Page 23 of Cinderella's Charade With the Duke
The woman assessed Hattie for a moment and said simply, ‘Wardrobe, Your Grace. We simply must do something about all that brown.’
Hattie looked down at the brown dress she had chosen this morning, which was the same one she had arrived in a week ago. A flush entered her cheeks. Perhaps it was a bit drab, but the colour hid every stain, which is why she had selected it.
His Grace’s lip quirked up. ‘Yes, Mrs Chisholm. I could not agree more.’
Hattie prayed the floor beneath her would open and swallow her whole. Sadly, it didn’t.
Chapter Nine
William could not have been prouder of the efficiency of his staff and how they rallied around his plan to transform Miss Potts from a little country mouse into the fictional lady of his creation: Lady Penelope Denning. What began as a mere desperate filament of thought to ease his daughter’s suffering had grown into a full-fledged woman of his imagination. Now, he needed each part of his plan to fall into place seamlessly.
Thankfully, the first piece of his plan was in motion. The late Marchioness’s favourite modiste, Mademoiselle Dashiell, arrived following the evening meal after being summoned by his driver Eddie earlier in the morning. Despite his fear that Miss Potts might baulk at the idea of the process, she reported to his study with a timid smile after Millie had been gathered by her nurse for bed and been whisked away by the dressmaker to her chamber. The next two hours were spent on measurements of Miss Potts and selecting fabrics from the array of samples.
The mantel clock chimed nine o’clock when the ladies arrived at the door of his study once more for his final approval, since it was his coin being spent and significant coin at that. He tried to pretend he knew what he was looking at and cared about the choice of colours before him. While he would have paid anything for the peace of mind this successful ruse would bring, he didn’twish for the Mademoiselle to know that. The dressmaker’s prices were high enough. He remembered the bills for Cecily well. He prepared himself for the exorbitant fees he would pay now for the Mademoiselle’s skill plus the hasty timeline for completion…and the added cost for her continued loyalty and secrecy.
A sea of colourful fabrics covered what remained of his desk in the study and Mademoiselle Dashiell, Mrs Chisholm, and Miss Potts looked up at him in expectation as he studied the fabrics. The oddity of having such trifles on his father’s old desk was not lost on William. He wasn’t sure if his father would laugh at the absurdity of it or clap William on the back for discovering a solution to finding his way through his present issue of being an unmarried duke in thetonwith gossip hounds at his doors.
‘I quite like this series of blues and emeralds,’ Mrs Chisholm stated to Mademoiselle Dashiell, running her fingertips over the fine silks, muslin and embroidered fabrics of which he had limited knowledge, other than what they felt like between his fingertips and the cost of each, silk being the most expensive if his memory served.
‘You have fine taste, Mrs Chisholm,’ Mademoiselle Dashiell agreed, her words sounding more like a rolling purr with her heavy French accent.
‘Your Grace?’ Mrs Chisholm enquired, looking at the fabrics and then him with expectation.
Rather than answering, his gaze landed on Miss Potts who sat wedged between the two women wide-eyed and silent. She hadn’t said a word since they’d entered the room.
‘Which fabrics do you prefer, Miss Potts?’ he asked.
Although he didn’t believe it possible, her eyes widened further as she studied the fabrics again. She appeared on the edge of full alarm. After another beat of examining them, she met his gaze. She started to reply and then clamped her mouth shut, her brow furrowing.
‘You shall be wearing them,’ he added. ‘Certainly you have an opinion.’
She swallowed and edged forward in her seat. The other women looked terrified by which ones she might pick. Evidently, wearing brown as a signature colour of one’s wardrobe did not build confidence in one’s fashion sensibilities.
‘May I?’ she asked, nodding to the fabric swatches. Once in her hands, she studied each one with care and scrutiny. After a few minutes, she set them back on the desk. ‘I have never seen or touched such fine fabrics before. Although any of them would be beautiful, I think the wine-coloured fabric would suit me best for His Grace’s celebratory ball. It shall favour my colouring more.’
The other woman baulked. ‘Such a colour in early spring?’ Mrs Chisholm asked. She shook her head. ‘I do not know, Your Grace.’
‘It would make you stand out. The other ladies will no doubt favour the softer tones this time of year,’ the Mademoiselle chimed in, glancing back and forth from the swathe of fabric to Miss Potts’s face, considering the woman’s suggestion rather than dismissing it entirely.
‘If I have won the heart of a duke, would I not be prone to such decisions to flaunt myself, especially with other women about?’ Miss Potts asked.
They faced her and her cheeks bloomed with colour. ‘I am only thinking of the Lady Penelope Denning you have created. Did I misunderstand your description of her and your wish for her to be like a Cinderella of those fairy tales, Your Grace?’ she asked.
William couldn’t help but smile. ‘No. You interpreted my words and the story to precision. She is right.This,’ he said, lifting the dark-burgundy material, ‘would be the choice of a bold, confident woman who has stolen my heart and wishedto shock the ladies of thetonby not conforming to Society’s expectations.’
Mademoiselle Dashiell smiled. ‘Then, this is the fabric I will use and I know just what style of dress I shall make. I will commission a handful of others of softer colours for daily use in case you receive callers after the event, Miss Potts. My team of seamstresses shall set upon it directly and be back for a fitting in two days’ time. That way, alterations can be made prior to the ball on Saturday.’
‘Thank you, Mademoiselle. Be sure to send along the bill,’ William answered, relieved that the browns had been eradicated from Miss Potts’s wardrobe. Now, it was on to the next item on Mrs Chisholm’s list.
‘Of course, Your Grace,’ she purred, batting her eyelashes at him.
His stomach churned. It would be one hell of a bill, but it would be worth it, he reminded himself as she gathered up the fabrics and left.
‘And now for the rest of you,’ the housekeeper said. ‘Miss Potts,’ she added when the woman failed to rise. ‘Follow me,’ Mrs Chisholm commanded.
Miss Potts sent William a mournful glance before leaving the room and he couldn’t help but chuckle. Heaven only knew what she would be subjected to now. He glanced at the bay of windows and noted the pitch-black sky and smiled. What had begun as a day of uncertainty had ended with a plan in place.
They had six days to prepare for a ball and for the big reveal of Lady Penelope Denning—for once, he could hardly wait for the day of a fussy ball to arrive.
