Page 12 of His Scottish Duchess (The Dukes of Sin #5)
CHAPTER TWELVE
“ Y our Grace,” Anna called as she gently knocked on Catherine’s door, before walking in. “Miss Bethany has arrived.”
A flutter of anticipation stirred within Catherine at her maid’s knowing smile, and she couldn’t help but return the sentiment. The prospect of new gowns had gradually become appealing, but it was the idea of spending time with someone new, someone who wasn’t a member of the household or her troublesome husband, that truly lifted her spirits.
Following Anna downstairs, Catherine found a woman with kind eyes and a warm smile waiting for her in one of the smaller drawing rooms.
“Your Grace, it is an honor,” the woman said, curtsying gracefully. “I am Miss Bethany, and I am one of the finest modistes in London if I say so myself.”
“Miss Bethany, the pleasure is all mine,” Catherine replied, feeling immediately at ease, thanks to the woman’s confidence. “Seeing as the Duke—I mean, my husband—chose you to attend to me, I do not doubt that you possess the skills that you claim you do.”
Miss Bethany smiled brightly, her genuine warmth quickly dissipating whatever reservations or anxieties Catherine might have had.
“You are too kind, Your Grace. The Duke had requested that I take special care whilst interacting with you, and at first, I thought he was merely being protective—as men tend to be with their wives. But, my word, you are one of the loveliest women I have ever met!” she exclaimed, her appreciative gaze sweeping over Catherine. “You have such a lovely figure, and—that glorious auburn hair and those striking green eyes! Oh! Pardon me, Your Grace, I am very excited to have you wear my creations. We shall craft such stunning ensembles that will make you the envy of every lady in London.”
Catherine felt warmth spread through her chest at the genuine compliment. It was a far cry from the often-reserved interactions she had had since arriving at Rosehall. Miss Bethany’s enthusiasm was certainly infectious.
“I have brought with me a veritable treasure trove of fabrics, Your Grace,” Miss Bethany continued, gesturing to several large trunks that had been brought into the room. “Silks from the Orient, the finest wools from England, delicate muslins, and more! We shall find the perfect textures and colors to enhance your natural beauty.”
As the modiste began to unpack, revealing bolts of shimmering silks in jewel tones, soft cashmere, and intricately patterned brocades, Catherine felt a sense of excitement she hadn’t experienced in days. It was a welcome distraction from the lingering tension with Sampson and the constant, quiet pressure of adjusting to her new role.
“Now, Your Grace,” Miss Bethany began, her tone becoming more practical. “Have you ever had gowns made for you before?”
Catherine flushed slightly. “Not… not really,” she admitted. “My gowns from home were… simpler. They were easy to make, so my mother, sister, and I would only pick out the colors and patterns we wanted the fabrics to be, and the modiste would make them into lovely dresses in no time.”
Miss Bethany chuckled kindly. “Well then, you are in for a treat! It is a delightful process—though it does require a bit of patience.” She winked conspiratorially. “And sometimes, a bit of gossip helps to pass the time.”
The modiste’s easygoing nature truly put Catherine at ease. She had been uncertain about what to expect, picturing a more formal and perhaps even intimidating experience. Instead, Miss Bethany felt like a friendly confidante.
She beckoned Catherine closer, smiling at her as she draped a measuring tape around her shoulders.
But as Miss Bethany began to take her measurements, Catherine felt a wave of awkwardness wash over her swiftly. She wasn’t sure how she was supposed to stand, her arms feeling like they didn’t quite belong to her.
Miss Bethany, noticing her stiffness, laughed gently. “There, there, Your Grace. Just stand naturally. Imagine you are admiring a particularly beautiful flower.” She gently adjusted Catherine’s posture. “That’s much better.”
She continued her work, speaking softly as her eyes trailed over Catherine’s figure.
“My work allows me to meet all sorts of people—both men and women—and let me tell you, they get into all sorts of trouble. Much more than you would expect from the simple shop of a modiste. You are still new to London, correct? So you might not have met a lot of people.”
“That is correct.” Catherine nodded, moving to the side as the modiste directed with her hands. “I have not been given the chance to acquaint myself with the world outside these walls yet.”
“One would think you were being held against your will,” Bethany commented.
“Oh no.” Catherine shook her head, horrified at the idea that someone might believe she was being held prisoner. “I have merely been… adjusting to England. I know that if I expressed any interest in going outside, my request would be honored immediately.”
“That is wonderful to know. But there is an upside to your lack of socialization. You likely have heard nothing about the people I will tell you about. Like Lady Beatrice, for instance. A real darling. Perfectly amiable woman, but she insists on wearing yellow.
“Poor dear looks like a rather sickly daffodil, or perhaps some other strange, pale plant that’s never seen the sun. I long to suggest a lovely rose or a vibrant blue—something to brighten her complexion—but one must remain professional, right?” Miss Bethany sighed dramatically, her eyes twinkling.
Catherine stifled a giggle, imagining the unfortunate Lady Beatrice swathed in unflattering yellow. “Oh dear,” she murmured, trying to sound appropriately sympathetic.
Miss Bethany continued as she deftly measured Catherine’s waist. “And then there are the Misses Thornton—quite the eligible pair, both vying for the attention of the Viscount Ashworth. Imagine my surprise when they both came to me—separately, of course—requesting gowns of the very same style!
“To their credit, it was a rather fetching Empire line in a delicate lavender. Neither had an inkling that the other was planning such a… strategic sartorial move for the very same promenade! Oh, the scandal that will ensue when they appear like two lavender peas in a pod, both hoping to catch the Viscount’s eye!” She shook her head in mock horror.
Catherine’s eyes widened in amusement. “Oh, how dreadful. And terribly awkward!” she exclaimed, picturing the scene and the likely mortification of the two sisters.
“Indeed, Your Grace,” Miss Bethany agreed, moving to measure Catherine’s bust. “The things one overhears and observes in this profession! It’s like a constant, silent play unfolding before my very eyes. Mrs. Gable, for instance, insists that her new gown must make her look at least ten years younger—a feat no amount of boning or clever ruching can truly achieve, alas. And Lord Abernathy’s waistcoat… well, let’s just say it strains the limits of decency, and perhaps the buttons themselves!”
Catherine found herself laughing more freely now, Miss Bethany’s lighthearted tales painting a vivid picture of the social whirl of London. It made the unfamiliar world around her seem a little less daunting, a little more human, with its share of follies and foibles.
As Miss Bethany continued taking her measurements, her chatter painted a vibrant picture of amusing anecdotes, from secret assignations hinted at in rushed orders to the subtle digs exchanged between rival socialites through their fabric choices.
Catherine listened with rapt attention, offering appropriate gasps of surprise, nods of understanding, and sympathetic sighs. It was a welcome change from the often-stilted conversations within the staff, and she truly felt a connection forming with the kind, gossipy modiste.
“There, Your Grace,” Miss Bethany said finally, stepping back with a satisfied smile. “The measurements are complete. You have been a perfect model thus far. Now, let us look at these sketches.”
They moved on to discuss designs. Catherine felt far more comfortable and at ease than she had anticipated, thanks to Miss Bethany’s warm nature and the delightful snippets of London life she had so generously shared.
Soon, the conversation shifted to styles, necklines, and sleeve lengths, Miss Bethany offering suggestions based on current fashions and what she believed would best suit Catherine.
Time seemed to pass quickly in Miss Bethany’s cheerful company. They chatted about everything and nothing, and Catherine found herself genuinely enjoying the experience. She felt a warmth towards the modiste, a sense of burgeoning friendship that had been sorely lacking in her new life.
“I will need you to take off this dress now, Your Grace. Just for a moment, so I can see what these fabrics look like against your skin. We need to be sure of how flattering—or unflattering—they look on you before we make a final choice,” Miss Bethany told her gently.
Catherine nodded, already reaching for the buttons of her dress. “I understand completely. It is fine.”
The modiste helped her take off her dress, leaving her in her chemise and corset. Then, she raised swatches of fabrics to Catherine’s arms and chest, explaining why some colors worked and others did not.
After some time, just as Miss Bethany was sketching a design for a morning gown, the door to the drawing room opened. Catherine looked up, feeling a hint of surprise—and a touch of apprehension—as Sampson entered.
He paused just inside the doorway, his gaze sweeping over the room before settling on her. Catherine instinctively tried to smooth down the thin fabric of her chemise, though she fought the urge to fidget.
“Well, well,” she said, trying to keep her tone light, “if it isn’t my dear husband. You must be terribly bored to come and check on my progress with the modiste.”
Sampson’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. “My dearest wife,” he drawled, his gaze lingering on her form in a way that made her skin prickle. “I simply missed you so much, I felt I must seek you out to ensure that you are perfectly well.”
His tone was deliberately exaggerated, dripping with a playful affection that she did not entirely believe.
Miss Bethany, who had been observing the exchange with an amused expression, chuckled. “My goodness,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “For newlyweds, you two are certainly comfortable with each other. I’ve seen older couples who aren’t so… comfortable with each other.”
It was apparent that she interpreted their banter as a sign of deep intimacy, seeing them as a couple who simply couldn’t bear to be apart.
Catherine looked at her husband, waiting for him to set the record straight. But Sampson didn’t deny the modiste’s implication. In fact, he seemed to relish it.
He stepped further into the room, his gaze still fixed on Catherine, making her feel acutely aware of her state of undress.
“Have you not seen her stunning beauty, Miss Bethany?” he asked, his voice a low murmur that seemed to caress her skin. “I would be remiss not to worship her at every chance I am given.”
Catherine felt a blush creep up her neck and spread across her cheeks. His words, though clearly intended to tease, had a certain weight to them, especially when they were delivered with that intense, unwavering gaze. She found herself squirming slightly under his scrutiny, wishing she had her gown on.
Sampson’s eyes roamed over her body, lingering on the curve of her shoulders and the delicate line of her collarbone. It was a look that made her breath catch in her throat, a look that held a promise of intimacy that both thrilled and unnerved her.
“I do not wish to bother you both any longer,” Sampson continued, turning his attention back to the modiste, though his gaze kept flicking back to Catherine. “But please ensure that Her Grace has several pairs of the finest gloves made from the best materials to match her new ensembles.”
“Certainly, Your Grace.” Miss Bethany nodded, curtsying respectfully.
He gave Catherine one last, lingering look, a smirk playing on his lips that suggested he was well aware of the effect he was having on her. Then, with a final nod to Miss Bethany, he turned and walked out of the drawing room, leaving Catherine flustered and with her heart still racing.
“His Grace leaves quite the impression, as I heard before.”
Catherine continued to stare in the direction he had gone for a moment, mumbling, “He is certainly something.”