Chapter Three

Bethanny studied herself in the mirror. The dress was perfect, utterly and devastatingly perfect. She spun slowly, taking in every drape of the rose-hued fabric and the pearl cream of the ribbon adorning it. The cut hugged her womanly shape, accentuating her curves, yet was still modest enough for the duke to allow her out of her room. And she knew full well that he’d have no reservations of locking her in her room if she were immodest, her come out or not.

He meant well, and Bethanny loved him, even if he was overprotective. She found it endearing rather than offensive. It reminded her of her parents, and that thought always brought her comfort, as if being reminded of them kept their memory, their legacy, alive, even when they were no longer. A pinch in her heart caused her to wince as she thought again about how her father wouldn’t be there to watch her debut, nor would her mother kiss her on the cheek and encourage her. But it was enough to have her sisters, Beatrix and Berty, as well as the duchess and duke. Together, they made a family, Lady Southridge adding that final touch of random meddling that made everyone cringe. It might not be a perfect family, but it was hers, and she was thankful.

“Are you done admiring yourself?” Beatrix asked with amusement thick in her tone. Beatrix was sixteen, the very age of Bethanny when they had come to live with the duke. In two years Beatrix had grown from a girl to a woman, a keenly intelligent woman. Bethanny tried to keep her overprotective emotions in check, but in truth, she knew she was little better than the duke. But she couldn’t help it. Since their mother and father died, Bethanny felt this… responsibility to be there, to be strong for her sisters.

“No.” Bethanny glanced over to her sister and raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps you should come back later,” she teased, hoping to lighten her own musings.

“If I did come back later, it would be tomorrow, and you’ll spend the night in with a modiste rather than your nice warm bed back home.” Beatrix quipped, a knowing smile bending her lips.

“Very well,” Bethanny conceded. She was quite fond of her bed.

And morning chocolate.

And the newspaper.

“I knew you had some sense,” Beatrix replied, a grin tugging at her lips.

Bethanny scrunched up her nose at her sister but smiled nonetheless. With a reluctant sigh, she signaled the modiste, Madame Beaulieu. She was a short woman, thin and petite, with chestnut hair strewn with silver.

“Avez-vous terminé?” she asked, her accent thick.

“Yes, I believe I’m finished,” Bethanny answered.

“Vous êtes une vision, Miss Lamont. An utter vision. The gentlemen will fall to their knees at your beauty! De l'avenir, les messieurs vont tomber à genoux autour de vous.”

“Thank you, Madame Beaulieu.” Bethanny felt her face flame at the compliment.

While she appreciated the sentiment, she would rather prefer to simply draw the attention of one man, having him fall to his knees… now that would be perfect.

Shaking her head to dispel her daydream, she waited as Madame helped her out of the dress.

In short work, the dress was packaged up to take home. The servants at the duke’s townhome in Mayfair would press it and have it perfect by tomorrow.

“Can we go now, please? I’m so hungry!” Berty whined.

“Yes, yes, we can leave now.” Carlotta, Duchess of Clairmont placed her gloved hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle.

Bethanny indulged in an amused grin at her youngest sister’s propensity for food, sweets in particular. If Berty wasn’t eating, she was impatiently waiting till she was given the opportunity to do so again. At nine, the little girl was as opinionated as Lady Southridge and as stubborn as the duke. Her dark hair and feathery lashes made her appear innocent when the opposite was often far more accurate

“Berty, you cannot possibly be hungry.” Beatrix speared her sister with a disbelieving glare.

“I am! It’s been hours—”

“It’s been perhaps one hour, Berty.”

“One hour too long,” Berty huffed, crossing her slightly pump arms in front of her slightly plumper frame.

Beatrix rolled her eyes and raised an eyebrow to Carlotta.

“We’ll return shortly. I have faith that you’ll survive until we do.”

“But—”

“Berty…” Carlotta warned gently.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Bethanny noted the slight color in Carlotta’s cheeks as Berty used the address Your Grace as they were to do when in public. Though it had been almost two years since their marriage, Bethanny doubted that Carlotta, or Lottie, as they usually called her, was accustomed to such a title. Her humility endeared her further to the girls.

“Come along, girls. Let’s be off. We still have a few other places to stop before we head home,” Carlotta spoke kindly.

“A few more places? Truly? I’m going to wither up and die!” Berty lamented.

Bethanny snickered then covered her mouth with her gloved hand as Carlotta shot Berty a silencing glare.

Beatrix snorted.

Berty stomped.

“It’s not funny, Bea.” She growled.

“Oh, it is. It wouldn’t be nearly as amusing, however, if you didn’t react so.” Beatrix replied.

Berty glared and took a menacing step toward her sister.

“Girls?” Carlotta called, a slightly exasperated edge to her tone.

“Coming.” Berty paused then raised her eyebrows toward Beatrix. Pointing to her eyes and then Beatrix’s, she mouthed. “I’m watching you.” Then, with a longing glance across the street at a pastry shop, she turned and followed Carlotta.

Bethanny swallowed her laughter and, rather, focused on all that needed to be done.

It was nearly one in the afternoon, and they still needed to visit the milliner and get back in time to prepare for Lady Hollyworth’s small dinner party. Bethanny took in a deep breath, wincing at the smoky and stale scent that hung in the air. One more day.

One more day, but it felt like one million.