*Cait*
My mother’s voice is sharp with purpose this morning. She stands at the foot of my bed, arms crossed, gaze expectant.
“We’ll need to decide on the fabric,” she says before I’ve even swung my feet to the floor. “And you’ll need a proper seamstress. One who won’t gossip if we choose something finer than the usual.”
I sit up slowly, blinking away sleep. “Fabric for what?”
“For your wedding gown and veil, of course,” she says, as if I should’ve expected her to be in my bedchamber at dawn for discussions on linen and lace.
I nod silently. If I speak, I’m certain I’ll ask why this talk must come before I’m fully awake, when we haven’t even settled on the wedding date.
Lachlan is everything a nobleman ought to be. Strong, well-bred, proud, but I feel nothing when I look at him. No
