Page 67 of Married to a Frozen Duke
"Your Grace," Mrs. Morrison said carefully, "might I speak plainly?"
"Please do."
"The household is... unsettled. The news from London about the wedding has already reached us, and there's been considerable speculation."
"What are they saying?"
Mrs. Morrison looked uncomfortable. "That Your Grace... that is, that the ceremony was... irregular."
"I was sick on His Grace at the altar. I imagine that qualifies as irregular."
The housekeeper's composure cracked entirely. "You... on His Grace?"
"Comprehensively. He had to finish the ceremony covered in vomit. It was spectacular, in the worst possible way."
Mary made a sound that might have been a suppressed laugh. Mrs. Morrison looked like she might need smelling salts.
"And he still... that is, the marriage was completed?"
"Oh yes. We're thoroughly married. For better or worse, though mostly worse so far."
"Your Grace," Mrs. Morrison said faintly, "perhaps this information should remain... private?"
"Mrs. Morrison, I arrived at this estate wearing a borrowed maid's dress, with my husband in a laborer's shirt. I think we're rather past the point of maintaining pretenses."
The housekeeper rallied admirably. "Your Grace is right, of course. The seamstresses will remedy the clothing situation quickly. We've already sent to London for additional help. You'll have morning dresses by tomorrow, and the rest within the week."
"That's very efficient."
"His Grace was quite specific in his instructions. You're to have whatever you require."
Which was kind, Ophelia supposed, though it felt more like duty than consideration. Still, duty was better than neglect.
After her bath, Mary helped her back into the borrowed dress as it was the only clothing she possessed.
The seamstresses arrived in a flutter of fabric samples and measuring tapes. Three of them, all talking at once, scandalized by the situation but professional enough not to commentdirectly. They measured every conceivable dimension of her body while discussing her as if she weren't there.
"The coloring is good, so she can wear jewel tones."
"The figure needs help. Stays, definitely, and proper structure."
"The posture is acceptable, but the deportment needs work."
Ophelia stood still and let them discuss her inadequacies. It was rather like being a horse at auction, but less dignified.
"What does Your Grace prefer?" one finally asked, apparently remembering she was a person and not a mannequin.
"Simple things," Ophelia said. "Nothing too elaborate."
The seamstresses exchanged glances that suggested 'simple' was not in their vocabulary.
"Her Grace will need court dresses," Mrs. Morrison interjected. "And ball gowns. Morning dresses, afternoon dresses, riding habits..."
"I don't ride," Ophelia said.
Another exchange of glances. Duchesses who didn't ride were apparently like fish who didn't swim; theoretically possible but deeply wrong.
"Walking dresses, then," Mrs. Morrison adjusted smoothly. "And dinner gowns, naturally."
