Page 6

Chapter Six

R obert sat behind his writing table with a quill pen in his hand, signing off some documents. The scratching of the quill stilled when a firm knock interrupted the quiet. A moment later, Havers, his ever-composed butler, stepped into the room.

“Your Grace,” he spoke as a faint edge of hesitation appeared in his voice, which was a rare thing. “You have a visitor. Miss Ellory.”

Robert looked up slowly, blinking once.

“Miss Ellory?” he repeated, as though the name might change upon second hearing.

“Yes, Your Grace. Shall I show her in?”

For a fleeting second, Robert felt the faintest flicker of… something. Surprise, perhaps. Or curiosity.

He stood and set his pen aside. “Show her in.”

Havers disappeared, and Robert moved from behind the desk to stand near the fireplace with one hand resting lightly on the carved mantle. When the door opened again, she entered.

She wore a pale lilac walking dress that brought out the steel-blue edge of her eyes. She moved with her usual grace and stubborn pride though her chin was set a little higher than usual, as though she was daring herself not to turn around and walk back out.

“Miss Ellory,” he said smoothly. “How unexpected. Have you come to apologize for throwing my flowers away?”

He caught the sharp intake of breath, the flash in her eyes. She wanted to retort, he could all but see the words forming inside that wonderfully odd mind of hers, but she swallowed them with visible effort.

“No,” she said with forced composure. “I came to speak with you about the wedding.”

“Ah.” He folded his arms across his chest, leaning a shoulder against the mantle. “Do go on.”

“I’ve been looking at gowns,” she explained, glancing briefly around the room as though she might draw courage from the brooding bookshelves.

“And I can’t decide which one to choose.

It is simply impossible, I swear. I’m afraid that I must ask for a bit more time to make my choice. It is possible, isn’t it?”

Robert had to admit that now, he was even more amused. “Is that so?” He paused for a moment then added, “And which ones did you like the best?”

She blinked, visibly thrown. “I beg your pardon?”

He smiled faintly. “You’ve clearly given it a great deal of thought. I’d like to hear which gowns you’re considering.”

She stood in his study like a flame refusing to flicker, stiff-backed, hands clasped, too proud for nerves. And yet he saw it in the way her fingers twitched when he looked at her too long and the way her breath hitched before she spoke.

“There’s one from Madame Vernisse,” she decided, her tone clipped, rehearsed. “Ivory silk. The bodice is covered in lace, and the sleeves are sheer. It has a modest train, and pearls stitched into the hem.”

He gave a slow nod, watching her rather than picturing the gown. “Refined.”

She hesitated then continued. “And the other is from Mrs. Aldermere. Champagne satin with gold embroidery along the hem and sides. The neckline is…” she paused, catching the hint of a smirk threatening his lips, “a touch daring.”

“I see,” he replied, biting down the smile before it could take form. “Pearls or gold thread. A serious dilemma.”

But then, as if she feared he might see through her, see that this little visit was nothing but a performance, she thought of adding more. “There are two others I’ve considered.”

Robert didn’t move, but his eyes remained trained on her, amused. “By all means.”

She lifted her chin. “Madame Vernisse has another in dove grey tulle. It’s layered, quite airy, with silver thread at the bodice and a sash at the waist that can be dyed to match whatever color I choose for the flowers.

” She said it as though reciting from a catalogue, trying much too hard to sound nonchalant.

“Practical,” he murmured.

“And Mrs. Aldermere has a rose-pink gown. It is very pale, nearly blush, with a square neckline and embroidered roses along the sleeves. She claims it flatters nearly every complexion.”

“A dress that flatters every woman,” he said with a soft inclination of the head. “A miracle indeed. Perhaps you ought to choose that one.”

She blinked. “I’m not certain. That’s the entire point of the dilemma.”

He hummed in mock sympathy. “A crisis of true gravity.”

Her nostrils flared, just slightly. “Yes, well, if you’re expecting a bride who chooses her gown with haste and without care, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.”

He smiled faintly. “Disappointment isn’t quite what I feel when I look at you, Miss Ellory.”

There. That blush again, lovely and immediate, blooming over her cheekbones.

She turned from him under the pretense of inspecting some trinket on his desk, muttering, “You’re impossible.”

“Only mildly,” he murmured, watching the way her back stiffened.

He had to admire it all: her defiance, her desperate grip on control. It made the game all the more interesting. And if he wasn’t mistaken, the lady enjoyed it too, no matter how much she protested.

She then turned to him with an air of feigned innocence that nearly made him laugh outright. “So then,” she said carefully, “may I take more time to think about it?”

His dark eyes didn’t leave her face as he replied smoothly. “Of course. What sort of husband would I be if I rushed my wife into anything?”

The corners of her lips twitched in what was almost a smile though she fought to keep it subdued and hidden. But he saw the flicker of relief in her expression, the silent victory she thought she’d claimed.

She gave him a short curtsy, all too formal and entirely unnecessary. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

He inclined his head in reply, watching her turn and head toward the door. She believed she had won. That with enough cleverness and an arsenal of dress fabrics and indecision, she might slowly unravel the engagement she herself had orchestrated.

Robert almost chuckled but managed to stifle the sound. His mouth twitched as the door shut quietly behind her.

Let her stall. Let her drag her heels and try every excuse in the book. She could summon twenty gowns, a hundred designers, and he would nod and agree because none of it mattered.

He had his own plans. And erroneously, she thought she would stand in the way of them, in the way of him claiming justice. But the truth was that Evelyn Ellory was the path that would allow him to achieve exactly that.

“I spoke to the Duke yesterday,” Evelyn announced, smoothing the folds of her gown as she sank into the settee beside the parlor window where the sun filtered through lace curtains. “I brought up the matter of my indecision regarding wedding gowns… and he agreed.”

Cordelia’s head snapped up from the plum she had been peeling, her eyes wide with disbelief. “He agreed? Just like that?”

Hazel, who had been stitching a length of ribbon onto her glove, paused mid-thread. “You must be joking.”

“I most certainly am not,” Evelyn replied, lifting her chin with a measure of pride. “He said, and I quote, ‘What sort of husband would I be if I rushed my wife into anything?’” Her voice dipped low in imitation, earning a snort from Cordelia.

“Well,” Cordelia said, tossing the plum peel into the small dish beside her, “either he is a great fool, or you are the most talented actress the ton has ever produced.”

Evelyn allowed herself a small, smug smile. “He is no fool, I think. But he believes he is humoring me.”

Hazel gave her a look of cautious admiration. “That sounds rather dangerous, Evelyn. What if he’s simply waiting you out?”

“Then he shall wait,” Evelyn said with sudden steel in her voice. “For as long as I can make him.”

“But he agreed, truly?” Hazel pressed. “He did not argue or ask why you were hesitant?”

“No. He only asked which gowns I preferred. I gave him four options. Very detailed ones.” She waved a hand. “Names, silks, threads, embroidery. I daresay he looked faintly amused by the end though he tried to conceal it.”

Cordelia clapped her hands together. “Then it’s working! You’ve bought yourself time. Now, we simply need to think of what you shall do with it and how to prolong it indefinitely.”

Suddenly, a sharp knock on the parlor door interrupted them.

Evelyn turned, her brows knitting together. “Yes?”

The door creaked open, and their aging butler stepped in, his expression composed as ever. “Pardon the interruption, Miss Ellory, but you have parcels arriving for you. Several, in fact.”

“Parcels?” Evelyn repeated, her frown deepening. She rose slowly. “That cannot be right. I haven’t ordered anything.”

Cordelia gasped. “It must be another present from him, a bribe to hasten your decision!”

The butler cleared his throat delicately. “They are… rather sizeable parcels, miss. I have invited the delivery men to bring them in directly if that is agreeable.”

Before Evelyn could protest, two footmen appeared, red-cheeked from exertion, each bearing towering stacks of elegantly wrapped boxes. They placed them with great care at the center of the room. Then, they bowed and departed without a word.

The three girls stared at the pile in speechless awe.

Cordelia blinked. “It looks like a royal dowry.”

Hazel leaned in. “What is all this?”

Evelyn took a hesitant step forward, then another, until she caught sight of the ivory-and-gold insignia on one of the labels. Her eyes widened in dawning horror.

“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no…”

She reached for the topmost parcel with trembling fingers, tearing it open.

There, nestled in layers of tissue and silk, was the gown she had described from Madame Vernisse, the ivory muslin with the intricate lace along the bodice.

Beneath it, folded with near ceremonial reverence, lay the champagne silk with the embroidered hem.

Cordelia let out a delighted shriek. “He bought them all?”

Evelyn didn’t answer—she had already begun tearing into the next box. Out came the satin with pearl beading from Mrs. Aldermere. Then the dusky rose with the empire waist she had only mentioned in passing.

“And these,” she breathed, undoing the ribbon of yet another parcel, “I never even described…”

Hazel leaned in to inspect a note nestled among the tissue. “There’s something here.”

Evelyn snatched the envelope and opened it with wary fingers. The writing inside was infuriatingly elegant, and the words were scrawled with clear, deliberate mockery:

My dear Miss Ellory,

Since you were so uncertain, I thought it only fair to relieve you of the burden of choice. I trust these may assist you in making a timely decision. Though, between us, I suspect you will look rather dangerous in the champagne silk.

R.

Evelyn’s cheeks flamed. “He’s mocking me!”

Cordelia clutched her sides with laughter. “He may be, but he’s doing it with exquisite taste.”

Hazel bit her lip. “Evelyn… you must admit, it’s rather romantic.”

Evelyn spun around. “It’s infuriating! This was supposed to buy me time, not add to his ridiculous charm campaign!”

“And yet,” Cordelia said, grinning like a cat, “he’s winning.”

Evelyn exhaled, glaring down at the pile of silks and lace as if they had betrayed her personally.

“Not for long,” she muttered. “He may have bested me today… but the game is not over.”