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“I thought to draw up my own marriage contracts.”
Jemima laughed. “My friend, only you would conceive of such. That is a spectacular notion.” She regarded the chemise Felicity now wore. Its thin straps hung off her shoulders and looked rather precarious, but if Jemima made them, they would stay in place. “Yes, that suits you perfectly. Turn, and I’ll lace you.” She set the corset around Felicity’s torso, and pulling the ties, emphasized her tiny waist, lifting her bosom just so.
“There appear to be no children in the village,” Felicity said. “I asked him where they were, and he all but ran from me.”
“Perhaps it is a sore point.”
“I presume so, but how am I to know, if he cannot answer a simple question? How am I to know him if he is evasive and elusive?”
“How is he to know you…?” Jemima mused and tied off the laces.
“To think I had been so happy to see you walk through the door,” Felicity grumbled.
“The duke is known far and wide amongst many of our class as the strongest of us all. He is perhaps the strongest man you have ever known, may your father rest in peace.” Jemima fussed with the straps of Felicity’s chemise. “A consequence of preserving that strength for all to draw upon, to take refuge in, is a lack of acquaintance with the softer things in life. And yet without a balance of both, he is incomplete. You are strong, too, but the feminine mysteries make the softness in life easier for you.”
Felicity put a hand on her heart as though it ached. “And yet I have had no pattern of wifely softness since my mother passed and have felt that lack so.”
Jemima drew them to the side of the bed to sit. “Is it impossible to believe he may have a lack in his life?”
“He misses his sister. She left England in scandalous circumstances, as far as I could divine. He has not heard from her and is concerned.”
“There, that is something.”
“My mother…” Felicity took a deep breath. “She flung herself into a life she had no preparation to live, and if not for her blind love of my father, she would have been crushed by every snub and slight. I have been flung into a life I have little preparation for, and know what will come, and dread it. I, to be a duchess, in no time at all.”
“It is not uncommon amongst our set for the interval between betrothal and wedding to be no time at all. And I must speak truly—when there is scandal attached, the quicker the better.”
“Things are so odd here, it does not seem as though our usual rules should apply. I have longed to be lost to convention, but find I cannot abide the strangeness of it.”
“This from one who wishes to devise her own marriage contracts?”
They burst into laughter, and Felicity rose to stand in front of the mirror, admiring her new silhouette. “I will act as though I am the great lady they believe me to be, the one who controls every utterance in the drawing room,” she said, “and thus with great subtlety I shall divine what His Grace believes as regards unconventional approaches to life.”
“If there is one thing I have learned on my own way, it is that a dream is a Destination, and one must remain flexible upon the Path.” Jemima held out a pair of gossamer silken stockings.
“Will I find such sentiments in those novels you brought me?” Felicity took them and drew them up her legs, then tied off adorable little garters that had the image of a feather sewn on at the ends of the ribbons.
“You will find what you need to find,” Jemima replied, lifting the evening’s chosen creation over Felicity’s head.
“Do not speak to me in riddles!” Her protest was muffled by the heavy velvet. Her head emerged, her countenance annoyed. “Every statement made under this roof is three-quarters enigma. It must be contagious.”
“I shall strive for plainspokenness,” Jemima said. “As best I can. Come, a few finishing touches, and the duke will sign any contract you put before him.”
* * *
A speechless Coburn opened the doors to the Bassett Room and allowed Felicity to pause alone on the threshold. The duke turned in his chair and rose, an arrested look on his face. She waited.
His reaction was as exhilarating as she had envisioned. He came toward her, his eyes glittering, almost ferocious in their regard as he took in her raiment. Rich, cobalt-blue velvet wrapped around her shoulders like a shawl, but no shawl ever looked so enticing; it framed her bosom, lifted and displayed by Jemima’s cunning corset. The luxurious fabric hugged her waist and flowed over her hips and outward to the floor, down into a train. The ribbon sparkled in her hair, which was not a tight knob on the top of her head but gathered up behind. Her gloves were a darker blue, almost black, and yet their satiny finish caught the light to match the ribbon and shone in the light. She wafted the air around with her fan, a glittery concoction of crystals and silk in a stunning, bright white, as pure as the burgeoning moon.
Alfred held out a hand. She took it. He drew her closer to him, as close as she could get to That Chest while in company, and he raised her hand to his lips.
“Magnificent,” he murmured, and the heat of his lips through the silk of her glove scorched her fingers.
“Magnificent things, clothes that do not heedlessly follow fashion?” she asked.
“Utterly magnificent without qualification.” He escorted her over to chairs arranged pleasingly before the hearth.
Felicity nodded to O’Mara, who was once more dressed as though by royal command. Jemima had fluttered in her wake and sat herself nearest to the fire. Her own gown was subdued at first glance, a silvery gray that complemented her coloring but was not the most vibrant of hues. However, its texture was as though thousands of tiny indentations had been stamped on the cloth, giving it depth and movement.
