Page 36 of His Scottish Duchess

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, andmore! 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 expressedany 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.

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