Page 18 of Duchess Needed
It was a knock at the door that had woken her up and when she had instructed the person to come in, it was Jenny.
“It is nearly time for dinner, Your Grace. We’ve drawn you a bath. Would you like me to help you disrobe?”
Phoebe stared at the girl blearily in disbelief, unable to fathom how she had been able to let time get away from her like that. But she was too nervous to eat, so she shook her head.
“I-I'm sorry, I do not have any appetite currently, so I will simply take a bath and prepare for bed instead. Do not worry about me, I can handle that task. Do give the cook my sincerest apologies.”
“All right, Your Grace. Are you certain you will be fine by yourself?” the girl questioned in concern.
“I am sure, thank you,” Phoebe assured kindly.
“If you insist,” Jenny curtsied. “Good night, Your Grace.”
When she was alone again, Phoebe took a moment to assess her situation. She had lost nearly three hours – which truthfully served her well because her mind was clearer now – and soon, the duke would be knocking at her door.
Quickly, she took off her wedding dress and headed to the bath to soak in an effort to calm her reignited nerves. The water smelled of flowers and it did help distract her for a moment, however, she found another problem waiting for her when she returned to the room to get dressed.
She had not purchased new nightgowns.
The thought had occurred to her about a week ago, in the midst of all the wedding preparations, and she had added it to the running list of things to attend to – and then, somehow, she had failed to attend to it. Phoebe was now standing in her dressing room in one of her old ones; plain white cotton, perfectly decent, utterly unremarkable. Nothing a new duchess ought to be wearing on the first night of her marriage.
But there was nothing she could do about it now.
She stood in front of the mirror for a moment and regarded herself with a critical, yet logical eye. The gown was fine – perhaps a tad worn but still it was suitable enough. Her hair was down around her shoulders, cascading down in soft waves that her mother had once said reminded her of honey. And on her cheek – the scar, right where it always was, for all to see.
She pressed her fingers briefly to it, an old habit she had long since stopped trying to break, and looked away from the mirror in an effort to move on with the rest of her preparation.
Moments later, she found herself tied to yet another issue – she did not know where to stand.
It was only an issue because while she knew what was to happen – or rather what had been implied – she wasn’t sure how to tide herself by in the meantime as she waited for the inevitable. She couldn't sit on the bed, because that felt too obvious. She couldn't stand by the window, because she would only stare out of it and let herself be consumed by her thoughts endless.
Eventually, she settled in the chair near the fireplace, which seemed like a reasonable compromise – until she thought about moving again, seconds later.
She was still deliberating when the knock came.
Phoebe stood up so quickly that she nearly knocked the chair back, and then stood very still, straightening her posture, composing her expression.
"Come in," she said, and was relieved to hear that her voice was steady.
The door opened and Edward stepped into the room, bringing with him the usual air of casual confidence. He had changed as well – had rid himself of his coat, and his shirt lay open at the collar in a manner that made it far too easy for her gaze to follow the path of his exposed chest.
His gaze moved to her and then, unhurriedly, around the room. The corners of his mouth shifted.
"You moved the chair," he observed.
Phoebe looked at the chair, noticing that was slightly askew from where she had startled it. "I was sitting in it."
"Were you?" he said pleasantly. "And before that, were you standing near it, trying to decide whether sitting in it was the correct choice?"
She looked at him a narrowed gaze, clenching her hands by her side to hide the fact that they were shaking. "No."
"Mm."
He sounded entirely unconvinced as he crossed the room toward her slowly – as though he had all the time in the world and did not particularly intend to rush any part of it – and Phoebe held her ground with some effort.
"You're nervous," he noted, stopping a few feet from her.
"I am not," she bit back.
