Chapter 16: The Wedding Gown's Secret
The morning light crept through the lace curtains like a thief, stealing across the ivory silk bolts and settling upon the half-finished gown that occupied the center of the sewing room. Jennie had been awake since dawn, her hand still wrapped in the neat bandage Leonid had tied the night before, the memory of his touch burned into her skin like a brand. She had not slept. She had lain in her vast, empty bed, staring at the canopy above her, replaying the scene in the scullery over and over until the words lost all meaning.
Is this happiness you have found?
No. It was not. But what was she to do with that confession? What was she to do with the truth that sat heavy in her chest, pulsing with every heartbeat?
She heard the carriage before she saw it, the crunch of wheels on gravel, the stamp of hooves, the muffled shouts of footmen. She moved to the window and watched as Lady Ashworth descended from the vehicle, followed by Isabella, who wore a gown of pale rose that made her look like a spring blossom against the grey morning.
Isabella looked up at the mansion, and for a moment, her gaze seemed to find Jennie at the window. She smiled—a slow, deliberate smile—and Jennie stepped back, her heart hammering.
The fitting had been arranged for nine o'clock. The seamstress, Madame Beaumont, had arrived the previous evening with her trunks of lace and thread, her measuring tapes and pins, her sharp eyes and sharper tongue. She was already in the sewing room, arranging her tools, muttering to herself in French about the quality of the pearls that had been imported from the East.
"Lady Manoban," Madame Beaumont said as Jennie entered, bobbing a curtsey that was more habit than deference. "The gown is ready for its final adjustments. The waist must be taken in, I think. The bride is slimmer than my measurements suggested."
Jennie nodded, not trusting her voice. The gown lay across the wooden frame like a fallen angel—white satin that shimmered with an almost liquid sheen, pearls sewn in cascading patterns that caught the light and scattered it like tears. It was a gown for a bride. A gown for a future Lady Manoban.
A gown for Isabella.
The thought made her stomach turn.
Isabella swept into the room moments later, her mother trailing behind her like a hawk watching its prey. "Oh, it is divine!" she exclaimed, pressing her hands to her cheeks. "Look at the pearls! Look at the lace! I shall be the most beautiful bride in all of England."
"You shall indeed, my dear," Lady Ashworth said, settling into a chair by the window. "Madame Beaumont, you have outdone yourself."
Madame Beaumont inclined her head, accepting the compliment as her due. "If you would step behind the screen, Lady Ashworth, we shall begin."
Isabella disappeared behind the ornate folding screen, her silhouette visible through the thin silk as she undressed. Jennie stood frozen, watching the shadow play, feeling as though she were witnessing something obscene—a ritual she had no part in.
"Lady Manoban," Madame Beaumont said, "would you be so kind as to hold the train while I adjust the bodice?"
Jennie moved to obey, her hands trembling as she took the heavy satin. The fabric was cool and smooth, impossibly soft, and she could feel the weight of the pearls pulling at the hem. This was to be Isabella's gown. Isabella's wedding. Isabella's life with Leonid.
"Oh, I cannot wait to see Leonid's face when I walk down the aisle," Isabella said from behind the screen, her voice muffled by the silk. "He shall be speechless, I am sure of it. He has such a talent for silence, do you not think? But I shall make him speak. I shall make him say all sorts of things."
Lady Ashworth laughed, a thin, polite sound. "Isabella, do not be vulgar."
"I am not being vulgar, Mother. I am being honest. There is a difference." Isabella stepped out from behind the screen, and Jennie forgot to breathe.
The gown fit her like a second skin. The bodice hugged her curves, the pearls gleaming against her fair skin, the skirt flowing to the floor in a cascade of white. She looked like a vision. A beautiful, golden-haired vision of everything Jennie was not.
"Oh," Isabella breathed, turning to face the mirror. "Oh, I am beautiful."
"Pride goeth before a fall," Lady Ashworth murmured, but she was smiling.
Jennie stood behind Isabella, holding the train, invisible. She watched as Isabella preened before the mirror, turning this way and that, admiring herself from every angle. She chattered about the honeymoon—they were to go to Paris, then to the Italian lakes, then to Venice, where they would stay in a palazzo on the Grand Canal. She chattered about the wedding itself, about the flowers she had chosen, the music, the guest list. She chattered about the future, about the children she would give Leonid, about the house she would transform with her taste and elegance.
And Jennie listened, and smiled, and died by inches.
"Madame Beaumont," Isabella said, stepping back from the mirror, "I think the waist needs to be taken in just a little more. And the sleeves—do you think they could be looser? I want to be able to dance freely at the ball."
Madame Beaumont nodded, making notes with a piece of chalk. "I shall adjust it accordingly. If you would change back into your own gown, I will begin the alterations."
Isabella disappeared behind the screen again, and the room fell into a strange, charged silence. Lady Ashworth was reading a book, or pretending to; Madame Beaumont was sorting her pins. And Jennie stood alone with the gown, her hands still touching the satin, her reflection caught in the mirror.
The impulse seized her without warning.
It was madness. It was the most foolish, reckless, dangerous thing she had ever done. But in that moment, she did not care. She slid the gown off the frame, felt the weight of it in her arms, and stepped behind the larger screen at the far end of the room, where the shadows were deepest.
She slipped the gown over her own dress, and the fabric settled around her like a whisper.
It was too big in the bodice—Isabella was fuller in the bust than she was—but the skirt fit perfectly, pooling around her feet like a lake of moonlight. She lifted her hair, letting it fall across her bare shoulders, and stepped out from behind the screen.
The face that stared back at her from the mirror was a stranger's.
This woman in the white gown, with her dark hair and her tired eyes, looked like a bride. Looked like someone who was about to walk down the aisle toward a man who loved her. Looked like the future Lady Manoban.
But she was not the future Lady Manoban. She was the past. The present. The mistake that no one dared to name.
She raised her hand to the lace at her collar, tracing the delicate pattern with her fingertips. She imagined Leonid standing at the altar, his dark eyes fixed on her as she walked toward him. She imagined him taking her hand, sliding the ring onto her finger, leaning in to kiss her as the congregation applauded.
The thought made her chest ache with a longing so fierce it stole her breath.
"You should not be wearing that."
The voice came from the doorway, low and hoarse, and Jennie spun around, her heart leaping into her throat.
Leonid stood there, his hand frozen on the doorframe, his face pale beneath his tan. He was dressed for riding, his boots dusty, his cravat loose, and he was staring at her as if he had seen a ghost.
"I—" she began, but the words died in her throat.
He did not move. He did not look away. His eyes traveled over her, taking in the gown, the pearls, the way her hair fell across her shoulders, and something flickered in his gaze—something dark and hungry and desperate.
"Isabella is in the other room," Jennie whispered. "She will be back any moment."
"I know." But he did not leave.
He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The sound was like a gunshot in the silence.
"Leonid," she said, her voice trembling, "you cannot be here. If someone sees—"
"Let them see." He moved toward her, his steps slow and deliberate, like a man approaching a wild animal. "Let them all see. I am tired of hiding, Jennie. I am tired of pretending."
The air between them was thick with unspoken words. She could feel the heat of his body as he drew closer, could smell the clean scent of him, the faint trace of tobacco, the musk of horse and leather and something else—something that made her knees weak.
He stopped before her, close enough that she could see the pulse beating in his throat, the tension in his jaw. He reached out, his hand trembling, and touched the lace at her collar.
"You look," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "like a bride."
"I am not," she said, the words catching in her throat. "I am not your bride."
"No." His fingers traced the lace, feather-light, sending shivers down her spine. "But you should be."
The words hung between them, heavy with impossible longing. She saw the war in his eyes—the desire, the guilt, the hope, the despair. He was fighting himself, she realized. Fighting the urge to take her in his arms, to claim her as his own, to damn the consequences.
"Leonid, I—" she began, but he silenced her with a finger to her lips.
"Do not speak," he said. "Do not say anything. Just let me—"
He did not finish the sentence. Instead, he leaned in, his forehead resting against hers, his breath warm on her face. She closed her eyes, inhaling him, letting herself sink into the moment.
"If I could," he whispered, "I would marry you tomorrow. I would take you away from all of this—from my brother, from my mother, from the expectations that are crushing us both. I would build you a house by the sea, where no one could find us, and I would spend the rest of my life making you happy."
Tears slipped from beneath her closed lids. "Leonid—"
"I know. I know it is impossible. I know I am a fool." He pulled back, and when she opened her eyes, there was a raw vulnerability in his gaze that she had never seen before. "But I cannot watch you marry my brother. I cannot watch you walk down the aisle toward him, knowing that you should be walking toward me."
"Then what are we to do?" she asked, her voice breaking. "Tell me. I will do anything. I will run away with you, I will—"
"You are marrying Kai." The words were flat, final. "The banns have been read. The contract has been signed. If you run now, you will destroy your family, your reputation, everything you have ever known."
"I do not care."
"But I care." He cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away her tears. "I care about you too much to let you throw your life away for me. I am the second son, Jennie. I have nothing to offer you but scandal and uncertainty."
"I do not want your money," she said fiercely. "I do not want your name. I want you."
He closed his eyes, and a shudder ran through him. "You make it so hard to be noble."
"Then stop being noble." She reached up, her hand covering his, pressing his palm against her cheek. "Stop being the good son, the obedient brother. Be selfish for once. Be—"
The door creaked.
They sprang apart, but it was too late. Isabella stood in the doorway, her rose gown a splash of color against the grey light, her blue eyes wide with shock.
"Lady Manoban," she said, her voice icy, "what are you doing?"
Jennie's blood ran cold. She looked down at the white gown, still draped over her body, the pearls gleaming mockingly in the light. She had no explanation. No excuse. She was caught.
"Leonid," Isabella said, turning her gaze to him, "your mother is looking for you. You should go."
Leonid did not move. He stood frozen, his eyes fixed on Jennie, and for a moment she thought he would deny everything. But then he straightened, his jaw setting with determination, and said: "I am not going anywhere."
"Isabella," Jennie began, "I can explain—"
"Explain what?" Isabella's laugh was sharp, brittle. "That you are wearing my wedding gown? That you are standing alone with my betrothed, in a room where no one can see you? I think the explanation is quite clear."
"It is not what you think."
"Is it not?" Isabella stepped closer, her eyes cold as winter ice. "Then tell me, Lady Manoban: what is it that I am thinking?"
The silence stretched, unbearable, and Jennie found she had no words. Because Isabella was right. It was what she thought. It was worse, perhaps, because what Jennie felt for Leonid was not a passing fancy or a moment of weakness—it was a consuming, desperate love that threatened to swallow her whole.
"I see," Isabella said softly. "I see."
She turned to Leonid, and there was something almost pitying in her gaze. "You are a fool, Lord Leonid. You are throwing away everything—your family, your honor, your future—for a woman who will never be yours."
"I know," he said, and his voice was steady. "But I cannot stop."
Isabella shook her head, a bitter smile curving her lips. "Then you are more foolish than I thought."
She turned and walked out, her gown rustling like dry leaves, and the door closed behind her with a final, damning click.
Jennie stood in the center of the room, the white gown hanging heavy on her shoulders, the pearls cold against her skin. She could not move. She could not breathe.
"Jennie," Leonid said, and his voice was soft, gentle, unbearably tender. "Jennie, look at me."
She raised her eyes to his, and saw the weight of everything they had done reflected in his gaze.
"What have we done?" she whispered.
"I do not know," he said. "But whatever it is, we shall face it together."
He took her hand, and she let him. She let him because she had no strength left to resist, because the feel of his fingers intertwined with hers was the only thing holding her to the earth.
And in the distance, she heard the sound of horses approaching—Kai returning from his morning ride, whistling a tune she had once loved but now could not bear to hear.
The game was over. The truth was out. And there was no going back.