The air in the modiste's shop was filled with the scent of lace and fine fabric. Delia stood on a small platform, in front of a tall mirror, encased in the heavy, ugly wedding gown. The dress was a monstrous creation of antique lace, puffed sleeves, and yards of rustling silk. It felt like a cage, suffocating her.
"Do you have any idea how to make it plainer?" Lady Pembroke, George's mother, asked the modiste, her voice tight with concern. "You see, this is our family heirloom. It has been passed down from generations till it got to me. I wore it on my wedding and now it's going to my daughter in law."
Delia stared at her reflection. She swore she looked like a fattened chicken about to be slaughtered. The thought brought a grim chuckle to her lips. The dress was not only old-fashioned but also incredibly ill-fitting, making her feel shapeless and absurd.
The modiste, a petite woman with kind eyes, wrung her hands. "My Lady, this dress is quite old. Any major alterations could damage it beyond repair."
Delia remembered this exact moment from before. In her past life, desperate to please, she had meekly agreed to wear the dress as it was, hoping to impress Lady Pembroke. But not anymore. That desperate, love-starved girl was gone.
Taking a deep breath, Delia spoke out, her voice clear and steady, cutting through the tense silence. "Why don't we get a new one, Mother?"
Lady Pembroke's head snapped towards her. A nervous, strained chuckle escaped her lips, but her eyes, narrowed to slits, shot a glare at Delia that could curdle milk. "George just acquired the title 'Lord'," she said, her tone suddenly clipped. "It wouldn't be wise to start spending money without thinking of the future."
Delia chuckled inside, a bitter, sarcastic sound in her mind. "What an absurd thing to say. He saves money when he's with me and lavishes the saved money on a one-sided affection." The memory of George's frequent gifts to Anne, the money he spent freely on gambling and frivolous pursuits, while always complaining about 'tight finances' when it came to their wedding preparations, burned in her mind. He was never truly stingy, just stingy with her.
As Lady Pembroke and the modiste continued their hushed, discussion about the impossible task of altering the old gown, Delia carefully slid herself off the dias. The heavy fabric rustled around her, but she moved with a quiet determination. She needed to be eye-level with Lady Pembroke for what she was about to do.
She knew, with absolute clarity now, that Lady Pembroke had never liked her. The disdain in the woman's eyes, the subtle slights, the constant reminders of Delia's 'position' – it all made sense. Lady Pembroke had viewed her as little more than a necessary evil, a means to an end.
Delia was an illegitimate child, her birth a stain on her family's name, a fact Lady Pembroke never missed an opportunity to subtly highlight. The selfish woman had only agreed to the marriage for the benefits – the financial stability her father's fortune would bring to George's dwindling estate, and the respectability of a 'suitable' alliance, even if it was with a bastard child.
Delia, in her past, had been so desperate to be loved, to find a place where she belonged, that she had been blind. She had clung to the naive hope that Lady Pembroke would change her affection after the marriage, that once she was officially part of the family, she would be accepted. She had never realized she had entered an opportunistic family, a viper's nest where her worth was measured only by what she could provide, not by who she was. The realization was a sharp, painful jab to her heart, but it also fueled her resolve.
She stepped down from the dias completely, standing tall despite the ill-fitting dress. Lady Pembroke finally noticed her silence and turned, a flicker of irritation in her eyes.
"My Lady," Delia began, her voice formal, echoing the stilted politeness they always used. Her heart pounded, but she kept her gaze steady, refusing to back down. "I'm breaking the marriage engagement."
The words hung in the air, heavy and shocking. Lady Pembroke's face, usually composed, contorted into a mask of disbelief, then fury. Her jaw dropped.
"What did you say?" Lady Pembroke whispered, her voice dangerously low. "Are you mad?"
"I am not mad, My Lady," Delia replied, her voice gaining strength. "I have given this much thought. This marriage is not... suitable for me."
"Not suitable?" Lady Pembroke scoffed, regaining some composure, though her eyes still blazed. "You, an illegitimate daughter with no prospects, are rejecting my son, Lord George Pembroke? Have you lost your mind, girl? Do you know what this means for your reputation? For your father's standing?"
"My reputation is my own concern," Delia stated, ignoring the sting of the 'illegitimate daughter' remark. "And my father will understand. I cannot, in good conscience, marry into a family where I am not valued for myself." She paused, her gaze unwavering. "And where I am quite clearly seen as nothing more than a convenient transaction."
CRACK!
The sound was sharp and violent in the quiet room. Lady Pembroke open palm connected with her cheek with shocking force. Her head snapped to the side from the impact, a vivid red mark immediately blooming on her skin.