Chapter 53 - Dresses, Whispers, and a Duke’s Touch

The imperial summons arrived with all the subtlety of a thunderstorm. Sealed in gold wax and carried by a royal messenger, the invitation to the Winter Ball was now laid on Verbena's dressing table, glaring at her like a cursed object.

"I can't believe I'm being forced to parade around like some lovestruck newlywed," Verbena muttered, tossing herself onto the chaise lounge. "All because of some overheard moaning."

Theodore, lounging nearby with a cup of tea, raised a brow. "To be fair, you weren't exactly quiet."

Her face burned hotter than the palace furnaces. "You were the one—! Never mind."

He only chuckled, setting down his cup to walk over to her. With a gentle tug, he pulled her upright, his fingers threading through her hair. "You worry too much. The palace wants a show? Let's give them one."

"Easy for you to say," she grumbled. "You were born for all this noble nonsense. I was a broke college student in my first life."

"And now you're a duchess." His hand skimmed down her neck, pausing right over the faintest mark that had stubbornly refused to fade. "My duchess."

His voice dropped low enough to make her heart stutter.

"Stop that," she whispered, swatting his chest half-heartedly. "We have work to do."

He caught her hand before it could retreat, lifting it to his lips. "We can work. Later."

Before she could protest, he guided her onto his lap, her legs draped over his thighs like they belonged there. Which, horrifyingly, they were starting to feel like they did. She tried to ignore how natural it felt—the way her body instinctively leaned into him, her arms settling around his neck without thought.

"You're impossible," she mumbled.

"And you," he murmured, tracing her lower lip with his thumb, "are adorable when you try to act like you aren't falling for me."

"I'm not!"

He kissed her before she could finish, stealing whatever lie she was about to tell. His lips were soft yet demanding, his hands sliding to her waist, pulling her closer. Every inch of her skin felt electrified, her mind a foggy mess of warmth and longing.

Just as her fingers curled into his hair, a sharp knock shattered the moment.

"Your Grace! The dressmaker has arrived!"

Verbena practically jumped off his lap, her face crimson. "Saved by the knock," she muttered, glaring at the door like it had personally betrayed her.

Theodore, ever composed, leaned back and gave her a slow, shameless once-over. "Don't think this is over, wife."

She stormed toward the door. "If you don't behave at the fitting, I'll make you wear something ridiculous."

"I look good in everything."

The worst part was, he wasn't wrong.

---

The royal dressmaker arrived with enough fabrics to drown a small village. Velvet, silk, organza, embroidery so intricate it probably took three generations of seamstresses to complete.

"His Majesty wants the duchess to shine," the dressmaker said with a bow, "as a symbol of the empire's strongest couple."

Strongest couple. Right. If only they knew how much of this "strength" was fueled by sheer chaos and last-minute improvisation.

After hours of pinning, twirling, and suffering through a corset that felt like medieval torture, Verbena stood in front of the mirror. The dress was stunning—deep sapphire blue with silver threading, designed to cling to her curves without being vulgar. It shimmered like starlight under the room's golden glow.

"Gorgeous," Theodore's voice came from behind her, softer than usual.

She caught his reflection in the mirror—his gaze dark, lingering a little too long on her bare shoulders. His hand brushed her waist, fingers grazing the small of her back where the dress dipped scandalously low.

"You're not supposed to look at me like that," she said, voice weak.

"I'm your husband. How else am I supposed to look?"

"Like you're indifferent. Unbothered. Duke-like."

His grip tightened slightly. "Too bad. I'm bothered."

Her pulse raced.

The dressmaker, entirely oblivious, clapped her hands. "Perfect fit! I'll make the final adjustments and deliver it by tomorrow."

Verbena exhaled slowly as the door closed, leaving her alone with Theodore. "You're dangerous."

"And you," he said, brushing a kiss against her bare shoulder, "are irresistible."

"We're supposed to be preparing for the ball."

"I'm preparing," he murmured. "Preparing to make every man there jealous."

Her knees almost gave out.

---

Later that evening, after they'd both managed to compose themselves (barely), the invitations for the ball were delivered to the nobles across the capital. By midnight, the rumors were in full bloom.

"The Duke and Duchess are attending together, have you heard?"

"They say they're practically glued to each other these days."

"I heard the duchess was seen sneaking out of the duke's chambers at dawn!"

"No, no, they say it was the duke who couldn't leave her room."

Verbena lay in bed, pillow over her face. "I'm going to die of secondhand embarrassment."

Theodore, lying beside her with his hands behind his head, looked entirely too amused. "Relax. It's just gossip."

"Easy for you to say! You're not the one they're painting as some love-crazed wife who can't keep her hands off her husband!"

He leaned closer, whispering against her ear. "Are they wrong?"

She flung the pillow at him.

The Winter Ball was only three days away, and with every passing hour, the tension—and the heat between them—only grew stronger. What started as a sham marriage was quickly turning into something far more dangerous.

Real feelings.

And for a woman who'd sworn to fake her way to freedom, nothing was scarier than falling for the husband she was supposed to manipulate.

---

End of chapter