Page 5 of The Prince’s Wallflower Wife (The Wallflower Academy #4)

‘O h, isn’t it darling?’

‘Absolutely hideous.’

‘How can you say that? Look at the lace, look at the stripes…’

‘Look at the colours! You honestly want to put Daphne—our Daphne—in orange and pink?’

The raucous laughter of Daphne’s friends filled the renowned modiste Madame Lavigne’s shop and Daphne attempted to smile, trapped as she was in a seat that was far too stuffed, and weighed down with five different fabric samples in her lap, two bonnets to examine, a half-open parasol, a pair of elegant dancing shoes, a rack of ribbons that she apparently had to choose from and the burden of her friends’ expectations.

Perhaps this had not been a good idea.

‘This was such a good idea,’ declared Sylvia, Duchess of Camrose, hands resting on the swell of her stomach. ‘I haven’t had this much fun in ages.’

‘What, getting tired of that husband of yours?’ asked Rilla, Countess of Staromchor dryly.

The women’s giggles echoed around the entire modiste’s establishment.

That would have been mortifying to Daphne, had her father not insisted on booking the entire place for the whole day.

His note to the modiste, via the footman who had escorted her, had explained that his daughter was extremely private, and that, with her wedding to a prince, they would need to be careful to keep it discreet, and would not need to be ‘gawped at by all and sundry, as a lady of similar taste like yourself is sure to understand’.

And the modiste did understand. Daphne was sure the clink of coins passing from one hand to the other had helped.

Still, she should not complain. She was here, with her good friends…

and she was getting married. After years of having lived together at the Wallflower Academy—laughing together at the Pike, suffering through the awkward Society dinners, and then Daphne being left behind by first one, then the second, then the third—it was pleasant to spend a little time with them.

Even if Daphne thought them all incorrigible.

‘This silk embroidery truly is exquisite,’ Rilla was saying, her unseeing eyes unfocused before her as her attention centred on the delicate feel of the blue silk in her hands.

‘I shall have to have some for Florence. She may only be a few months, but she deserves beautiful things. You should choose this for your wedding gown, Daphne.’

‘Blue? Absolutely not. Our girl suits green,’ Gwen, Duchess of Knaresby, said firmly. ‘I mean, look at this!’

In her hands was a bolt of delicious forest-green silk. There was no pattern, no embroidery—it did not need it. The shimmering colour alone was sufficient.

Daphne swallowed. It all seemed very…excessive.

She could hardly recall the last time her father had given Miss Pike additional funds for a new pair of gloves, let alone a silk gown.

Parasols, gloves, bonnets, reticules, pelisses, two types of riding boot and stockings adorned the plethora of tables to her left and right.

She had ignored them until now, hoping she could almost forget they were there.

‘Why restrict yourself?’ Sylvia was grinning, having thrown herself down on a chaise longue just to Daphne’s right.

She was holding a very stylish bonnet trimmed with golden feathers to her breast, a perfect match for her glowing black skin.

‘Have a gown made of every colour, Daphne. Your father can afford it!’

Her friends’ laughter rang out and Daphne tried to smile. She should be smiling. She knew she should. What woman would not wish to be welcomed into Madame Lavigne’s and told she could order whatever she wanted? What woman would not wish to be married?

What woman would not wish to be married to a prince?

What date do you wish—this Thursday in three weeks, or four weeks?

Swallowing again, and finding to her discomfort that it did nothing to calm her nerves, she tried to smile. ‘It’s…it’s all so much.’

‘And not half of what you deserve, either,’ Sylvia said sternly, before breaking out into a smile. ‘And, if Rilla is ordering a tiny gown for her Florence, why are you not considering a matching suit for little Perce?’

Gwen’s face went soft at the thought of her son, but eighteen months old. ‘He would look particularly dapper in something like that—but I am here for myself, not for little Perce.’

‘Gwendoline Devereux, put that down!’

‘You don’t think it suits me?’ preened Gwen with a laugh as she held the most stupendous corset to her chest.

‘I think you would have to sell off one of those houses of yours to afford it! Are those…? That cannot be diamonds embroidered around the edges!’

‘Such extravagance,’ muttered Rilla with a wry smile. ‘After all, diamonds are such cold, harsh things. Now feathers, on the other hand—’

‘That gown of yours you wore to the theatre last week was outrageous.’ Sylvia cut across her as Daphne watched her friends chatter. ‘The way you had those feathers sewn into the cuffs!’

‘I like to feel them—what do I care what colour a gown is?’ retorted Rilla. ‘Give me a velvet gown with feathers any day.’

‘I think…’ began Daphne quietly.

She was not exactly ignored. Her friends were too earnest for that particular cruelty. No, they simply did not hear her. Did not expect to hear her.

I think , she wanted to say, that it doesn’t matter what I wear. I’ll be marrying a devastatingly handsome man, who caught me looking at him with lust, and I can never speak to him again!

‘Are not feathers considered gaudy these days?’ Gwen pondered.

Sylvia snorted. ‘Not the way Rilla wears them. Now that stepmother of yours, Daphne—your mother-in-law, Rilla—’

‘It is a little incestuous when you put it like that,’ quipped Rilla with a grin.

‘The way she wears coloured feathers in her hair and bonnets, it’s obscene!’ continued Sylvia, entirely ignoring the interruption. ‘I don’t think it should be allowed.’

‘And what about you, with you wearing breeches at home? Yes, I heard that particular bit of gossip!’ Gwen laughed as she and Daphne saw Sylvia’s pinking cheeks.

‘You think I don’t know? My lady’s maid’s sister is one of your under-maids, and she said you go about the place wearing breeches! Duchesses shouldn’t wear breeches!’

‘I am not a typical duchess,’ Sylvia said, winking.

‘Why would you…?’ began Daphne.

‘Good for you,’ said Rilla firmly, putting down the embroidered silk she had been stroking and picking up a reticule embroidered with small pearls. ‘Far more practical than skirts, I say.’

‘How can you say that? As though Sylvia isn’t scandalous enough…’

And so the conversation continued, with very little effort on Daphne’s part.

In fact, she seemed immaterial to it. Her three friends chattered on about silks, gown styles and the way one’s bust changed over time; they pondered the suitability of bonnets made from Spanish straw, not English, and whether or not red could truly be coming back this Season; and, of course, whether their husbands would happily foot the bills they were swiftly running up with Madame Lavigne.

Daphne smiled wanly.

Why aren’t you all listening to me?

She should be grateful. She knew she should. She had three friends who truly cared about her and did not fuss if she preferred to be silent, quiet and unobtrusive—preferably unobserved.

They were all prettier than her, cleverer than her, wittier than her. Rooms silenced to hear what Rilla had to say. Crowds listened eagerly to the tales of what Sylvia had been up to. And Gwen? Gwen could command a room by her mere presence alone.

And then there was Daphne.

She tried to maintain her smile. She tried to remind herself that these were her good friends; that they had never critiqued her or compared her poorly to themselves. But it did not matter. The sense of inadequacy was strong, and it could not be overcome by the small matter of marrying a prince.

‘Oh, no, she won’t like that—put it in the “no” pile,’ said Sylvia firmly, throwing a pelisse to Gwen that looked perfect to Daphne’s eye, who placed it in an ever-increasing pile.

‘What about this?’ Rilla said, lifting up a headband of woven ribbons and what appeared to be emeralds.

‘Oh, I don’t—’

‘Perfect match for her green wedding gown,’ Gwen said firmly. ‘Let me put it in the “yes” pile.’

Daphne sat back in her seat. It would be pleasant, just once in a while, to get a word in edgeways…

But then, on the rare times she was able to gain the attention of the room, any room, her tongue most inconveniently stuck in her mouth and all words disappeared from her mind.

It was as though she had never heard a single word in her life.

‘So.’

Daphne jumped. She’d become lost in her thoughts, half-forgetting where she was, and now Rilla was fixing her with a most impressive stare.

‘So?’ she attempted softly.

It was no use. Gwen and Sylvia, arguing over the suitability of a buckle, glanced over and grinned.

‘So,’ repeated Rilla sternly. ‘What is he like?’

Daphne’s soul went cold. Oh, no . No, she really didn’t think she could…

‘Yes, we demand to hear everything about this groom of yours,’ said Sylvia smartly, dropping the buckle precisely halfway between the two piles she and Gwen had been adding to, and moving to sit beside Rilla. ‘This new husband of yours!’

‘Sylvia! Honestly, you make it sound as though Daphne is shedding one husband to select another!’ Gwen tutted, smiling as she sat herself down in a chair on Daphne’s other side. ‘Still, I would like to know about him. What does he look like?’

‘Is he handsome?’ Sylvia asked eagerly.

‘Does he have a kind heart?’ Rilla said, asking the far more important question to Daphne’s mind.

Not that she could concoct a single answer to any of their enquiries.

How was one supposed to describe a man she had only met once?

Not that the encounter would have been much different had Miss Pike been absent for its entirety.

No, she would have stood there, mute, unable to think of a coherent thought, her skin burning…