I Wore My Worst Dress To Avoid A Suitor And Accidentally Captured A Duke

Part 1

I had made peace with my fate approximately three weeks after my twenty-first birthday.

My third unsuccessful season in London had just concluded with a particularly tedious conversation about arranging flowers.

The peace treaty I negotiated with myself was delightfully simple.

I would never marry for anything less than genuine affection.

Under absolutely no circumstances would I pretend to be stupid just to attract a husband.

This position was considered entirely radical in our society.

A woman’s intelligence was generally viewed as being roughly as desirable as a third elbow.

My unfortunate manifesto meant I spent the better part of three years watching every eligible gentleman gravitate toward young ladies who giggled incessantly.

They never contradicted anyone.

They possessed the intellectual curiosity of decorative cushions.

The performance was utterly exhausting.

Maintaining my composure proved even more difficult whenever Arthur Bradley entered the room.

The Duke of Somerset commanded attention without trying.

Thinking his name caused my traitorous heart to perform acrobatics that would impress a circus troop.

I had fallen desperately and hopelessly in love with him during my very first season.

We had spoken for nearly ten glorious minutes about a book we had both read.

He actually looked at me during that conversation.

We discussed poetry with genuine enthusiasm instead of adopting that patronizing tone most men used with women.

Then another beautiful girl had appeared in a dress costing more than a small cottage.

Arthur excused himself with perfect politeness.

I watched him dance with a parade of stunning creatures.

The message arrived with crystal clarity.

A duke simply did not notice ordinary girls who read too much and held strong opinions.

Three long years passed since that brief encounter.

I observed him from across countless ballrooms.

He remained perpetually surrounded by the most beautiful women in the country.

My dignity remained carefully intact while my heart insisted on being entirely foolish.

I saw him perhaps two dozen times, always at a distance.

Some stunning creature always clung to his arm.

My mother interrupted my quiet morning with another dreadful announcement.

An extremely important guest of my father would be arriving shortly.

Her tone suggested this visitor differed from the usual parade of political allies traipsing through our drawing room.

She instructed me to wear something highly appropriate.

I looked at her and made a decision that was either brilliantly rebellious or catastrophically stupid.

I was completely done.

Corsets that squeezed my ribs until breathing became a luxury were discarded.

Elaborate hairstyles that triggered blinding headaches held no appeal today.

Smiling politely at boring business associates felt physically impossible.

I resolved to be comfortable for this afternoon of aristocratic tedium.

Two hours later found me staring at my reflection with a mixture of profound satisfaction and mild horror.

My chosen garment resembled a brownish-gray monstrosity.

My mother had relegated it to the back of the wardrobe three years ago.

She declared it suitable only for scrubbing floors.

The fabric hung on my frame like a potato sack that had surrendered to despair.

The dreadful color lent my skin a vaguely jaundiced appearance.

The effect was absolutely perfect.

I attempted to pin my hair up without assistance.

My maid received an abrupt dismissal under the guise of a sudden headache.

The resulting coiffure featured half-pinned strands cascading wildly.

A charitable observer might assume I had recently survived a violent windstorm.

Jewelry was entirely forgotten.

Gloves and shawls remained firmly in their drawers.

Nothing suggested the slightest effort had been applied to my appearance.

My maid actually gasped upon catching sight of me in the corridor.

She insisted I could not possibly go downstairs looking like a vagabond.

I assured her my mother would survive the shock.

My ensemble provided proper coverage without a hint of scandal.

The entire goal was to remain utterly unimpressive.

I wanted this important guest to barely register my presence.

I descended the main staircase with my chin held high.

Preparation for my mother’s inevitable disapproval tightened my shoulders.

The plan required appearing for the minimum amount of time dictated by politeness.

I intended to say nothing and retreat to the library at the very first opportunity.

It felt like a remarkably solid strategy.

That brilliant plan lasted approximately four seconds after stepping through the drawing room doors.

A man stood beside my father’s imposing oak desk.

Impeccably tailored dark blue broadcloth fit his shoulders in a way that defied reason.

The afternoon sunlight caught the subtle expensive weave of his waistcoat.

Arthur Bradley turned toward the doorway.

The man I had loved in secret for three years stood in my home.

He absolutely should not be witnessing this visual disaster.

My boots stopped so abruptly I nearly toppled forward.

My fingers shot out to grip the doorframe for vital support.

Every muscle tensed with the overwhelming urge to flee into the street.

My breath abandoned my lungs completely.

I managed one clumsy step backward.

My mother’s hand clamped around my elbow like an iron manacle wrapped in silk.

Her voice flowed like honey laced with venom.

She insisted I greet our esteemed guest immediately.

My father glanced up from his scattered documents.

His expression flickered through surprise, deep confusion, and suppressed amusement.

He introduced the Duke of Somerset with carefully neutral tones.

This situation transcended mere embarrassment.

I was standing in actual, literal hell.

Arthur turned his full attention toward me.

His dark gaze swept over the tragic hemline of my gown.

He surely noticed the stray pins failing to secure my hair.

I awaited the inevitable polite indifference.

Barely concealed disappointment would surely follow.

Perhaps a flicker of pity for the unfortunate daughter who dressed herself in the dark might surface.

Instead, instead of the polite disgust I expected, the Duke of Somerset was staring at me with undisguised fascination.