SOMEHOW, CLARA MANAGED TO live through the three days leading up to the wedding doing little else but eating, sleeping, and submitting to endless fittings for her wedding gown. It was strange how time could move both too swiftly and too slowly when one dreaded what lay ahead.
She had not seen the Duke since the dinner that first evening—a mercy for which she was profoundly grateful. Every time she remembered his irritated, assessing eyes, a wave of guilt rippled through her. How long could she keep up this charade before the truth clawed its way to the surface? 'Six months,' she reminded herself. 'Only six months, and he would set her free.'
Still, the thought of deceiving a man she had never meant to hurt made her stomach twist. It was not easy pretending to be a lady. The fine gowns, the servants, the soft-spoken manner expected of her—all felt like delicate glass that might shatter at the slightest tremor of her hand.
But today, she could no longer hide behind her room's four walls. Today, she was to wed the Duke of Langford—an honour that belonged to another woman entirely.
Clara rose from the stool before her mirror, her legs unsteady beneath the heavy weight of the moment. Her gaze lingered on the armoire where the wedding gown hung, shimmering faintly in the morning light that slipped through the curtains.
The dress was breathtaking—gold satin embroidered with tiny crystals that caught the light like a field of stars. For a moment, she simply stared at it, half-in awe, half-in disbelief. Such beauty did not belong to her.
Her fingers trembled as she touched the fabric. 'What was she doing?' she asked herself, though there was no one to answer. She slipped into the gown carefully, fumbling a little with the laces at the back before tightening them as best she could. When she turned to face the mirror again, her breath caught.
The woman who stared back was not Clara Whitlow, the midwife's daughter from a quiet countryside village. She was Lady Evelina Harcourt, or so the world would believe. The gown clung where it should, yet it seemed to swallow her narrow frame. Its elegance only made her seem smaller, plainer.
She smoothed the skirts with nervous hands, trying to steady herself. 'She would do this for her mother,' she told her reflection. Just for six months. Then she'll be free.
But freedom, she thought bitterly, was a fragile promise.
Her thoughts drifted, unbidden, to that afternoon in the Harcourt gardens—the last day she had been truly herself.
*******
Flashback
"What if someone recognises me at the wedding?" she had asked softly, her voice barely rising above the trickle of the fountain. The garden had been heavy with the scent of roses and sunlight. Clara remembered the beads of sweat trickling down her neck from the morning's waltz lesson—the one Lady Evelina insisted she perfect before departure.
Lady Evelina sat opposite her, posture immaculate, gloved hands resting on her lap. Her expression was composed, faintly disinterested.
"No one will recognise you in London," she had said, her tone cool and assured. "I hardly mingle with society. Besides, our resemblance is what makes this possible."
Clara had hesitated, fingers knotting in her skirts. "And the Duke? Wouldn't he know I'm not you?"
Lady Evelina rose gracefully, the silk of her gown whispering as she moved. "He won't," she replied with faint irritation. "I have never met him. If you play your part well, there will be no reason for him to suspect."
"And… your family?"
That earned her a sharp glance. "Listen to me, peasant," Evelina said coldly. "My father scarcely cares for my whereabouts. Whether he attends the wedding or not, you'll be veiled. No one will know the difference."
Clara had nodded meekly, shame burning her cheeks. She had told herself it was only for a while. Only for her mother's sake. Only to survive.
*******
Present
Clara drew a long breath, shaking away the memory. With trembling hands, she gathered her hair into a simple bun and fixed the veil over it. The gauzy fabric softened her reflection until she looked like a ghost of herself.
She slipped into her shoes—white satin, far too fine for her calloused feet—and stood still for a long moment. The silence pressed heavily on her chest.
When she finally turned toward the door, her heart was beating so wildly she feared it might betray her secret before she even reached the altar. Every step felt heavier than the last. She prayed—fervently, desperately—that no one would look too closely at her face.
For if they did, they would see not a lady… but a frightened girl wearing another woman's name.