Page 14 of A Bride for the Devilish Duke (Marriage by Midnight #2)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“ B ut whyever not, Emma?” Josie asked.
She was dressing while Emma sat in a window seat, watching London pass by. She had never visited the capital before and its sheer scale was almost overwhelming. And yet, she yearned to walk its streets, become lost in its crowds.
Be anywhere but in this room.
“I do not care for expensive dresses,” Emma sighed.
“But the Duke is paying for them. It is his gift. Besides, you can hardly be a bride in those silly ancient dresses that you have in your wardrobe. This is London after all.”
Emma shifted uncomfortably. She had watched Rosie and then Josie being measured for their bridesmaids' dresses as well as for other garments which the modiste had been commissioned to produce at the behest of the Duke. Watched them strip down to their undergarments to be measured in every conceivable dimension. And knew that she could not bring herself to be so exposed before a stranger.
Not just one stranger either. The modiste was accompanied by half a dozen assistants who wrote down numbers dictated by the modiste, assisted with dressing and undressing, or held up lengths of tape to the girls being measured. Emma smiled past the feeling of sickness that washed over her, a feeling born of fear.
“I fail to see how the geographical location should necessitate new dresses. London is a place like any other,” she insisted.
“Not like any other. It is the capital. The home of the Regent and his Court,” Rosie furrowed her brows.
“You are marrying a Duke , Emma,” Josie exclaimed, “which you kept very quiet by the way,” she looked askance at Emma.
When she had finally confessed to them about the marriage to Damien, they had been overjoyed and simultaneously aggrieved that the courtship had been kept from them. Charles had still not appeared to be told the news himself. That was another worry that gnawed at the back of Emma's mind.
“It will doubtless be a Court wedding. The Regent himself might be a guest. Imagine that!” Her youngest sister enthused.
“Nevertheless. I see no need for extravagance. I shall not be measured for a dress—besides, my measurements have hardly changed,” Emma said firmly.
There came a knock at the door. Emma rose.
“Come in!” she called.
The door opened to reveal Madame Rousseau , the modiste. She entered the room, hands clasped before her. Her dress was a creation of silks and satins, her own handiwork and worthy of a royal ball. Emma was relieved to see that her entourage had not accompanied her.
“Mademoiselle, I have taken the measurements for your sisters and am able to produce the required dresses, but I cannot for you and yours is the most important of all,” Madame Rousseau said in a strong French accent.
Rosie and Josie looked at Emma expectantly. Emma herself was acutely aware of the scar that marred her left side from ribs to hip. None knew of it or how it had come to be—except Elsie of course. It was an effort to keep her hand from grazing it through her dress.
“That is well, Madame Rousseau. As far as I am concerned, your services were of far greater value for my sisters than for myself.”
Madame Rousseau spread her hands, appearing perplexed.
“But you are the bride. Your dress must be magnificent. It must outshine all those around you. To create such a gown will be difficult enough in the time that I have available to me. Without detailed measurements, however...”
“I have enough gowns that shall be perfectly serviceable,” Emma assured.
“ Serviceable !” Rosie exclaimed at the same time that Madame Rousseau gasped in horror.
“ Mon Dieu ! To marry in a used dress would be unheard of in my country. I do not think that England is so very different.”
“I have decided. There is far too much for me to do to spend an hour balancing on a stool and being measured,” Emma maintained, “now, if you shall excuse me.”
She strode from the room, ignoring the protestations of her sisters and Madame Rousseau.
Charles has not been seen by any of us in a week. Finding out what is going on with him is far more important than being measured for a silly gown, she convinced herself weakly.
Charles had departed for London just after the Redmane ball, over two weeks before. No letter or word from him had been received since. Her final, albeit brief meeting with him gave Emma cause for concern.
She strolled towards the library, a grand room twice the size of the library at Montrose Manor, but stopped suddenly.
“Papa will be there and he will question why I am not being measured for my gowns. Not a conversation I wish to have presently,” she murmured to herself.
Spinning on her heel, she hurried to her allocated rooms where she found Elsie, reading a book by the window. Elsie started as Emma breezed into the room. She jumped to her feet. Emma laughed.
“As you were, Elsie. I cannot see a single thing in here for you to do anyway.”
Elsie’s features visibly softened at her mistress’ presence, and she nodded. “His Grace keeps a very clean house. And the staff are exceptionally well trained. Once I had your wardrobe unpacked, there was little else to do.”
The house belonged to Damien, located on Curzon Street in the west of London and within sight of Hyde Park. It was a sprawling townhouse located on a terrace and deceptively large within.
“I still cannot believe how vast this place is once you get inside. I always thought these terraces were narrow and cramped,” Elsie remarked.
“Indeed, very spacious. But not as spacious as the city. I am going outside for a walk. Would you care to accompany me?”
“Of course. But Mrs. Garrett, the housekeeper, has offered to take me and the other scullery staff from Montrose Manor to the shops where she purchases her groceries and essentials, so that we may take on that duty in time. We are due to leave in less than half an hour,” Elsie noted.
Emma and her father expected Silas Sutherland to issue a notice to leave for his tenants after his humiliation by Damien a week ago. Damien, in turn, had offered the use of his Curzon Street residence which currently had a skeleton staff due to the infrequency of his visits. Whatever little remained of the Montrose staff had been offered employment at Curzon Street.
“Then I will not interfere with your training. What with the packing at the old house and the movement of staff here, there is too much to do for you to fall behind.”
“I am sure that Mrs. Garrett will understand...” Elsie began.
“I do not wish for her to go through the trouble. I shall be fine alone. There are plenty of people about, it is not as if I shall be on my own,” Emma assured.
In truth, she had looked forward to Elsie's presence as a pair of ears that Emma could use to vent her fears and frustrations. Elsie knew of the scar and the cause. Had helped Emma to treat the scars, both mental and physical, down at Greenacre Sanatorium in Kent.
Elsie went to the dressing room, next door to the bedroom in which they both stood. It was a wardrobe in itself, with shelves and cupboards lining the walls. She picked out an outdoor dress, sensible shoes, bonnet, and coat for Emma who changed quickly.
“What do you think the Duke will say when he hears that you have not allowed his dressmaker to measure you for a wedding gown?”
Emma shrugged. “He should not care. This is not to be a real marriage. I have agreed to go along with his plan, that should be enough.”
Elsie raised an eyebrow. “I do not know how a marriage is not real once you have made your vows in front of a priest. You're either married or not. But if he wants to do this because of his reputation, then it seems to me he'll want it to look every inch the real thing.”
“Then he shall have to compromise,” Emma shrugged, stepping into the dress Elsie had laid out for her. It was one of her favorites, dark blue and plain, though well made. It would be perfect to walk anonymously through the streets of the capital.
Within minutes, she was stepping out of the front door of number 3 Curzon Street and skipping down the stone steps leading down to the street.
She was greeted by a passing lady and gentleman, then by another as she walked westward in the direction of the impressively vast Hyde Park. The street became more crowded and the casual greetings ceased.
This is marvelous. I feel as though I am just one more anonymous stranger amongst many other strangers. A drop in a very large ocean.
No one looked at her or registered her presence at all. They hurried along, intent on their own business. Emma found the feeling liberating. She was somehow alone and private while walking in a crowd in public.
The sun was shining and the sky was clear. For a while, she resolved to forget about marriage and about whatever troubles Charles had gotten himself into now. There would be time enough to deal with all of that.
For now, Emma simply wanted to lose herself.