“Among other things.” John accepted his drink with a nod to the attendant. “I hear you’re still avoiding your wife.”
Theodore set down his glass. “I didn’t come here to discuss my marriage.”
“Then you came to the wrong place, because that’s precisely what we’re discussing.” John leaned forward. “Do something nice for her. A gesture. Anything to show you’re not determined to make both of you miserable for the next fifty years.”
“A gesture won’t change the nature of our arrangement.”
“Perhaps not. But it might make your aunt’s ball tonight slightly less excruciating for everyone involved.” John’s expression softened marginally.
Theodore reached for his whiskey again, hating that his friend was right. “What kind of gesture did you have in mind?”
“I’m not planning your romantic overtures for you.” John’s grin returned. “Though I will say that women notice when a man pays attention to the small things. Details matter to them in ways we often overlook.”
“I’m not writing her poetry.”
“Good God, I should hope not. Can you imagine?” John shuddered theatrically. “No, I’m suggesting you demonstrate that you actually listen when she speaks. That you know her preferences. That she’s more to you than simply an obligation you’re fulfilling.”
Theodore said nothing, staring into his glass while John’s words settled like stones in his chest.
“You’re afraid,” John said quietly. “I understand that better than you might think. I was terrified of what I felt for Harriet, convinced that caring for her would somehow destroy me. But running from it only made everything worse.”
“This is different.”
“Is it?” John stood, draining his brandy. “Think on it, Ashmere, before you’ve wasted so much time that there’s nothing left to salvage.”
Molly hummed while arranging Cressida’s hair, weaving pins through her auburn curls with practiced efficiency. The preparations for Lady Seymore’s ball had consumed most of the afternoon—a welcome distraction from the hollow ache that had become Cressida’s constant companion these past weeks.
Theodore had left for London that morning without a word.Again.
A knock sounded at the door. Molly hurried to answer it, before returning with a large box bearing an unfamiliar crest.
“For you, Your Grace.” She set it carefully on the bed. “A footman just delivered it. He said it was from His Grace.”
Cressida’s hands stilled. “From the Duke?”
“Apparently, yes.” Molly’s eyes danced with curiosity. “Shall we see what he’s sent?”
They opened the box together. Beneath layers of tissue paper lay silk the color of deep forest—emerald green shot through with threads of gold. Cressida’s breath caught as Molly lifted the gown, candlelight rippling across its surface.
“Oh, Your Grace. It’s exquisite.”
Cressida reached out to touch the fabric, her throat suddenly tight. The color was perfect—her favorite shade, the exact green of the trees in her grandmother’s painting.
“How did he know?” she asked, muttering.
Molly smiled knowingly. “His Grace is very thorough, Your Grace. I hear he asked a lot about you before your wedding. Now, come. Let’s see how it fits.”
The gown draped over Cressida’s frame as though made specifically for her. Which, she realized, it had been. Theodore must have obtained her measurements somehow—another indication he’d been paying far closer attention than his behavior suggested.
Gold embroidery traced delicate patterns along the bodice and hem, catching the light with every movement. The neckline sat perfectly at her collarbones, modest yet flattering.
When Molly finished arranging her hair to complement the design, Cressida barely recognized her own reflection.
She looked like a duchess.
More than that, she looked like a woman someone had thought about. Noticed. Remembered.
“He’ll be absolutely speechless when he sees you, Your Grace,” Molly declared.
