Roof top dressing room: Open
The Duke was coming. A Duke, a King, a Prince, the title didn't matter. He had, she wanted; and so here she was being squeezed into a corset, her waist narrowed until she could taste her lungs on the back of her tongue (they tasted of copper brightness, but she hadn't coughed recently). Her face was already painted, her skin brightened, her cheeks rouged, her cinnamon colored hair brushed with vinegar until it gleamed. The Duke-Prince-King's daughter's dolls probably received the same methodical treatment.
Don't think about the wife. Men were single even with vows on their tongue and lodged between their teeth. Love did not follow the promises sitting in the mouths of the powerful.
Ylang ylang oil was dabbed onto her wrists and the pulse points of her throat. Sparkling earrings were run through the holes in her earlobes, even though they were too heavy and they hurt if she left them in for too long. They hurt less than the corset and the corset hurt less than the black heels on her feet, but she must look the part. She must secure this for them, for herself. Did a diamond still sparkle if no one looked at it?
Not this Diamond. Her skirt - more carmine than cinnamon - was adjusted one last time, the bustle settling evenly across her rear. She glanced at the mirror -- dingy around the edges and slightly misty in the center -- and nodded to her reflection. Her steps towards the door were even, not too confident, lingering like the smile on her lips.