Page 31 of The Wallflower’s Great Escape (The Wallflowers’ Revolt #1)

A sennight later

T he bell above the door of Madame Duval’s shop tinkled merrily as Georgie stepped inside, the soft scent of starch and expensive fabric immediately enveloping her.

Madame Duval’s was more than a dressmaker’s, it was an experience.

The polished wood floors gleamed, sunlight streaming through tall windows and glinted off the delicate crystal buttons and ribbons that lined the walls in neat boxes.

Bolts of silk and satin spilled across display tables in jewel tones and soft pastels, while dress forms stood like silent sentinels, draped in the latest Parisian fashions.

Bea trailed just behind her, immaculate in a light-green pelisse trimmed in sable, her blond head held high, looking as though she owned the place.

Georgie herself wore a dove-gray walking dress with a soft rose sash that Madame had insisted flattered her coloring perfectly. Still, she felt slightly self-conscious in her new finery, as though at any moment someone might realize she didn’t truly belong in a place like this.

She hadn’t breathed a word to Bea or Poppy about that night in the drawing room with Jason. Nor had she confessed that their marriage remained unconsummated. It was far too personal…and, if she were honest, far too embarrassing.

Since the wedding, she and Jason had settled into a comfortable routine.

They shared breakfast each morning before going their separate ways—she with the decorators, poring over endless swatches and sketches for Pembroke House, and he in his study, at his club, or—she’d learned—in the fencing room for hours at a time.

They dined together, trading laughter and easy conversation, then attended whatever fête was currently dazzling the ton .

They danced, took refreshments side by side, and, to all appearances, presented the picture of a hasty marriage that had already blossomed into a warm companionship—friendlier, in fact, than many of Society’s most celebrated unions.

And Martha had been right. Jason was kind and generous with all of his servants. He tossed a coin to the butler’s young son whenever he saw him, ruffling his hair and asking how his schoolwork was coming along. The butler had informed her that Jason himself paid for Timothy’s tutor.

She’d also overheard the housemaid recounting to another that when her mother had taken ill, Jason had sent the woman home for a fortnight with full pay—and had quietly arranged for a physician to visit her in the country.

And only yesterday, when the footman had torn his coat delivering a package in the rain, instead of rebuking the man, Jason had ordered him a brand-new one from his own tailor, insisting the lad not set foot outside again until it arrived.

Then there was the way he treated her. With kindness, gentleness, and an endless well of patience.

He made her laugh until her cheeks ached and made her press her thighs together with a wanting so sharp it stole her breath.

He was clever, kind, and utterly infuriating in the way he could disarm her with a single look—leaving her both safe in his presence and perilously close to forgetting why she’d ever intended to keep her heart to herself.

But for all his charm and attentiveness, Jason had not once crossed the threshold of her bedroom. Georgie was beginning to wonder if she’d imagined that night in the drawing room—when his touch had very nearly set her aflame.

And she was beginning to wonder, with no little frequency, exactly what she could do to entice her husband to her bed.

As Georgie and Bea made their way farther into the shop, Madame Duval bustled toward them in a cloud of flowery perfume, clapping her hands in delight.

Draped over her arms was a gown so exquisite it could have stepped straight from a Parisian sketchbook. “Try zis one first, Lady Pembroke,” she implored.

Sweeping Georgie toward a curtained alcove, she pulled back the heavy velvet with a flourish and ushered her inside.

Twenty minutes later, Georgie emerged, the gown flowing around her like poured silk, Madame Duval trailing in her wake, beaming.

“Ah! Ma chère! You are a vision!” she cried, taking Georgie by the shoulders and spinning her toward a long gilt mirror.

The new gown she wore, a creamy pale gold muslin with delicate ivory embroidery and tiny seed pearls scattered over the bodice, was exquisite. Georgie barely recognized herself.

“Perfection,” Bea said, with a warm smile and an approving nod.

“You will have zee ton on zeir knees,” Madame Duval declared.

“Preferably not literally,” Bea drawled, examining a length of silk.

Georgie gave a faint laugh and allowed Madame to fuss over her hem, nodding when the woman declared she must fetch a final accessory from the back.

As Madame disappeared behind the velvet curtain, the shop door chimed again.

This time the effect was…different.

Every seamstress in the room froze. Shopgirls scattered to line up by the door like soldiers awaiting a queen.

The air shifted perceptibly as the newcomer entered—a tall woman in a perfectly tailored dark blue velvet pelisse, the collar lined in white fox, her gloved hands resting lightly on an ebony cane that was surely more ornament than necessity.

Her hair was a rich chestnut threaded liberally with silver, swept back under a feathered hat, and her eyes—sharp and emerald green—seemed to take in everything at once.

She carried herself with such imperious elegance that Georgie instinctively straightened.

“Ah, Dowager Countess,” one of the shopgirls simpered, bobbing into a curtsy.

The words barely registered.

Dowager Countess ?

The girls rushed to take her gloves and offer her tea, but she waved them off with a faint smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Instead, she walked slowly toward the mirror where Georgie stood, her cane clicking softly on the floor.

“You,” she said, her voice smooth as satin, “are the new Lady Pembroke, are you not?”

Georgie blinked, startled into speechlessness for a beat before she nodded. “Yes. I am,” she replied carefully, feeling Bea come to stand close beside her.

A faint, knowing smile curved the older woman’s mouth.

“I thought that was you,” she murmured, eyes sweeping up and down Georgie’s figure with an appraisal that made her cheeks heat.

Bea’s hand slid through hers, her grip firm, her chin lifting.

“I do so enjoy seeing how quickly the gossip pages work,” the dowager continued idly, as though she were remarking on the weather. “Why, it was only last week they described you as ‘a penniless wallflower from a tarnished family,’ and yet here you stand. Miraculous, really.”

Bea stiffened at her side.

Georgie swallowed, managing only a tight smile.

The woman took another slow step closer, her eyes narrowing slightly. “I thought I ought to come and see for myself,” she said softly, leaning in just enough that Georgie could smell her perfume—something spicy and expensive, like cloves and roses.

Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “My son always did like to take in strays.”

Georgie’s stomach clenched, her breath catching in her throat.

The dowager straightened, her eyes glittering, then tilted her head and leaned in again, her tone almost pitying now.

“It’s not about you, you know,” she said, her words deliberate and quiet. “It’s about her. Evelyn. He never got over not being able to save his sister. Now he saves any poor creature he can find to make up for it.”

The woman allowed her gaze to sweep down Georgie’s new gown with a faint, almost imperceptible sneer. “Clearly.”

And just like that, she turned on her heel, cane tapping smartly against the floor as the shopgirls all scrambled to escort her out.

The bell above the door chimed one final time as the dowager swept out into the street.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Bea squeezed Georgiana’s hand. “Georgie?” she asked gently.

But Georgiana couldn’t answer.

She could only stand there, staring at her reflection, her breath coming too fast, her cheeks burning, as though the air had been knocked clean out of her chest.