My Cruel Cousin Humiliated Me In A Dress Shop — Then The Duke Intervened
Part 1
Humiliation has a distinct scent.
It smells like imported rosewater, heavily starched linen, and the bitter copper of bitten lips.
I knew this scent intimately.
Standing in the center of Heather’s elite dressmaking boutique on Bond Street, I tasted that familiar bitterness as my fingers brushed against a bolt of fabric so exquisitely beautiful it made my breath catch.
It was midnight sapphire silk shot through with delicate silver threading that caught the afternoon light pouring through the massive bay windows.
For a fleeting, foolish second, I forgot myself.
I forgot the worn, mended hem of my own drab gray muslin day dress.
I forgot my status as the impoverished orphan of a ruined soldier.
I simply let my calloused fingers rest on the magnificent fabric, dreaming of a life where such beauty was meant for me.
Do not soil the merchandise with your hands, Megan.
The voice, sharp as cut glass, belonged to Brenda, my cousin and reluctant benefactress.
She was standing upon a velvet pedestal, preening before a trio of gilded mirrors.
Three seamstresses frantically pinned a hideous concoction of chartreuse taffeta to her waist.
I immediately snatched my hand back.
I pressed my lips together, refusing to let her see the heat rushing to my cheeks.
Heather, a woman whose face was plastered with enough white powder to paint a small carriage, glided over.
Her eyes raked over my threadbare attire with undisguised revulsion.
Brenda is entirely correct, Miss Megan.
Heather sneered, her harsh cockney accent slipping through her faux refinement.
That particular silk is imported directly from the finest weavers abroad.
It is reserved for my most distinguished clientele, women of substance, women of consequence.
A titter of laughter rippled through the shop as two other wealthy patrons hid their mocking smiles behind painted fans.
She simply cannot help herself, madam.
Brenda sighed dramatically, adjusting a diamond pin in her elaborate hair.
My father took her in out of the goodness of his heart when my uncle left her with nothing.
She is a charity case, you see, a glorified lady’s maid.
Yet, she constantly stares at things vastly beyond her station.
Tell me, Megan, did you genuinely believe you could ever wear such a thing?
I lowered my gaze to the Persian rug.
My throat felt tight with unshed tears.
No, Brenda.
I should think not.
Why, the silver thread alone costs more than your father left you in his entire pathetic will.
Brenda let out a cruel, ringing laugh.
It is far too expensive for you.
Perhaps a simpler cotton, dyed in a sensible brown, would be more appropriate for the young woman’s duties.
Heather offered the suggestion maliciously, clearly enjoying the power she held in this gilded room.
I have some scraps in the back room that my scullery maids use for aprons.
They might serve perfectly well.
The cruelty was a physical weight pressing down on my chest.
I had endured months of this since my father passed away, leaving me utterly destitute.
I had been thrust into my uncle’s household, treated worse than the hired help because I was a constant shameful reminder of our family’s proximity to ruin.
I was forced to carry Brenda’s parcels, mend her torn hems, and endure public dressings-down to elevate her fragile ego.
I will wait outside.
I turned toward the heavy oak door, my hands trembling slightly despite my best efforts to maintain my dignity.
You will do no such thing.
Brenda snapped her fan shut.
You will stand there and hold my reticule, and you will learn your place.
You are a nobody, Megan, a penniless nobody in a world that only values coin and title.
I stood frozen, clutching her heavy velvet bag.
The sapphire silk mocked me from the mahogany counter.
The whispers of the other women were like needles against my skin.
I closed my eyes, praying for the floor to open up and swallow me whole.
A silver bell above the boutique’s heavy oak door chimed, shattering the suffocating atmosphere.
The low hum of malicious gossip ceased instantly.
The seamstresses at Brenda’s feet froze.
Heather whirled around, a scowl ready on her lips for whoever dared interrupt a fitting.
The scowl vanished, replaced by a look of sheer, unadulterated terror, which rapidly melted into an obsequious, trembling smile.
Stepping into the shop was a man who seemed to swallow the very light in the room.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in an immaculate, ruthlessly tailored dark coat that whispered of wealth so vast it didn’t need to shout.
His features were striking, a sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and eyes the color of a stormy winter sea.
It was his presence that commanded absolute silence, an aura of absolute unyielding authority.
It was Brian, the Duke of Westfield.
He was known throughout the city not for attending every glittering ball, but for his immense power, his vast estates, and his notorious disdain for the frivolous games of high society.
Your grace.
Heather stammered, executing a curtsy so deep her knees audibly popped.
What an unimaginable honor.
Had I known you were coming, I would have cleared the shop entirely.
Evidently.
Brian murmured, his voice a deep resonant baritone that sent a shiver down my spine.
He did not look at Heather.
His piercing gaze was fixed squarely on the center of the room.
Brenda, sensing a monumental opportunity, violently shoved a seamstress aside and practically threw herself off the pedestal.
Your grace.
She batted her eyelashes with frantic desperation.
I am Brenda.
We were introduced briefly at the route last season.
What a delightful surprise to find you here.
Brian allowed his gaze to slide toward her.
The look he gave her was not one of admiration, but the detached curiosity one might afford a particularly loud insect.
I see you are busy.
Oh, just updating my wardrobe for the season.
Brenda preened, stepping closer to him, entirely ignoring me.
One must maintain appearances, especially when dealing with less fortunate dependents.
She gestured vaguely in my direction, hoping to show off her supposed charitable nature.
Brian’s stormy eyes finally landed on me.
I braced myself, expecting the same dismissal I received from everyone else.
I kept my chin level, refusing to look away, despite the sudden, erratic fluttering of my heart.
I couldn’t help but overhear as I approached the open door.
Brian walked past Brenda as if she were a piece of furniture, stopping directly in front of the counter where the sapphire silk lay.
Someone was speaking of charity cases and scraps for scullery maids.
He reached out, his gloved hand tracing the silver thread.
A remarkable fabric.
He turned his imposing frame to look directly at me.
You have an exceptional eye, Miss Megan.
I swallowed hard, my voice barely a whisper.
Your Grace.
Were you considering this silk for yourself?
Before I could answer, Brenda let out a shrill, panicked laugh.
Oh, Your Grace, you jest.
Megan wear silk?
She is my poor cousin and she hasn’t a shilling to her name.
She was merely dirtying it with her fingers.
I was just telling her that such things are far too expensive for her.
The temperature in the room seemed to plummet by ten degrees.
Brian turned his devastating gaze upon Brenda, and she visibly shrank back.
I find that the true value of an object is determined by who wears it.
On some, even diamonds look like cheap glass.
On others, a simple muslin radiates dignity.
He shifted his gaze back to Heather, who was practically sweating through her powder.
You will take this entire bolt of sapphire silk.
You will use it to fashion a gown for Miss Megan, the finest your shop has ever produced.
A collective gasp echoed through the room.
Brenda’s mouth opened and closed like a dying fish.
Your grace?
Heather choked out.
But, the cost.
Send the bill to my man of business.
Brian interrupted smoothly, producing a heavy, gold-embossed card and dropping it onto the counter.
Miss Megan is to have whatever she requires.
Gowns, pelisses, slippers, gloves.
If I hear even a whisper that she has been treated with anything less than the utmost reverence, I will personally see to it that this establishment is boarded up by nightfall.
Do we understand one another?
Heather turned the color of old parchment.
Perfectly, your grace.
Miss Megan shall have our finest attention.
Brian turned back to me.
The coldness in his eyes melted into something that looked astonishingly like respect.
Do not let small minds dictate your worth, Miss Megan.
You are meant for far better things than holding another woman’s baggage.
With a sharp nod, he swept out of the boutique as swiftly as he had entered.
I stood perfectly still, my heart hammering against my ribs as Brenda let out a shriek of pure, unadulterated fury.
Four weeks passed.
Four weeks of a bizarre, tension-filled existence.
Brenda’s fury had cooled into a toxic, simmering resentment.
She forbade me from speaking of the incident, locking me away in the uppermost attics whenever guests arrived, determined to hide the girl who had inexplicably caught the Duke’s eye.
Yet, she could not stop the deliveries.
Every few days, a discreet carriage bearing the Duke’s crest would arrive at the servants’ entrance.
Boxes bound in silk ribbon were handed over, containing wonders I had never dared dream of.
Kid leather gloves soft as butter, delicate morning dresses of pale muslin, and finally, a massive, carefully padded box containing the sapphire silk gown.
It was a masterpiece.
The bodice was expertly tailored to enhance my figure, the skirts flowing like a midnight river, the silver threads catching the candlelight like captured stars.
But I had nowhere to wear it.
I was still a prisoner of my poverty, bound to my cruel relatives by necessity.
The beautiful clothes hung in my small, drafty wardrobe like mocking ghosts of a life I could not lead, until the invitation arrived.
It was slipped into a basket of mending by a street urchin, who winked at me before disappearing into the fog.
Inside the heavy vellum envelope was a single ticket of entry to the Midsummer Masquerade, the most exclusive, highly guarded social event of the season.
Accompanying it was a handwritten note commanding me to wear a mask and await a carriage at eight.
I stared at the heavy vellum invitation to the most exclusive masquerade of the season, knowing that if I put on that sapphire gown, there would be no turning back.
