us outside with the gig.”

“I’m ready,” Lillian replied, glancing nervously down at her plain gown. “I’m afraid I do not look the part for a shopping expedition on Bond Street.”

“We shall remedy that soon enough,” Polly assured her, with a wink. “If there’s one thing I’m accomplished at, it’s spending a gentleman’s money. Meet me in the hall in a few minutes, Miss Smith, and we shall be on our way.”

Polly disappeared in search of Michael, leaving Lillian alone. She pulled the periodical towards her, to take another glance at the fashion plate.

A few weeks ago she would never have imagined herself wearing such a dress, but a few weeks ago she would also not have been able to imagine herself as a duke’s mistress. She would not refuse Thorncastle’s generosity out of a sense of guilt inspired by her old morals - after all, he would soon be expecting a return on his investment.

Lillian stood atop a stool, in a thin muslin gown, as two seamstresses poked at her with pins. They were measuring a mock-up dress, which they would use as a guide when they began work on the half-dozen gowns which she had ordered.

“A riding habit, a three daydresses, an evening gown, and a ball gown,” Mrs Delacroix, themodiste, barked to one of the seamstresses. “Remember that, girl. Now, Miss Smith, have you an acute need for more new gowns? Lovely as your own day dress might be, it is not exactly the height of fashion. I have several off the peg dresses which might suit while you are waiting for my girls to finish your order. They were to go to the daughter of a baron, but a little bird whispered in my ear that her father lost heavily at the card table last night and his bills might go unpaid.”

“Oh, I don’t think-” Lillian began to object, but Polly interrupted.

“Bring them in for her to fit on,” she instructed. “If they fit and are suitable, then Miss Smith may take them.”

“Very good,” Mrs Delacroix smiled with cat-like satisfaction. “I shall have one of the other girls fetch them. HILDA! Where have you got to?”

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