The Devil's Duchess-Chapter 31: Her Wedding Gown

Three days.

That was all that remained between Marcella and her wedding day—a truth she had managed to ignore until now. The sheer absurdity of how close it was made her stomach coil. She had been so absorbed in unraveling mystery, the half-truths she scraped from smiles that never reached eyes... that she'd nearly forgotten she was supposed to be a bride.

The sun filtered lazily through gauzy curtains. Bolts of silk and lace, neatly rolled, lined the far shelves. Sketches of gowns had hung from strings.

Marcella stood in the center of it all, her eyes flitting from one sketch to the next, and her heart oddly calm for a woman counting down to what felt more like a coronation than a celebration.

The door creaked.

She didn't need to turn to know someone had entered. She could feel the presence. A woman, certainly.

"Lady Marcella," a feminine voice greeted. "It is a pleasure. I am Madame Eloise."

Marcella turned.

A tall woman swept in, dressed in shades of deep plum and mauve. Her silver hair was drawn tightly into a crown-like twist, her eyes sharp but not unkind. She walked with the confidence of someone who'd dressed queens and knew it.

Marcella recognized the name. Royal Seamstress to the crown. Appointed by the Queen herself. "Likewise. I've heard of you." She dipped her chin.

Eloise smiled modestly, a flicker of pride in her eyes. "Then I hope to live up to my reputation." She motioned toward a tall, polished stool placed in front of a grand three-paneled mirror. "Shall we begin, my lady? The measurements come first."

Obeying her words, Marcella stepped forward. She let Eloise take the lead, standing as the woman drew soft measuring tape across her shoulders and spine.

In the mirror, three Marcella stared back. Each of them pale. Each of them distant. She didn't look like a woman about to marry.

"Hold your arms out, gently now," Eloise instructed, adjusting her stance. "Yes. Just like that."

Marcella complied.

Eloise scribbled quick notes in a small leather-bound notebook as she measured. "Bust... thirty-three and three-quarters. Waist, perfect. Hips... mm." She tilted her head, smiling as she wrote. "Very balanced. The Duke has excellent taste."

Marcella let out a humorless laugh—more a breath than a sound.

Eloise paused, caught off guard. "Did I say something funny?"

Marcella shrugged, her gaze still locked on the mirror. "Only if you knew how... carefully he has curated that taste."

Confusion creased the seamstress's forehead, but she didn't pry. She resumed her work with the same professionalism. The tape slipped over Marcella's wrist, along her shoulder slope, over the curve of her lower back.

"Such a grace," Eloise said almost absently, as if speaking to herself. "You were born for the altar."

No. I was born for the gallows. Then someone changed their mind and dragged me toward the altar instead.

When the measurements were done, Eloise led her toward a table near the windows. Fabric swatches and design sketches were spread like a painter's palette—colors and textures layered together. Silk the color of early starlight. Pale rose organza embroidered with silver vines. Velvet so soft it almost disappeared in her touch.

Marcella ran her fingertips over the swatches, trailing across them like she was flipping through versions of herself someone else had invented.

All beautiful. All delicate.

All designed to make her look like the perfect bride. But none of them felt like her.

And she caught something. A half-hidden sketch tucked under a cluster of more conventional drawings. She slid it free with two fingers.

It stopped her.

Haunting, off-shoulder neckline, corset laced in black-silver threading, a long skirt that flowed like midnight fog. The fabric stitched with pale lilies and bramble-thorns. There was no veil.

A dress that said yes, I am yours—but you will never truly have me.

"This one," Marcella declared, holding it up.

Eloise blinked in surprise. "Not the lace with the cathedral veil?"

"No." She was clear with what she wanted. "This."

Eloise took the sketch from her hands, studying it more closely. A bright smile curved her lips. "Ah... a bold choice. Regal. Mysterious. You'll look like something from an ancient ballad—forgotten, but unforgettable."

She began jotting notes again, "It will take long hours, but I'll have the team begin work immediately." She glanced up once more. "I must say you're lucky, Lady Marcella. Not every bride gets a husband so eager to ensure every detail is perfect. The Duke speaks highly of you."

The corner of Marcella's lips curled—just a little. Not quite a smile.

Perfect. Always perfect.

"Does he talk about me?" she asked, idly.

"Oh yes," Eloise replied with a shy chuckle. "He was sure in what he wanted for your gown. Only the best. As if you were already royalty."

Royalty. Queens. Dresses. All illusions, all staged like a play with only one ending written in blood.

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"He's not what I expected, either," Eloise added. "Men of his rank are often... colder."

Colder?

If only she knew how cold Berith could be. Cold like marble. Cold like graves.

A chuckle escaped her throat. "He's very good at pretending."

But the seamstress being kind and oblivious, couldn't catch the meaning of her words. She snapped the notebook shut and dipped her head again. "I'll return tomorrow with the first fitting. Please rest while you can, My lady. The next few days will be... full."

With that, the seamstress swept out of the room, her plum skirts brushing the floor.

Marcella remained by the mirror, for a moment longer. The reflection that stared back was not a blushing bride, but a woman on the brink, a prisoner waiting for a verdict.

Three days.

And she wasn't sure if she'd be walking down the aisle...

...or being dragged to it.