Updated Apr 18, 2026 • ~14 min read
Chapter 13: London Season Preparation
Emmeline
The modiste arrives from London three days after the Duke announces their plan to face society—a formidable woman named Madame Rousseau who sweeps into Ashford Hall with an entourage of assistants and enough fabric samples to clothe an entire village, and Emmy is immediately intimidated by the sharp-eyed Frenchwoman who looks at her with the assessing gaze of someone determining exactly how much work will be required to make Emmy presentable for London society.
“So you are the new Duchess,” Madame Rousseau says in heavily accented English, circling Emmy like a predator examining prey. “The one who married His Grace on Christmas and caused such scandal. You will need everything, yes? Day dresses, evening gowns, riding habits, walking costumes. Everything appropriate for Duchess of Ashford appearing in London society.”
“Everything,” Emmy confirms, feeling overwhelmed by the prospect of an entirely new wardrobe when she barely has opinions about fashion beyond “appropriate and comfortable.” “His Grace wants me properly dressed for the season.”
“His Grace has excellent taste,” Madame Rousseau observes, and there’s something knowing in her expression that makes Emmy suspect the modiste dressed the late Duchess Caroline and is drawing comparisons Emmy doesn’t want to think about. “We will make you magnifique. The most beautiful Duchess in London.”
Emmy doubts that’s possible when she’s competing with sophisticated women like Lady Cordelia who have years of experience with London fashion and society—but she lets Madame Rousseau take measurements and drape fabrics and discuss color palettes while trying not to feel like a doll being dressed up to play a part she has no idea how to perform.
She’s standing in her chemise while Madame Rousseau’s assistants measure every possible dimension of her body—a process that’s both tedious and embarrassing—when the Duke appears in the doorway of the room they’re using for fittings, and Emmy’s immediate instinct is to cover herself even though she’s technically wearing more than she would in a ballgown.
“Your Grace,” Madame Rousseau says without seeming surprised by the Duke’s presence. “You wished to attend the fittings? This is unusual, but if you have opinions about your wife’s wardrobe…”
“I have opinions,” the Duke says, entering the room without apparent concern for Emmy’s state of undress. “I want to ensure she has everything she needs. Nothing should be lacking.”
Emmy feels her face flush with embarrassment as the Duke settles into a chair near the window and watches the fitting process with careful attention that makes her hyperaware of every measurement being called out, every fabric being draped across her body, every discussion of her figure and coloring and what styles will be most flattering.
It’s intimate in a way that feels inappropriate given how carefully the Duke maintains distance in every other aspect of their marriage—he won’t enter her chambers, won’t consummate their marriage, barely touches her beyond offering his arm—but apparently he’s comfortable watching her be fitted for dresses while wearing only undergarments.
“The blue silk,” the Duke says suddenly, interrupting Madame Rousseau’s presentation of evening gown options. “That shade. It matches her eyes.”
Emmy’s breath catches because the Duke noticed her eye color—actually looked at her closely enough to have an opinion about which shade of blue silk matches—and Madame Rousseau looks between them with a knowing smile that makes Emmy want to disappear into the floor.
“Ah yes,” Madame Rousseau agrees. “The sapphire silk. Excellent choice, Your Grace. It will be stunning on Her Grace with her coloring.”
“And something in deep green,” the Duke continues, apparently fully engaged in selecting Emmy’s wardrobe now. “For her complexion. And cream rather than white for evening wear—white will wash her out.”
Emmy stands there in her chemise being discussed like she’s not present while her husband who barely speaks to her displays surprisingly detailed opinions about what colors and styles will be most flattering, and she doesn’t know whether to be grateful for his attention or annoyed that this is apparently the only way he can engage with her—through fabric and fashion rather than actual conversation.
“You have excellent eye, Your Grace,” Madame Rousseau says approvingly. “Most men have no understanding of how to dress their wives. But you clearly know what will suit Her Grace.”
“I know what beautiful looks like,” the Duke says, and his ice-blue eyes meet Emmy’s across the room for just a moment before he looks away. “I want her to have the best. Nothing should be lacking.”
Emmy’s heart does something complicated in her chest at hearing him use the word beautiful in connection with her—even if it’s indirect, even if it’s just about clothing—because the Duke has never acknowledged her appearance before, never suggested he finds her attractive in any way, never indicated he notices her beyond basic acknowledgment that she exists.
The fitting continues for another hour with the Duke offering occasional opinions about fabrics and styles while Emmy stands there being measured and draped and discussed, and by the time Madame Rousseau declares them finished for the day Emmy is exhausted from the combination of physical stillness and emotional confusion about the Duke’s unexpected involvement.
“I will return in one week with first pieces for final fitting,” Madame Rousseau announces. “The full wardrobe will be ready within the month—enough time for you to travel to London and be properly dressed for the season.”
After the modiste and her assistants leave, Emmy finds herself alone with the Duke in the fitting room, and she’s still wearing only her chemise and the thin wrapper Sarah draped over her shoulders, and the Duke is still sitting in his chair looking at her with an expression she can’t read.
“Thank you,” Emmy says, because his involvement—however confusing—was still a gift in its way. “For attending the fitting. For ensuring I’ll have appropriate clothing.”
“You’re my wife,” the Duke says, standing and moving toward her with that controlled grace he always maintains. “You’re representing me in London. I have stake in ensuring you’re properly presented.”
“Of course,” Emmy agrees, even though his reasoning makes it clear this is about his reputation rather than actual care for Emmy herself. “Proper presentation. Can’t have the Duchess looking inadequate compared to Lady Cordelia.”
The Duke stops directly in front of Emmy—close enough that she can see the details of the scars on his face, close enough that she has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact, close enough that Emmy’s breath catches at the unexpected proximity.
“This isn’t about Cordelia,” the Duke says quietly. “This is about you having what you need to face people who will try to diminish you. Armor, Emmy. Appropriate clothing is armor when dealing with society.”
“Expensive armor,” Emmy observes, trying to lighten the intensity of the moment. “I’ve never had anything as fine as what Madame Rousseau is creating.”
“You never had a duke willing to spend whatever necessary to ensure you’re protected,” the Duke points out, and there’s something almost possessive in his voice. “You do now.”
Emmy doesn’t know what to say to that—doesn’t know how to process the Duke being protective and possessive about her wardrobe while maintaining complete emotional distance in every other way—so she just looks at him and tries to understand what’s happening in his complicated damaged mind.
“You said blue matches my eyes,” Emmy says finally. “You’ve never mentioned noticing my eyes before.”
“I notice everything about you,” the Duke admits, and his voice has gone low and rough in a way Emmy has never heard from him. “I’ve noticed since Christmas Eve when you appeared at my party looking furious and desperate. I’ve noticed your eyes and your hair and the way you bite your lip when you’re reading something that confuses you. I notice, Emmy. I just don’t know what to do with noticing.”
Emmy’s heart is racing at this unexpected confession, at the Duke admitting he pays attention to her in ways she never suspected, and she opens her mouth to respond but the Duke is already stepping back and creating distance again like the moment of vulnerability frightened him.
“I should return to my work,” the Duke says, retreating toward the door. “You should rest. We have a few weeks before we leave for London, and there will be much to prepare.”
He’s gone before Emmy can respond, and she’s left standing in the fitting room wearing only her chemise while trying to process what just happened—the Duke attending her fittings, offering detailed opinions about her wardrobe, admitting he notices everything about her, looking at her with something that almost resembled desire before retreating behind his walls again.
It’s confusing.
It’s frustrating.
And Emmy has no idea what to make of a husband who notices everything but refuses to engage with any of it emotionally.
The wardrobe arrives in stages over the next three weeks—first the day dresses and walking costumes, then the evening gowns and ball dresses, finally the riding habits and accessories and everything else required for a duchess appearing in London—and each delivery feels like the Duke wrapping Emmy in luxury while keeping her at emotional distance.
It’s a strange kind of intimacy—being clothed by someone who won’t touch you, being noticed by someone who won’t acknowledge you, being protected by someone who won’t let you close.
But it’s something.
And in a marriage this cold, Emmy is learning to be grateful for whatever small things she can find.
Two weeks before they’re scheduled to leave for London, the Duke announces that Emmy needs dancing lessons to prepare for the inevitable balls and social functions where she’ll be expected to waltz and perform all the proper dances required of a duchess.
“I don’t need lessons,” Emmy argues, because she learned basic country dances when she was young. “I know how to dance.”
“You know country dances,” the Duke corrects. “Not the London dances. Not the waltz. You’ll need to be confident in the ballroom.”
“Then hire a dancing master,” Emmy suggests.
“I’ll teach you myself,” the Duke says, and Emmy’s surprise must show on her face because he adds, “I’m perfectly capable of teaching basic waltz steps. And it ensures you learn to dance with someone your own height instead of adjusting to an instructor’s build.”
Emmy agrees because refusing seems churlish when the Duke is offering to actually spend time with her—even if it’s just for practical dancing instruction—and the following afternoon she finds herself in the ballroom at Ashford Hall with the Duke and a small ensemble of musicians he somehow arranged to provide music.
“The waltz is simple,” the Duke says, positioning himself in front of Emmy with careful formality. “Left hand here—” he takes her left hand in his right “—and your right hand here—” he guides her right hand to his shoulder “—and I place my hand here—” his left hand settles at her waist with firm pressure that makes Emmy’s breath catch at the unexpected contact.
It’s the first time he’s touched her since their wedding beyond briefly offering his arm, the first time she’s felt his hands on her body, the first time she’s been this close to him with intention, and Emmy is suddenly hyperaware of every point of contact between them—his scarred hand holding hers, his other hand warm through the thin fabric of her dress at her waist, the scent of sandalwood and something uniquely him surrounding her.
“Now we move in three-count time,” the Duke explains, apparently unaffected by the physical contact that has Emmy’s heart racing. “One-two-three, one-two-three. Follow my lead.”
He signals the musicians, and they begin playing a waltz, and Emmy focuses desperately on the steps while trying to ignore how close the Duke is, how his hand at her waist guides her through the turns, how their eyes are almost level when she looks up at him because of their similar heights.
They stumble at first—Emmy uncertain of the steps, the Duke adjusting his leading, both of them finding the rhythm—but gradually the dance becomes smoother, more natural, and Emmy finds herself actually enjoying the movement and the music and the unprecedented closeness to her husband who normally maintains such careful distance.
“You’re a natural,” the Duke observes after several minutes of dancing. “Much better than expected.”
“How flattering,” Emmy responds with mild sarcasm. “Your expectations were clearly very low.”
“My expectations are realistic,” the Duke corrects, and there might be a hint of smile in his expression. “And you’re exceeding them admirably.”
They continue dancing—the Duke teaching more complex variations of the waltz, Emmy gradually becoming confident enough to actually enjoy it instead of just focusing on not stepping on his feet—and by the end of the lesson Emmy is breathless and flushed and more physically aware of the Duke than she’s ever been before.
“You’re ready for London,” the Duke says as the music stops, but he doesn’t immediately release her from the dance position, his hand still at her waist and his eyes locked on hers. “You’ll be magnificent at the balls. Every eye will be on you.”
“I doubt that,” Emmy argues. “Every eye will be on you. The scarred duke who married the poor vicar’s daughter. People will be watching to see if we’re convincing as a married couple.”
“Then we’ll be convincing,” the Duke says with unexpected intensity. “We’ll show them exactly what they need to see. A duke who’s utterly devoted to his duchess.”
“Even if it’s not true?” Emmy challenges.
The Duke’s expression shifts to something complicated—something that might be regret or confusion or desire or all three at once—and for a moment Emmy thinks he might say something profound, might admit to feelings she’s only glimpsed in brief moments of vulnerability.
But then he steps back and releases her from the dance position, and the familiar distance returns like it never left.
“Practice the steps on your own,” the Duke says. “We’ll have another lesson in a few days to ensure you’re completely confident.”
He leaves the ballroom, and Emmy is left standing there trying to process what just happened—the unexpected dancing lessons, the Duke’s hands on her waist, the way he looked at her like she mattered, the brief moment where she thought maybe he was going to say something real before retreating behind his walls again.
It’s progress.
Tiny, incremental, barely noticeable progress.
But progress nonetheless.
The Duke is touching her—only in the context of dancing lessons, only for practical purposes, but still touching.
He’s spending time with her—only to prepare for London, only for appearance’s sake, but still present.
He’s noticing her—admitting to it even, acknowledging that he sees her even if he doesn’t know what to do with that awareness.
Emmy clings to these small signs and tells herself that maybe—just maybe—proximity and necessity will force them toward actual connection even if the Duke is too damaged to seek it voluntarily.
London is forcing them together.
Cordelia’s interference is making them allies instead of just strangers sharing a name.
And maybe that will be enough to crack the ice around the Duke’s frozen heart.
One dancing lesson at a time.
One fitted dress at a time.
One moment of noticing at a time.
Until eventually all those tiny increments add up to something real.
That’s what Emmy tells herself anyway.
As she prepares for London and the performance of marriage she’s about to give.
Hoping desperately that performing devotion might eventually become real.
However long it takes.
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