Page 30 of The Scottish Duke Tames the Bluestocking
Harriet stared at William firmly. “I will need to have a dress made before this opera.”
William nodded stiffly, a knowing smile playing around his lips. Harriet knew that he was no fool - as frustrating as he was - and that he knew the new dress was her own, pathetic way of asserting some form of power.
“I have already notified a dressmaker of our urgent need,” he said smoothly. “She will be here before sunset.”
There was nothing left to say, and Harriet made her way out of the office with a huff.
As William had promised, the dressmaker was there shortly and Harriet was quick to call for Prudence’s assistance as the older woman worked on pinning the flowing emerald garment around her.
“Oh the dress will be beautiful,” Prudence chattered away eagerly. “The color really suits you, my lady.”
The dressmaker nodded proudly. “It is indeed the perfect color,” the woman claimed as she stood back a while later.
“And you look positively radiant, my lady.”
Harriet merely flashed the woman a stiff smile. William was nothing if not entirely transparent: of course he thought that a beautiful dress would not only placate his sister, but also prove to the duke that she was a worthy prospect.
One that would not embarrass him, one that would not ruin his reputation with her behavior.
She needed to be every bit the lady and though the dress was by no means enough to prove that she was, she knew that it was a start.
She slipped the dress off quickly at the dressmaker’s instruction and made a grab for her day dress - a far more comfortable one, though not nearly as beautiful. Harriet did not wait to hear platitudes and compliments from either the dressmaker or Prudence.
She merely rushed back to her own bedchamber, frustrated tears burning behind her eyelids.
When Jennifer knocked at her chamber door some hours later, Harriet ignored it. For the first time in her life, she did not even want to speak to her mother.
She wanted nothing more than to be left alone.
CHAPTER16
The orchestra swelled with a soaring crescendo as the curtain rose on the opening scene of the opera, bathing the stage in a warm, golden glow. Harriet sat rigidly in her seat, her heart hammering a frantic tattoo against her ribs as she tried to focus on the unfolding drama before her.
Beside her, Hugh cut an imposing figure in his impeccably tailored evening wear, his chiseled features a study in inscrutable composure. When Harriet had first emerged from the carriage on his arm, resplendent in her emerald gown, she had glimpsed a flicker of stunned admiration in his eyes before he quickly schooled his expression into one of polite appreciation.
Now, as they sat side by side in the plush velvet seats of the opera box, Harriet could feel the weight of his presence like a physical force, the heat of his body searing her even through the layers of silk and brocade that separated them. She tried to concentrate on the soaring arias and sweeping melodies, but her mind kept drifting back to the momentous decision she had made, the words she knew she must say to him before the night was through.
This was the last day of their courtship week, the final chance to determine if they were truly compatible before taking the irrevocable step of marriage. And though Harriet had wrestled with doubts and uncertainties, and had agonized over the prospect of surrendering her heart to the great unknown, she knew in her bones that she had made the right choice.
She would marry Hugh Wilkinson, would bind her life to his in a partnership of necessity and convenience. But she would do so on her own terms, with her eyes wide open and her heart carefully guarded. She would be his friend, his confidante, his ally...but she would not let herself love him, not fully. That way lay madness and ruin.
As the first act drew to a close, Harriet felt a sudden, overwhelming need for air, for space to clear her head and gather her courage. She rose abruptly from her seat, mumbling an excuse about needing to freshen up before slipping out of the box and into the bustling corridor beyond.
She wandered aimlessly through the opulent halls of the opera house, her skirts swishing softly against the plush carpets as she tried to calm her racing thoughts. She scarcely noticed where her feet carried her until she found herself in a forgotten alcove, tucked away from the main thoroughfare and blessedly quiet.
Sinking onto a low sofa, Harriet buried her face in her hands, fighting to steady her breathing as panic clawed at her throat. What was she doing? How could she possibly go through with this, with pledging herself to a man she scarcely knew, a man who set her every nerve alight with a single glance?
Lost in her spiraling thoughts, she did not hear the approaching footsteps until a familiar voice broke through the haze of her anxiety.
“Harriet? Are ye all right?”
Her head snapped up, her eyes wide and startled as they met Hugh's concerned gaze. He stood before her, his brow furrowed in worry as he took in her disheveled appearance.
“I'm fine,” she managed, her voice thin and reedy to her own ears. “I just needed a moment to myself, that's all.”
Hugh’s frown deepened, and he moved to sit beside her on the sofa, his large frame dwarfing the delicate furniture. “You don't look fine, lass. You look like you're about to pass out.”
Harriet shook her head, trying to summon a reassuring smile, but it fell flat. “Really, it is nothing. I'm just a bit overwhelmed by...everything.”
