Page 15 of The Icy Duke Claims a Bride

“Then what brings you to London today, Your Grace?” Catherine asked. “It must be something important.”

He smiled now, although still self-conscious and slightly wary. “Yes, I have obtained our marriage license,” he told her, patting his pocket. “I’ve come straight from the bishop of London’s office and am going now to your parish church to finalize the time of the ceremony. Do let your father know that I hope to call on him this evening to confirm the last arrangements.”

Jemima squealed excitedly at this news but then was hushed by her sister, who was conscious of their audience.

“Do forgive me. I can’t help it,” Jemima murmured. “You two will be man and wife within a fortnight, and I’m so happy for you both. Also, I’ve always wanted a brother, and now I shall have one.”

“Do not apologize on my account. I like other people to be happy,” Hugh said surprisingly gently, appearing pleased rather than irritated by her enthusiasm.

“So do I,” Catherine added quietly, glancing at her sister with a smile of her own and then looking back at her fiancé once more.

While they did not smile at one another, there was an understanding in Hugh’s eyes that soothed her more than any happy chatter would. He seemed equally satisfied with her undemonstrative demeanor.

Jemima, meanwhile, was more than content to carry the conversation for the three of them. “You will certainly have to excuse us now, Your Grace. I am dragging my sister to Madame Dupont’s in order to see her properly outfitted for the wedding and honeymoon. If you already have the license in your pocket, there is no time to waste.”

“I do not need new clothes, Jemima,” Catherine insisted patiently, wishing that her sister had not brought this up in front of the Duke, and hoping that she would at least not start discussing nightgowns or undergarments. “I have already told you that.”

Hugh showed no more interest in clothing than Catherine herself, making no remark nor voicing his opinion.

“Tell her that she can’t wear an old dress to her wedding, Your Grace,” Jemima pleaded. “She will not listen to me.”

The Duke glanced at Catherine briefly but thoroughly, taking her in from head to foot, his expression still inscrutable beneath his mask. “I think that Miss Wright will look beautiful in whatever she chooses to wear,” he answered. “I will be honored to stand beside her at the altar.” He then raised his hat to them in a decided farewell before walking away.

Jemima seemed charmed by this answer and sang his praises all the way to Madame Dupont’s. Catherine did not stop her, instead thinking about the people who had watched their meeting and were now exchanging hushed words and mysterious glances.

What on earth were those people saying? Society must be filled with socially awkward and oddly dressed noblemen. What was so special about the Duke of Redbridge that he should be singled out?

Surprisingly, she found the answer at Madame Dupont’satelier. More specifically, the answer foundherin the changing room beside the one she and Jemima were using to try on a selection of model dresses, cloaks, and petticoats.

“It’s possible that her family don’t know, of course,” a woman’s voice said, traveling easily through the thin walls and curtain. “My younger sister says that the Wright girls are so priggish that they don’t know half the gossip of the ton.”

In her underskirts, Jemima paused and looked up indignantly. With her hands on her hips and her eyebrows knitted angrily, she seemed ready to throw open the curtain and challenge thegossip to repeat her words to the faces of the Wright girls themselves.

But Catherine held up a restraining finger to her lips and motioned for her to stay still. She wanted to hear what these women had to say about her rather than confront them.

“Do you think so?” a second woman asked. “I heard that their father knew perfectly well but sold her to the Duke anyway. He was glad to get rid of her. She was on the shelf for seven years, as we all know. Such a shame for her younger sister.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” The first speaker sniggered. “Old maids can be the best accessories to set off their younger sisters’ youth and beauty at a ball, as well as the best examples to incentivize them to catch their husbands quickly.”

Jemima stifled an angry growl. While sweet-tempered to a fault, she would never brook such insults to her older sister or tolerate criticism of her deliberate choice to remain single for so long.

“It sounds like Catherine Wright herself is probably cursed—a cursed wife for a cursed husband. Neither of them could get much more unlucky.”

“Still, she’d better watch out after the wedding. Everyone close to him dies, they say. His mother died when he was born, and then his father, brother, and sister in that fire.”

“Servants, too, I heard.”

“Yes, the entire household, wasn’t it? I can’t really remember, but he was certainly the only survivor. Everyone agrees on that point.”

“Have you ever seen him without his mask?” the second woman asked. “Lady Newstrom says that the scar is in the shape of the letter M, formurderer!”

Catherine recognized the breathless, gossipy tone of Lady Castleton, the married older daughter of the Earl of Tabley. She had never been a friend, but after seven years out in Society, Catherine knew a great many of the women around her age. The first speaker was presumably one of Lady Castleton’s friends or relatives.

“Really?! Is Lady Newstrom saying that the Duke of Redbridge started the fire himself? At ten years old?”

“Some children are born evil…”

Catherine had heard enough. She pushed aside the curtain of her changing room, having dressed fully while listening.

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