Page 40 of A Wallflower's Convenient Duke
He was beginning to see that people could be the same.
"I wonder," he murmured, "if tonight might change everything."
***
The grand estate hummed with quiet anticipation, the distant rustle of preparations drifting like music through its vast corridors. In the solitude of his chambers, Philip stood before a gilt-framed mirror, fastening the final button of his finest evening coat. The midnight-blue fabric fit him with tailored precision, lending him a silhouette of effortless distinction. A man of rank, yes—but tonight, he dressed not merely for the ton’s admiration.
He dressed, in part, for her.
The mirror returned the image of a composed gentleman, each detail exacting: the clean line of his lapel, the polished glint of his cufflinks, the subtle sheen of his cravat pin. There was pride in the presentation, but more than that, a flicker of hope, hope that he might leave an impression upon his wife as lasting as the one she had quietly begun to leave on him.
Descending the grand staircase, he marvelled at the transformation the mansion had undergone. The ballroom, meticulously decorated by his mother and the ever-graceful Blanche, emanated an ethereal beauty that captivated the senses. The walls adorned with cascading drapes of royal blue and silver, complemented by glistening chandeliers suspended from the ceiling, bathed the room in a soft, enchanting glow which simply felt exquisite.
The air was perfumed with the delicate mingling of roses, lavender, and something warm—vanilla, perhaps—hovering just beneath the bloom. Great vases stood like sentinels, bursting with expertly arranged blossoms, their palette chosen with precision and care.
It was breathtaking.
And it was her doing.
Though his mother had certainly lent her seasoned eye, Philip could see Blanche’s hand in the details—the soft elegance, the harmonious symmetry, the subtle but striking choices that spoke of quiet refinement. The duchess had made her mark.
And tonight, the world would see it.
The ballroom, with its polished floor gleaming like glass and its band poised in perfect silence upon the stage, awaited its moment. Soon, it would be filled with the rustle of silk gowns and the soft thrum of violins, the murmured greetings and delighted laughter of society’s elite. But for now, it was his alone to behold. And he stood at its centre, marvelling not only at the beauty of the room, but at the meaning behind it.
This ball was no mere social obligation.
It was a declaration.
A new beginning.
He hoped the ton would recognise it for what it was—that they would finally cast aside their insipid rumours and acceptwhat had already begun to take root. A marriage, yes, but perhaps—just perhaps—the start of something more.
Blanche had shown nothing but grace in the weeks since their union. Grace, and resilience, and intelligence. She had not only risen to the challenge thrust upon her, but had embraced it in a way that inspired admiration. And Philip, reluctant as he had once been, could not deny that he felt fortunate.
He only hoped she might feel the same.
As his gaze swept once more across the splendour of the room—the music waiting to begin, the doors waiting to open, he felt the stirrings of anticipation once more. Yes, the ton would be watching. Yes, society would judge.
But tonight, they would see something worth talking about.
And with any luck, this time... it would be for all the right reasons.
***
The grand ball was in full flourish, an exquisite cascade of silk gowns, glittering jewels, and music that swelled with elegance and joy. Candlelight shimmered upon the polished floor, catching the gleam of mirrored walls and the sparkle of laughter that floated through the room like champagne. Philip, composed and refined in his midnight-blue evening coat, moved amongst the guests with the effortless grace of a seasoned host. His smiles were polite, his conversations cordial.
Yet a subtle restlessness lingered beneath the surface.
From his position beside Evelyn near the edge of the ballroom, he watched the dancers swirl past in a flurry of colour and light—waltzing couples swept into a rhythm that felt, to him, just slightly out of reach. A wall separated him from it—not of stone or duty, but one built long ago from caution and heartbreak.
Evelyn, ever attuned to her son, stood silently at his side, her eyes following his gaze. She said nothing at first. It was the kind of quiet only mothers could master—the sort that gently coaxed confessions without ever demanding them.
"Mother," Philip said at last, his voice low, his eyes fixed on the dance floor. "I find myself... hesitant."
She turned to him, her expression soft with knowing. "I wondered how long you would linger here before admitting it."
He exhaled a faint breath—half laugh, half sigh. "I suppose I have grown used to holding back. There is a part of me that still winces from the sting of the past. The memory of it colours everything... including this."
