Chapter Seven

“Please hold still, Miss Beaumont.” Mrs. Maxwell knelt upon the floor, hemming the white satin of Julia’s soon-to-be wedding gown. “You will be the most ravishing bride of the Season. His Grace does have fine taste, does he not?”

“He’s a very surprising man,” Julia said. More than surprising. Ashworth—Gregory—had delivered shock after shock this past week. The morning after their engagement, he’d sent a carriage to collect the ladies. Julia was to have a whole new wardrobe courtesy of Mrs. Maxwell, the most fashionable modiste in London.

Julia felt dizzy as she regarded herself in the three dressing mirrors. She could imagine they were the three versions of herself. A past spinster, a future duchess, and, presently, the toast of London society.

She had to admit, her future husband had negotiated all of this perfectly. The instant they became engaged, Julia had wanted to get a special license to marry. The sooner she was safe from Constance’s manipulations, the better. But Gregory had other, craftier ideas. He was 80 percent crafty ideas, 15 percent smug virility, and 5 percent effortless smolder.

“If we marry in haste, the society harridans won’t believe I’ve fallen in love,” he’d told Julia over dinner the next night. The engaged couple had spoken with Susannah while Constance remained frozen in horror at the end of the table. She’d looked like a living waxwork for almost a week now.

“Isn’t there plenty of time to woo me in front of the ton after I’m your wife?” she’d asked.

“Our romance must fool everyone in London, from chambermaid to queen. I’m afraid I’ll have to lavish you with gifts and attention, Miss Beaumont. Julia.”

The way her name sounded upon his lips sent a rush of heat throughout her body. Between her legs, especially.

“I’ll do my best to endure such trials. Gregory.”

He had laughed with delight at her use of his name. The sound of that laughter was like soft fur rubbed along her spine.

Gregory had more than kept his word. Expensive flower arrangements arrived daily, each more lavish than the last. Julia hadn’t known this many roses existed in all the hothouses in England. Boxes of marzipan, strings of pearls, even a milk-white Arabian mare turned up one after the other. Then came the engagement ring, a round, brilliant cut sapphire the size of a thumbnail and the exact shade of Julia’s eyes. Susannah helped Julia sort the gifts, giddy as a child. Meanwhile, Constance remained mute, disappearing behind the boxes as they piled up.

Every morning, Julia would open the cards Gregory sent with the bouquets, and she would struggle not to burst out laughing. He wrote her private little “endearments.”

To my lovely ball and chain, from your devoted future prisoner.

She dashed off notes to be sent back to him. Ball and chain? I prefer to be called the Iron Maiden, sir.

She’d get a reply back within the hour. Only until we’re married. Then you’ll be the Iron Madame.

Julia almost hated that it was so easy for him to make her laugh.

As the days passed, she had to acknowledge Gregory’s cleverness. Their grand romance was in every society paper and gossip column. All of London called theirs a true Cinderella story. After all, every last detail was in place: the couple met at a ball, the lady lost her slipper, and the gentleman returned it with an offer of marriage.

Within days, Julia’s wedding had been deemed the social event of the season. As the gifts poured in through the front door, so did endless rounds of fashionable callers. At least three duchesses had visited this week, and an eccentric gentleman poet had offered to compose a sonnet in Julia’s honor.

Gregory was paying for Julia’s wedding gown, trousseau, and a whole new wardrobe befitting a duchess. No expense would be spared.

No white satin would be left in London, either, by the time Mrs. Maxwell had finished. Julia had suggested she wear her best Sunday gown on the walk to the altar, the standard attire for a bride. But Gregory wouldn’t hear of it; she must be the height of fashion, outfitted like a queen. The modiste had sewn pearls all along Julia’s neckline, and there would be over a dozen white roses placed in her hair and tucked into the folds of her clothing. She’d look and smell heavenly on her way to be married.

But the dress and the new pelisse and the morning and afternoon gowns weren’t the only attire the duke had arranged. There was also the matter of the six satin night rails. The sheer stockings held up with ruffled, riotously lacy garters. The drawers of brilliant crimson silk.

When Julia asked her fiancé why he’d ordered so many risqué choices, he’d smirked. “I have to show London I’ve fallen in love,” he’d replied. “But I also have a reputation as a rake to maintain.”

“You’re going to look gorgeous.” Susannah appeared in the mirror beside Julia’s reflection. Her own bridesmaid’s dress of peach silk had nearly been completed.

“I’m sorry, darling.” Julia hugged Susannah as Mrs. Maxwell allowed her off the stool. “This whole wedding has eclipsed your first Season.”

“Are you joking? It’s increased my notoriety. I’m part of the fairy tale, after all.” Susannah laughed as she flapped open a lace fan and fluttered it under her chin. “The wicked stepsister.”

“Anyone who calls you wicked shall have my glass slipper shoved right up his—”

“Language, please.” Lady Weatherford swept into the shop and seated herself upon the velvet settee.

“Would you care for tea, my lady?” Mrs. Maxwell beamed. Tea, port, champagne, she’d served them all to Julia and Susannah the last few days, alongside sugared almonds and candied plums.

“No, thank you.” Laura blew out her cheeks as she patted her stomach. “Ugh. Bearing children is wonderful, but I shall be so glad when the first few months are over. She’s already her father’s daughter, dashing and somersaulting all over the place.”

“So certain it’s a girl?” Julia laughed. “Wouldn’t Weatherford prefer a boy?”

“Please! We have two already. The viscount’s had the nursery painted pink, and he’s even told me the name: Daphne Josephine.”

“What if it’s a boy?” Susannah asked.

“Then Daphne will be the most original boy in all England.”

Julia sat beside her friend as Mrs. Maxwell summoned Susannah, eager to see to the bridesmaid’s hem.

Meanwhile, Laura turned Julia’s hand this way and that to admire the cut of her sapphire.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a bigger stone,” she marveled. “Ashworth must like you very much.”

“I suppose it’s better not to marry someone you detest,” Julia said. Really, she was unbelievably lucky. Every single detail of this wedding would be top-shelf. Constance would never have paid for such extravagances, not for Julia.

“You do like him, don’t you?”

“Because of the duke, I’ll never have to massage Constance’s shoulders ever again, read her the gossip pages, or remake her tea three times because something’s always off.” Julia suppressed a shudder. “I’m ready to throw him a parade every morning when he comes down to breakfast.”

“Speaking of the morning…” Laura checked on Susannah, who was deep in discussion with Mrs. Maxwell. “Do you need any, well, advice?”

“On what? Awakening?”

“No. I know you’ve read a great deal, Julia, but some parts of married life can only be, er, experienced.”

Laura’s meaningful expression made it clear she was discussing the wedding night. The point of no return. Consummation.

Whenever Julia imagined Gregory standing above her, his shirt opened to display his sculpted chest and its perfect canvas of tawny flesh, she almost became faint. Her throat swelled, and her tongue felt thick and clumsy.

But she remembered the magic words: marriage of convenience. Nothing more. She’d never asked what that arrangement meant to Gregory, but she couldn’t think why he’d want to, er, consummate the union. Even if the marriage weren’t technically official until they did, who would know? It was all pretend, anyway.

This beautiful, expensive wedding gown, this sapphire ring, and all of those gifts and gestures were only pretend. Julia had accepted that, at her age, she would have to settle for a marriage of convenience, but she never dreamed she’d have to behave like a woman in the midst of a fairy tale. Sometimes she could almost fool herself into believing that this was real, that this man truly loved her. This sinfully handsome man with the face of an angel and the mind of a devil. A brilliant, wicked, amusing man.

Then she’d remember that this was all an act, and that she was gaining her freedom and comfort, nothing more. She pretended that thought didn’t hurt at all. Julia had sharpened her wits to guard her heart, but she sometimes wished she could be that open, warm girl again. The one who didn’t know the pain of disappointment.

The one who believed in love, or at least, who believed that she would find it.

“I don’t think we need to worry about any of that.” Julia studied the glinting ring on her finger. She wasn’t a shy or melancholy person, but she couldn’t pretend cheeriness she didn’t feel.

“Why not?”

“You know why,” Julia whispered. She was afraid Mrs. Maxwell would overhear. “This is an agreement, not a love match.”

Laura and Susannah were the only women in London who knew the truth about the upcoming Ashworth wedding.

“Yes, but you will be married. Ashworth must want an heir at some point! Besides, you didn’t see him the night you ran away from the ball.” Laura’s smile was pure mischief. In some ways, she was still the same optimistic girl she’d been when they were children. “He searched the entire room for you and scarce listened to a word I said.”

Those words shouldn’t have thrilled Julia. She knew Ashworth…Gregory…found her attractive, but he found every woman attractive. He was a ravenous wolf, and she was far too wise and world-weary to be a sheep.

“He doesn’t want to complicate things, and neither do I,” Julia said.

“Are you sure?” Laura frowned.

No. Not at all. But whenever Julia imagined speaking with Gregory about this, of placing herself in such a vulnerable position, she remembered only too well being seventeen years old. The last time she’d trusted any man. The last time she’d ever been a fool.

That was why marrying Gregory—no, the Duke of Ashworth—was so perfect. He would never fall in love with her. And while she believed he’d enjoy their wedding night, and that she would as well…

“I don’t want to make this complicated,” she whispered. “We both know what we’re getting. We shouldn’t try to arrange anything else.”

Laura took her hand.

“That sounds rather like Lady Beaumont speaking,” she muttered.

As if on cue, Constance waltzed in from the front of the shop, where she’d been examining a row of bonnets. Julia’s stepmother wore an ice-blue afternoon dress, one that matched her glacial expression. Constance had a smile for Susannah, at least.

“My darling, you look quite beautiful. I’m certain you’ll outshine the bride.”

Laura cast a commiserating look at Julia before she went to admire the detail in Susannah’s dress. That left Julia and Constance alone. Whenever Julia looked at her stepmother, she tried to spot what had made her father decide to marry the woman. Julia’s mother had died when she was two, and for over a decade afterward her father had been her world. They’d been such good friends, and when he’d told Julia he was remarrying she’d been delighted. She didn’t want to think of her father being alone, especially after she found herself a husband.

There must have been a time when Constance was kind to Julia, but it was hard to recall now. She and Julia’s father hadn’t even been married a full year when he died of a sudden illness, and from then on Julia had felt like a nuisance. If she’d been a boy, she could have inherited. Instead, the estate had gone to a distant cousin and Constance and the girls had been reduced to existing as tolerated guests in their own home.

“I think my gown’s coming along rather nicely,” Julia said. She wanted a pleasant afternoon.

“Mmm. His Grace has fine taste.” Constance sniffed. “Though at your age, dear, wearing white is perhaps a touch inappropriate.”

“Well, when I’m a duchess I’ll help to set trends in society.” Julia’s blood pressure began to rise. “Women can wear any color they like, no matter how old they become. And I won’t stop there. I might encourage any number of wild things, from large feathered headdresses to female suffrage.”

“You have such an appalling sense of humor.” Constance shuddered, her mouth puckering like she’d chomped into a lemon. Appalling. Too tall. Unfortunate. Irritating. All words that had dropped from Constance’s mouth into Julia’s ear over the years.

“I joke when I’m nervous,” Julia said, her patience strained.

“Only weak women complain of their nerves.”

That was more than enough. Julia stood, towering above her stepmother.

“If you could show me even the smallest kindness, we’d both be so much happier,” Julia said. Her throat tightened as she fought a swell of emotion. She wished she could have even a few good memories of a mother’s love, but Constance had made that impossible. Still, Julia had to believe that things could be fixed. For Susannah’s sake, she didn’t want there to be all this anger. “We could use this wedding as a chance to start over. There doesn’t need to be competition any longer.”

“Competition?” Constance appeared incredulous. She placed a hand upon her chest, a gesture of shock. “You think I feel in any way threatened by you? My Susannah is more beautiful and more charming than you’ll ever be, and if you hadn’t entrapped the duke, she’d have remained far wealthier, as well.”

“How exactly do you mean entrapped?” Julia hissed. Constance walked away, summoning Julia. They didn’t want Susannah to overhear, after all.

“I’m no fool.” Constance’s sneer could have chilled blood as they stood near a spool of lace, pretending to inspect it. “You think a man like the duke is marrying you for love? No, he wouldn’t have done such a thing if you hadn’t gone and ruined yourself.”

“That’s not true,” Julia snapped, even as her face heated. Because it was true. She’d kissed Gregory in that corridor, and if she hadn’t happened to lose her shoe he likely never would have sought her out. She’d still be ruined, and a spinster.

“You think you caught his eye?” Constance bit back laughter. “You little fool. Even if you didn’t ruin yourself, you know that he’s only using you. I’ve heard of his reputation. The man’s using you to protect himself from scandal. A plain-faced bride is just the ticket to make him look respectable.”

Julia’s stomach clenched. Constance had hit so near the mark without even trying. The rest of society would do the same. Even when Julia was Duchess of Ashworth, her guests would greet her with smiles and then whisper behind her back. They’d pity Gregory, or else congratulate him on using a pathetic spinster to keep from the dueling field.

But his kisses at the ball had been passionate. They had scorched Julia. Even if this marriage was convenient, he did like her. She grew more confident as she faced down Constance.

“You simply can’t bear it, dear stepmother. You’ve spent years trying to break me, all so I’d be an obedient doll who’d follow your every command.” Julia loomed; how lovely that she was tall enough to loom. “But I won. I’m marrying far above my station, and yours, and there is nothing you’ll ever be able to do or say to me again that can hurt me. I will be very happy with my husband, and Susannah will be always welcome at our home. But you will have to wait for a formal invitation, like the rest of the ton,” Julia snapped.

“You may have this wedding.” Constance’s voice was sugared ice. “You may become a duchess, and you may even fool society into believing you’re in love. But you know as well as I do that this wedding is a fraud.” Her stepmother’s lip curled. Constance had been passively cruel before. This was aggressive, as if now that Julia was leaving, Constance had to get in as many final jabs as possible. “That’s the only way any man could ever marry you. You have a sharp tongue and an ugly countenance, my dear. You’re the opposite of what a gentleman wants in a wife.”

“How dare you?” Julia pulled herself up, but Constance knew just where to aim to deliver the greatest amount of damage.

“I’ll always recall the seventeen-year-old girl who stayed outside of Pennington Hall all night, waiting with packed bags for a man to spirit her away. An elopement, puh. I also recall that girl trudging back inside come the morning, soaked to the skin and crying because her beloved never came. He thought better of it, and he abandoned you.” Constance smirked. “Even when you were in your prime, Julia, you weren’t enough to satisfy a man. Remember that.”

Julia had never been tempted to strike another human being before. At least, not a woman. But her gloved hand clenched into a fist as she imagined walloping Constance right in her shrewish mouth.

She’s right, you know.

Even if Constance had allowed Julia to spend her best years out in society, Julia likely would not have made many conquests. Men enjoyed looking at her, but when she opened her mouth they often lost interest. It wasn’t that she was an idiot. Hell, if she’d been stupider she might have secured a proposal. Having opinions, especially educated ones, was a bad decision when one was female in this hideous society.

“When I’m the Duchess of Ashworth, I won’t strike at you for Susannah’s sake.” Julia fought to keep her voice from quavering. “But I don’t want to speak to you ever again, you spiteful old woman.”

Constance gasped. Finally, Julia had managed to wound her vanity. As Constance stalked off to admire Susannah, Julia took a moment to compose herself. She gazed out the shop window to the bustling London street and noticed her reflection in the glass.

She saw a woman in a bridal gown, but even dressed in white Julia knew she was fooling herself. She wasn’t a real bride. She recalled in vivid detail the day when she was supposed to elope. She could still feel the sting of the early morning rain against her cheek. When she’d realized that he hadn’t come for her—that he would never come for her—she’d pretended that her tears were raindrops.

She’d been a fool before, but she would never be a fool again.