Page 51 of A Most Improper Duchess
Chapter Twenty-two
‘Idon’tthinkI’veever seen a more lovely bride. As fresh as a lily.’ Mrs Crofts preened to Vivianne’s reflection in the mirror. ‘The society pages will love describing the detail of your gown. It really is beautiful.’
It was a little more ruffled than Vivianne would have liked. She had taken Mrs Crofts to her dress fitting and followed her advice for making choices on colour and cut. Since hosting her society meeting in the sitting room of Number 10, Mrs Crofts accompanied her most places. Lorelei had decided that after Vivianne's success at the company launch, she was no longer in need of lessons, and with Arley so preoccupied with parliament, she’d been lost in what to do with herself.
In the whirlwind of preparations over the past week, she had barely seen her future husband. But then, with his pending appointment to his new position, that was the type of life she needed to prepare herself for.
Mrs Crofts stroked Vivianne’s veil. ‘I do not have daughters of my own, and as your own mother is…’ She paused, presumably to allow Vivianne time to fill in the missing information.
‘Absent,’ Vivianne said, ignoring the pang of not knowing.
Mrs Crofts simpered, then took a hard breath. ‘In the absence of your mother, I feel it is my duty to inform you about life after you are married. What will happen and such.’
Vivianne frowned. ‘After the ceremony? There is breakfast, and a celebration, in the ballroom at Number 10.’
‘After that.’
‘Speeches?’ Vivianne asked.
‘After that,’ Mrs Crofts said between tight teeth.
‘Oh. Do you mean in the bed chamber? Once Arley is my husband, he will expect me to…’ Vivianne swallowed down a small bubble of laughter. ‘Do things, perhaps?’
‘Do nothing,’ Mrs Crofts said with a confiding confidence. ‘My advice is always to just lie there and pray he is efficient. Wiggle a little if you’d like him to hurry things along. But not too much. You don’t want to encourage any more visits than necessary.’
‘Wiggle. I will remember that.’ Vivianne tried not to smile, before a sadness settled in her. Was this her future? Discussing prim and proper behaviour with Mrs Crofts?
No, Arley was her future.
His Grace, Arley West, Duke Osborne, future Chancellor of the Exchequer.
Who was already too busy to see her.
Vivianne jumped as a knock bounded through the quiet townhouse. She rose and made her way down the layers of stairs to the front door, then climbed into the carriage. The maid fussed to drape her train across the floor so that it didn't crush. When the footmen slammed the door shut, a little of the hem snagged.
She should feel joy, or lightness or even fear and trepidation. Vivianne stared down the door.
She felt nothing.
‘My niece is coming to town, and I was so hoping you might meet with her,' Mrs Crofts said from the opposite side of the carriage. 'And would you perhaps sponsor her, to debut at court next season?’
‘I would be delighted,’ Vivianne said with a fixed smile.
That was six requests this week.
Heavy droplets of rain flecked the window. Vivianne pressed her forehead to the cool glass as they rattled through the street. Mrs Crofts babbled and gushed as they drove past a park. Vivianne scanned the lawn, but saw no hint of an easel, or lumbering swans, or couples diving for protection. Did the English ever dance in the rain? Or were they all too proper?
‘It’s a lovely drive to the church. I can’t believe that so many people are watching.’ Mrs Crofts looked out at the people moving about the streets as they went about their day. Workers adjusted hessian sacks on their back, while a woman leant over to scrub at a young girls face with the gentle, guiding touch of a mother. Even though the girl flinched, the mother persisted. A boy shouted the day’s headlines, and the now familiar tension clenched Vivianne's muscles. Was she reported on today? If so, what did they think? What did they say? The articles felt so different from a review of the ballet, when the journalist commented on the scenery, the singers and the conductor. Now, it was just her alone in the spotlight.
‘There’s quite a crowd outside the church. Surely they aren’t all invited? Some of them look a little… rough.’
‘They look like people. They are just doing their best.’ Vivianne clasped her hand to her mouth.Mon Dieuhow had she let her anger slip? No doubt she would now be discussed amongst the members of the society.
A jumble of conversation from outside distracted Mrs Crofts from her disapproval. The door opened. Not people, or guests—they were journalists, with notepads clasped in their hands as they pressed forward in a bunch.
‘What will you do now?’
‘What was your last conversation?’
