Page 8 of Her Duke at Midnight
“He told others about their arrangement?”
Fiona shifted uncomfortably and remained silent so long that Cecily wondered if there was some part of the story she wished to conceal. “I am loath to speak ill of a lady of my acquaintance, but I suspect Mrs. Caldwell may be the source of the rumors. She’s quite angry, resentful.”
“He treated her poorly?”
“Not at all. That was the problem. Apparently, he was good to her and quite talented in all the ways a paramour should be. But the poor woman made the terrible mistake of falling in love with him.”
“Falling in love is folly, you think?” In her months of mourning, Cecily hadn’t given much thought to another marriage or future suitors. But love had been on her mind, and she’d come to the soul-deep certainty that it had nothing to do with her brief marriage.
“Love isn’t always folly,” Fiona finally said decisively, then she shifted on the carriage bench, and her gaze locked with Cecily’s. “But with a man like Adam North, Duke of Everton, it is. Beware of that man for the next fortnight, my dear.”
CHAPTER3
Greenmere Estate,Kent
“This dress may have been a mistake.” Cecily held up a teal velvet gown she’d ordered from the same modiste who’d created the fuchsia one and several lovely day dresses for her trip to Kent.
She and Fiona had been settled into side-by-side, well-appointed guest rooms by the Derwents’ staff and had already indulged in delicious lavender tea. And for the past twenty minutes, they’d been discussing what they’d wear to the first gathering of the house party to commence in but a few hours.
“Nonsense. It’s exquisite. Matches your eyes.” Fiona assessed her, tipping her head. “We could pin your hair in a looser style. Your auburn waves will look gorgeous against that shade.”
“I’d like that.” Topknots or simple chignons were all the effort Cecily had made for a year. It felt luxurious, almost a bit indulgent, to be slipping into velvet and worrying about how to arrange her hair.
“Oh, there’s Portia.” Fiona stood near the window in Cecily’s room, watching as guests arrived and were greeted in the manicured carriage circle. “I think she’d be a perfect candidate for our widows’ club. Do you mind if I go and speak to her before dinner?”
“Of course not.”
“I promise I’ll be back to help with your gown after I change my own.”
“That sounds perfect.”
As soon as Fiona departed, Cecily settled onto the edge of the bed and laid the lush velvet garment across her lap. Lying back, she exhaled a contented sigh.
A weighty sense of dread had lifted since they’d departed London. Indeed, her whole body felt looser. And she realized that when she was at Bissenden House, she held herself with a kind of nervous tension, like a coiled spring, waiting for Douglas’s harsh judgment about something or other she’d done, for him to chastise her about Bess, or for him to fly into a violent rage like his brother.
Soon, she’d be free of all that. Not just for the length of a house party, but forever. This fortnight felt like the start of something grand—as if she were beginning to become some version of herself who didn’t cower or expect the worst.
Sitting up, she held the bodice of the new gown against her chest and decided she couldn’t wait to put it on—to see herself wearing something so opulent and daring.
After undressing down to her corset and drawers, she stepped into the open skirt of the dress and bent to pull the heavy fabric up over her stockinged legs. But as the waistline crested her hips, the garment gave her more resistance than she expected. Cecily glanced at herself in the reflection in the long windows in her room. Her hips had always been ample, but this gown had gone through two fittings. It had to fit.
“Come now. Cooperate.” She held her breath and inched the velvet over the swell of her hips and backside. Finally, she felt satisfyingly snugged into its plush confines. “There. That’s more like it.”
Slipping her arms into the low-necked, sleeveless bodice, she moaned with pleasure. The modiste had lined the bodice in satin, and though much of her middle remained encased by her corset, the glide of the fabric felt so good against her skin that her arms pebbled in gooseflesh.
“Now for the truly difficult part,” she whispered. Planting her hands on her hips, she stared at her flushed cheeks and tousled hair in the long oval mirror in the corner of the room.
Logic dictated that she ring for a maid or wait for Fiona to come back to wrangle the fastenings that ran along her back, but she wanted to do this on her own.
Arching, Cecily reached behind her and pushed the two halves of the evening gown’s bodice together, fumbling her fingers over the tiny row of hidden hooks and eyes. She growled in frustration when one refused to catch. If she could only see the thing.
Walking backward, casting glances over her shoulder, she moved toward the mirror. A moment later, the edge of an ottoman slammed against the back of her knee. She pulled her arms forward to steady herself and stumbled on the hem of the dress. Another step and her foot slipped on the polished wood of the floor. A scream burst out of her as she landed in a heap on the floor. Then she clapped a hand over her mouth, hoping no one thought someone was in true distress in one of the guest rooms.
“Nooo.” She heard a seam rip as she tried to right herself, but had no idea which part of the dress had torn.
As she turned to reach for a nearby wingback and pull herself up, someone rapped on her door. She closed her eyes and let out a sigh of frustration.
“Fiona, you wouldn’t believe how clumsy—“
