She narrowed her eyes at him. “I particularly feel like hitting people who stay unnaturally calm, especially people who got me into this horrid position in the first place.” She flexed a gloved hand and said reflectively, “I’ve never hit a duke before.”
“Possibly it is a treat in store for you in the future. In the meantime, let us demonstrate to the ignorant that we are in this together.” He presented his arm, and, with a cautious look she slipped her hand into the crook of his arm.
He led her forward a few steps, then paused and looked down at her. “And you’re not odd. You’re an original.”
He led her in a slow stroll around the room. He greeted people, sometimes with just a nod, and sometimes he stopped to chat with the more influential members of society in attendance, presenting her as his betrothed each time.
George remained fairly silent, speaking only when spoken to. She kept a pleasant expression on her face, but underneath she was still seething. Naturally the compliments and congratulations held no barbs—hidden or blatant—this time around.
She wasn’t sure whether she was relieved to have the slings and arrows stop, or even angrier at the hypocrisy thatwould happily attack her but pour the butter boat over him for the same thing.
Not that many people actually addressed her; she was merely the appendage on the duke’s arm. Was that to be her future? she wondered. Not if she could help it.
All the time they circulated, she was horribly aware of the warmth of the duke’s arm under her palm, his strength. The faint, distinctive scent of his shaving cologne teased her senses, making her want to lean closer and inhale him.Inhale him?She caught herself just in time.
It was still happening, she thought gloomily. When would this wretched state come to an end?
After an hour, Aunt Agatha glided up and indicated that it was time to leave. George was never more thankful of anything in her life. The duke escorted them to the carriage, bowed over her hand and then strolled off into the night. George watched him go. It was so unfair. Men had so much more freedom.
***
George and Aunt Dottie went shopping for a wedding dress the next morning. Aunt Dottie was particularly eager to go. She’d heard about the House of Chance from some of her friends, and in particular from an old crony, Beatrice, Lady Davenham, who ran a kind of literary society. Lily often attended it when she was in London, and after Aunt Dottie’s first visit, she’d become a regular attendee. As was, surprisingly, the dressmaker, Miss Daisy Chance.
As expected, Aunt Agatha declined to accompany them on the excursion, saying in her lofty way that she quite washed her hands of them and would take no responsibility for Georgiana’s final outfit.
“Why should you?” George asked her. “You’re not the one getting married.”
With a sniff Aunt Agatha swept regally out.
Aunt Dottie giggled. “She wouldn’t want to take responsibility for what I’m planning to buy either.”
“What are you getting?” Emm asked curiously.
“Bea Davenham showed me the most delightfully naughty nightdresses and bed-jackets that Miss Chance made for her. Did you know Miss Chance and her husband and little daughter live with Bea—they’re some kind of family connection, I believe. Anyway, I want some of those nightdresses, and a couple of bed-jackets—so pretty they are.”
Emm smiled. “They are indeed. I have several. One of my former students sent me the most beautiful nightdress from Miss Chance for my wedding. That’s how we met her, in fact. She was the only dressmaker we knew in London.”
“Except for Hortense,” said George, pulling a face. “And we didn’t like her at all.”
Miss Chance was most enthusiastic about the plans for a wedding dress for George. She drew out a sheaf of designs she’d sketched when she’d first seen the betrothal announcement in the newspaper.
“Something simple, like you usually like, Lady George, only I wasn’t sure if you’d prefer something light, or something a bit heavier in a rich fabric—we’re gettin’ into summer, and you don’t want to be hot. Then again, knowin’ London weather, it might be freezin’.
“And what jewelry will you be wantin’ to wear? Pearls is the usual thing for brides. Would you want pearls sewn onto the bodice, like this one”—she showed George a design—“or something like this?” She pulled out another sketch. “Or do you want embroidery—because, if so, we’ll need to decide pretty quick so that my girls can get started on it. Three weeks ain’t very long, you know.”
Everything was in white or cream, which George was heartily sick of. And she’d rejected out of hand the idea that she would wear silver tissue over white satin, which Princess Charlotte had worn to her wedding, poor lady.
But Aunt Agatha had stated, and Emm and Aunt Dottie agreed, that it was vital that she marry in white, given the rumors and gossip. George comforted herself with the reflection that after this she’d never have to wear white again.
Miss Chance then left George with a pile of designs to examine at her leisure while she took Aunt Dottie toanother room where she had a display of the kinds of nightwear that would gladden Aunt Dottie’s heart.
George leafed through the various sketches, discarded the more elaborate designs and quickly narrowed the choice down to two of the simplest designs. No frills, no lace, no pearls.
But which of the two? The hail-spotted white muslin with the tiny puffed sleeves? Or the one in cream silk with piping around the hem?
Her inability to decide annoyed her. What did it matter what she wore? This was not a dress to celebrate in. She should simply toss a coin to decide.
But for some reason she couldn’t make herself do it.
