to see that the gown fits you. We borrowed it from Alfred’s sister-in-law until we could properly fit you with your own trousseau.”
“You are very generous, my lord—”
“Nonsense, Miss Hampton. I have Madame de Florette coming within the hour. She’ll bring a selection of ready-made dresses that she and her seamstresses will alter for you here. They will have to do for the time being, I’m afraid.”
“Really, there is no need.”
Lord Thornby laughed. “You intend to marry me in that, then?”
Isobel looked down at her plain muslin morning dress. It was totally unsuitable for a wedding. But it wasn’t as if this would be a real wedding, anyway. How extravagant could it be with one day’s notice?
He approached and held her with those deep blue eyes that seemed as bright as jewels. Why was it so impossible to look away from his gaze? He took her small hand in his and kissed it, saying, “It is my wish that you be beautifully dressed for our wedding, my dear.”
Isobel felt tingles skip over her skin at his touch, his words, and the intensity of his eyes. Her husband.
Tomorrow, this stranger would be her husband. And she would be his wife, for better or for worse.
Thankfully, Martha bustled in with a tray. Isobel sipped the hot lemony tea the cook had brought and felt it calm her as it always did. Perhaps she could get through this after all.
As Beckett had promised, Madame de Florette arrived not thirty minutes later. The diminutive, dark-haired Frenchwoman hurried Isobel into Lord Thornby’s chamber and began flinging dresses out of the trunk and onto the bed. Her two assistants stood with needles poised, like soldiers ready for battle.
The women spoke in rapid French as Isobel was fitted for more than twenty dresses. And though Isobel spoke the language fluently, Madame de Florette never asked for Isobel’s opinion on any of the gowns—in English or in French. None of the three women seemed even to notice her.
But when Madame de Florette presented the last dress, she gave Isobel a brilliant smile. “Your wedding dress, ma belle. I had been making it for Sir Wilfred’s daughter, but her wedding is not for a few weeks. I can make her another one. For you, ma chere, I’ll put more bagatelles, a different trim, and no one will know ze difference!”
Isobel held her arms out as Madame de Florette slipped the dress over her shoulders. The women fluttered around her like sparrows—pinning, stitching bows and trims, and Isobel felt a huge sadness wash thickly over her like a cold ocean wave.
This was her wedding dress. So many times as a girl, she had dreamed of her wedding. Of marrying a dashing, gallant god of a man—some handsome hero who had won her heart. She had not dreamed of a marriage of convenience to a man she barely knew. Obviously, such girlish wishes of love no longer had a place in her life.
Now, there was only duty. To her husband. And to Hampton Park. For one thing was certain: If Isobel didn’t become Lord Thornby’s bride, Hampton Park would be lost forever.
The thought of Sir Harry clouded her vision and made her stomach swirl with loathing. After tomorrow, she would be safe from the foul monster. He would never put his threatening hands on her again. He would never—
“There, ma petite. C’est fini!” Madame de Florette said, waving her hand dramatically. Her assistants seemed to agree, cooing in French and making last-minute adjustments to the flounces and bows.
The dress was beautiful, but Isobel felt nothing for it. Still, she forced herself to smile as Madame de Florette attached her veil.
She just wanted the ceremony to be over. Then she would feel safe. And she would be that much closer to starting her new life alone at Hampton Park as the countess of Ravenwood.
The dressmaker and her assistants spent the rest of the day taking measurements, showing her fabrics and patterns, until Isobel’s arms ached from being held out straight and her eyes itched with
“You are very generous, my lord—”
“Nonsense, Miss Hampton. I have Madame de Florette coming within the hour. She’ll bring a selection of ready-made dresses that she and her seamstresses will alter for you here. They will have to do for the time being, I’m afraid.”
“Really, there is no need.”
Lord Thornby laughed. “You intend to marry me in that, then?”
Isobel looked down at her plain muslin morning dress. It was totally unsuitable for a wedding. But it wasn’t as if this would be a real wedding, anyway. How extravagant could it be with one day’s notice?
He approached and held her with those deep blue eyes that seemed as bright as jewels. Why was it so impossible to look away from his gaze? He took her small hand in his and kissed it, saying, “It is my wish that you be beautifully dressed for our wedding, my dear.”
Isobel felt tingles skip over her skin at his touch, his words, and the intensity of his eyes. Her husband.
Tomorrow, this stranger would be her husband. And she would be his wife, for better or for worse.
Thankfully, Martha bustled in with a tray. Isobel sipped the hot lemony tea the cook had brought and felt it calm her as it always did. Perhaps she could get through this after all.
As Beckett had promised, Madame de Florette arrived not thirty minutes later. The diminutive, dark-haired Frenchwoman hurried Isobel into Lord Thornby’s chamber and began flinging dresses out of the trunk and onto the bed. Her two assistants stood with needles poised, like soldiers ready for battle.
The women spoke in rapid French as Isobel was fitted for more than twenty dresses. And though Isobel spoke the language fluently, Madame de Florette never asked for Isobel’s opinion on any of the gowns—in English or in French. None of the three women seemed even to notice her.
But when Madame de Florette presented the last dress, she gave Isobel a brilliant smile. “Your wedding dress, ma belle. I had been making it for Sir Wilfred’s daughter, but her wedding is not for a few weeks. I can make her another one. For you, ma chere, I’ll put more bagatelles, a different trim, and no one will know ze difference!”
Isobel held her arms out as Madame de Florette slipped the dress over her shoulders. The women fluttered around her like sparrows—pinning, stitching bows and trims, and Isobel felt a huge sadness wash thickly over her like a cold ocean wave.
This was her wedding dress. So many times as a girl, she had dreamed of her wedding. Of marrying a dashing, gallant god of a man—some handsome hero who had won her heart. She had not dreamed of a marriage of convenience to a man she barely knew. Obviously, such girlish wishes of love no longer had a place in her life.
Now, there was only duty. To her husband. And to Hampton Park. For one thing was certain: If Isobel didn’t become Lord Thornby’s bride, Hampton Park would be lost forever.
The thought of Sir Harry clouded her vision and made her stomach swirl with loathing. After tomorrow, she would be safe from the foul monster. He would never put his threatening hands on her again. He would never—
“There, ma petite. C’est fini!” Madame de Florette said, waving her hand dramatically. Her assistants seemed to agree, cooing in French and making last-minute adjustments to the flounces and bows.
The dress was beautiful, but Isobel felt nothing for it. Still, she forced herself to smile as Madame de Florette attached her veil.
She just wanted the ceremony to be over. Then she would feel safe. And she would be that much closer to starting her new life alone at Hampton Park as the countess of Ravenwood.
The dressmaker and her assistants spent the rest of the day taking measurements, showing her fabrics and patterns, until Isobel’s arms ached from being held out straight and her eyes itched with
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