Mending the Duke’s Pride

by Admirand, C. H.

  Coventry grinned. “Aye, aye, Your Grace.”

  Jenkins closed the door, and Jared sighed. “I do not believe I will ever get used to all of these ducal restrictions.”

  Jenkins disagreed, saying, “I have every faith in you, Your Grace.”

  “I depend upon you for more than you know, Jenkins.”

  His butler’s eyes widened a moment before he nodded. “I shall endeavor to please Your Grace.”

  “You already have, Jenkins, by being yourself.” The duke stopped in front of the doors to the salon. “Don’t change.”

  Jenkins straightened his shoulders, opened the door and announced, “The Duke of Wyndmere.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Can you see him?” Lady Persephone fluttered the fan in front of her face, hoping to hide her distress and conversation from her mother’s notice and censure.

  Lady Phyllida glanced over her shoulder, then began waving her fan in front of both their faces. “You’ll never credit it, dearest.”

  Dread filled Persephone. “Is he coming this way?”

  Her friend ignored her question and slipped her arm through Persephone’s. “Of course, you are feeling a bit over warm,” Phyllida said loud enough to be heard by those standing nearby. “’Tis quite a crush. Let me help you to the retiring room.”

  Persephone narrowed her gaze at her friend. “I cannot and will not retreat.”

  “Do be quiet, ’Seph,” Phyllida hissed. “Act the part, or Lord Whithead will, indeed, come to claim your hand for the quadrille.”

  She let herself be led from the crowded ballroom. “Why is he so insistent?”

  “I do believe your duke has something to do with it.”

  “He’s not my duke.”

  “Ah, but of all the ladies in attendance at the Hollisters’ ball, you were the only one singled out by his illustrious self.”

  “Whithead is on mother’s list, you know.”

  Phyllida patted her friend’s hand and signaled to a nearby footman. “Lady Persephone is not well. Would you please find Lady Farnsworth and send her to the ladies’ retiring room?”

  “At once,” he bowed and disappeared through the crowd.

  Persephone pouted. “I hate acting ill when I’m feeling fine.”

  Phyllida loosened her grip as they were mounting the wide staircase. “If you’d rather dance with Lord Whithead…”

  Persephone’s head began to pound as her mother’s new restrictions, and unwanted dancing partners, overwhelmed her. Hand to her throat, eyes wide with alarm, her complete lack of control over her own situation took hold.

  Phyllida eased an arm around her friend’s waist. “You really do feel hunted.”

  Persephone was able to draw in a shallow breath to answer, “Like the veriest vixen being followed by a pack of hounds.”

  A few moments later, they were alone, ensconced in one of the stately rooms on the floor above, where Persephone felt free to speak. “I didn’t ask for the attention. Mother knows I don’t want to marry.”

  Phyllida guided Persephone to one of the lavender velvet fainting couches—aptly named. When she’d eased her friend against the pillows, Lady Farnsworth swept into the room, followed closely by a maid bearing a pitcher and soft linen cloth.

  “Set the water over there,” Lady Farnsworth directed, “and send word to Lord and Lady Chellenham that my daughter is ill, and I must escort her home at once.”

  “Yes, your ladyship.” The maid curtseyed and asked, “Shall I send a footman up to assist your daughter?”

  Lady Farnsworth stared at her daughter’s wan face. “That might be wise.”

  “At once, your ladyship.” The maid disappeared.

  “Before one of the Chellenham footmen arrives and your ill-conceived plot comes to light, you’d best explain the meaning of your vulgar display in the ballroom just now.”

  “I didn’t—”

  Lady Farnsworth raised one eyebrow and stared at her daughter.

  Persephone squirmed beneath that well-remembered look. She was about to have a peal rung over her head.

  Lady Phyllida chose that moment to interfere. “It wasn’t an act, Lady Farnsworth,” she explained. “Persephone grew quite pale and started to sway as I led her through the crowd at the edge of the ballroom. When we couldn’t find you, I asked for help and brought her here.”

  Persephone wished she could look up and see her mother’s expression but knew it would be best to act subservient until given leave to speak.

  At last, her mother’s rigid posture relaxed and she leaned down to lay the back of her hand against Persephone’s forehead. “You are warm.”

  Persephone closed her eyes, wishing she didn’t have to constantly try to evade or avoid whomever her mother sent in Persephone’s direction. She hated the subterfuge and always felt worse after having to resort to such action.

  While she tried to wish herself away from the Chellenham town house, her mother laid a cold cloth across Persephone’s forehead. The blessed coolness eased the worst of the ache behind her eyes.

  The knock on the door had her jolting. Good Lord, she hoped it wasn’t Lady Chellenham. The woman had been positively vile to them after Lord Farnsworth had taken ill and passed away, spreading unseemly tales of his indiscretions—all of which were unfounded.

  She’d tried to beg off and not attend tonight’s ball, but her mother had been firm, advising at least three of the lords on her list of potential suitors for Persephone would be in attendance that evening.

  “Lady Farnsworth,” a deep voice intoned, “yer carriage is ready. Shall I carry Lady Persephone?”

  Phyllida leaned close, asking, “Can you walk?”

  Persephone nodded and Phyllida spoke up. “I would be more than happy to assist Persephone to your carriage with your permission, Lady Farnsworth.”

  The pointed look had Phyllida glancing at Persephone, as if to say she knows and now we’re both going to have to listen to a lecture on deportment and proper behavior at a ball.

  “I am not certain,” she finally answered the footman. “Would you please follow us in case my daughter has a relapse?”

  He bowed low and held the door open, then closed it behind them. “This way, yer ladyship.” The Chellenham footman led the way to a single staircase instead of the spectacular double staircase they had ascended.

  Walking slower than their guide, Lady Farnsworth chose that moment to let her daughter know Lord Whithead asked to call on the morrow to take Persephone for a drive in the park.

  “Tomorrow? A drive?”

  “I invited Lord Whithead to take tea with us, and he suggested a drive afterward.”

  Persephone’s shock had her stumbling and treading on the hem of her gown.

  “Persephone!” Phyllida cried, trying in vain to grasp her friend’s arm when she pitched forward.

  Persephone’s indrawn gasp was echoed by her mother.

  Strong arms wrapped around her as a deep voice soothed, “Not to worry, yer ladyship. I’ve got ye.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. This. Could. Not. Be. Happening!

  The footman’s strength was evident in the ease with which he’d caught her before she’d tumbled down the stairs, and then swept her up as if she were as light as thistledown.

  Abject mortification did not keep her from mumbling her thanks.

  “My duty,” came the deep deferential reply.

  When they reached the vast entryway, she asked him to put her down.

  “Nonsense,” her mother retorted. “We cannot risk you losing your balance—or spectacles again—and falling, Daughter. Now can we?”

  Persephone knew when she’d been bested. She acquiesced and thanked the footman for his assistance.

  She felt his chest puff up with importance and wished there was a carpet she could crawl beneath, or drapery she could hide behind, until the hideous feeling everyone was watching her subsided.

  If she thought they’d manage to walk to their carriage without anyone
being the wiser—or daring to engage her or her companions in conversation, she was doomed to disappointment.

  “I say, Lady Farnsworth,” a gruff voice rumbled from off to their left. “May I be of assistance?”

  Her mother paused to speak with the elderly gentleman striding toward their little group.

  “Lord Allwood,” her mother sighed. “You are too kind.”

  “Botheration, milady,” he grumbled. “Dashed if I’d leave Samuel’s family in their time of need.”

  Persephone wished she were in a position to turn her head to speak to Lord Allwood but was afraid to move about in the footman’s arms and call additional attention to herself from that quarter.

  “Follow me, my good man,” he instructed the footman carrying Persephone. “You first, Lady Phyllida,” Lord Allwood said.

  “Now then, you, Lady Farnsworth while I stand at the ready to aid this strapping young footman of Chellenham’s.”

  A small crowd had gathered on the steps to the town house to observe the goings on.

  Persephone feared she would never live this mortification down. Once she was settled on the leather squabs next to her mother, she sighed. At least they were no longer under such close scrutiny.

  Her mother thanked Lord Allwood and the footman for their assistance. As the door to the coach closed, she turned to face her daughter. “Not. One. Word.”

  Persephone opened her mouth, but her mother raised a gloved finger in front of her daughter’s face. “Not one, or I shall invite Lords Daughtry and Sandham to our intimate tea party tomorrow.”

  She closed her mouth with a snap and did as she was bid. Now was not the time to cross swords with her mother.

  “Lord Allwood was kind enough to instruct our coachman to drop you at your home, Phyllida, dear. I sent word to your mother. She is attending the Flaversham musicale this evening as I recall.”

  “Thank you, Lady Farnsworth.”

  “I shall accompany you to the door and explain to your housekeeper the turn of events that brought us here.”

  When the footman opened the carriage door, Lady Farnsworth leaned close to Persephone. “Stay here and out of trouble.”

  Persephone could not have moved if she tried. She was still wondering how she would ever find the courage to show her face in polite society again.

  *

  “Who was that chit?” Viscount Hollingford asked, quizzing glass raised to watch the coach’s swift departure.

  The footman dutifully answered directly, “Lady Persephone Farnsworth.”

  “Ill, was she?”

  If the footman thought it odd the viscount who just arrived asked so many pointed questions, he would not have said. The viscount was well known to his employer Lord Chellenham and known to seek the other’s company of an evening to try their luck at the tables and sample the wares down in the stews of London.

  “Nearly fell down the stairs,” he answered. “Had to carry her to Lady Farnsworth’s carriage.”

  “Too much champagne of a certain,” Hollingford stated. Striding forward to pass along that tidbit, adding she was free with her favors to a certain strapping fair-haired footman.

  Within thirty minutes, all who attended the Chellenham rout had heard of Lady Persephone’s indiscretion with one of the Chellenham footmen after imbibing too freely of their very excellent champagne.

  But not everyone who heard the on dit believed it of her. Lady Cressida and her parents were staunch supporters of the Farnsworths and did their best to counter the evil gossip. How it began, no one could quite decide as it seemed to swirl in through the front door on the evening breeze.

  Chapter Ten

  “I came over as soon as I could.” Lady Cressida reached out to Persephone, giving her friend’s hand a quick squeeze of encouragement before taking a seat on the delicately patterned lady’s chair across from her friend.

  “Mayhap now, Mamma will gladly let me retire to the country and get on with my life.”

  “Really, dearest,” Phyllida sighed. “Aren’t you being a bit overly dramatic?”

  “I do not think so,” Persephone retorted. “It was your idea that I had succumbed to some sort of malady brought on by the closeness of the crowd at the Chellenham ball last night.”

  “But you did look as if you’d faint if Lord Whithead had been allowed to claim your hand for the quadrille as he’d anticipated.”

  She had to admit Phyllida had the right of it. She had felt rather ill. “The rest is a bunch of faradiddle.”

  Cressida’s eyes widened. Persephone looked askance at her much younger friend. “Really, Cressida. It’s hardly wicked to say as much.”

  “My mother would never countenance my using such an expression.”

  “Call it what you will,” Phyllida interrupted. “It’s still a hogshead of lies.”

  “Hogshead?” Cressida seemed totally lost, unable to follow the conversation.

  Persephone sighed, loudly this time. “Dearest, ’tis an old expression relating to measure.”

  Phyllida nodded. “Surely you’ve heard it before.”

  Their friend looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Not really. Mother and Father keep me abovestairs most times when they are entertaining. It was quite a coup for me to be allowed to attend their ball. And he was there.”

  Persephone knew to whom Cressida referred—he was the Duke of Wyndmere. “I will have to intercede on your behalf—”

  She was shaking her head. “Mother wouldn’t approve.”

  “But you’re here now.” Persephone wondered if Lady Hollister was aware Cressida was currently sitting in the formal salon at the Farnsworth town house. “Your mother does know where you are, doesn’t she?”

  Cressida’s face flamed and Persephone had her answer. “I see.”

  “After last night and all of those horrid rumors, she would never have allowed it.”

  “Yet here you sit on Lady Farnsworth’s favorite flower-sprigged chair,” Phyllida reminded her.

  “I couldn’t not be here. We must get to the bottom of these rumors and stop them. Your reputation is on the verge of being shredded to the tiniest of bits.”

  “Speaking of rumors,” Persephone began, only to be silenced by the arrival of Crompton, the family butler.

  “Lady Farnsworth wishes a word.”

  “Please tell my mother I shall be along directly,” Persephone said.

  “Begging your pardon, Lady Persephone,” he replied, “her ladyship wishes you to come at once.”

  She rose to her feet. “Very well. Please ask Mrs. Peele to bring tea for my guests.”

  He bowed and left to do her bidding.

  “I won’t be long,” she promised. Hurrying across the wide expanse of the entryway, she looked around to see if any of the staff were watching. The coast was clear—she hiked up her skirts and dashed up the stairs, two at a time—pausing only to catch her breath before knocking on the door to her mother’s sitting room.

  “Ah, come in,” Lady Farnsworth said as she glanced up from her letters. “I am pleased you did not keep me waiting as is your usual habit.”

  “Crompton said you wished to see me at once,” Persephone reminded her, as if her mother ever needed reminding.

  “Be that as it may, I wish to discuss your choice of gown for this afternoon’s outing with Lord Whithead.”

  Persephone didn’t bother to hide a groan of anguish. “Mamma! Please reconsider—”

  Once again, her mother held up one finger, her daughter’s cue to be silent. Twice in less than twenty-four hours her mother had used that signal from childhood. Did her mother believe she needed to be treated as a child?

  Aren’t you acting a bit like one? Her conscience chided her.

  “It would please me greatly if you would wear a becoming color. As your new gowns have not yet arrived, I have had Madame Beaudoine alter a few of my gowns to accommodate your height. Mrs. Peele has reassured me the colors will suit you.”

  “Mrs. Peele has never found f
ault with my gowns,” Persephone reminded her.

  “Because I had put my stamp of approval on them. She did mention the gown you wore to the Hollisters’ ball was quite extraordinary in color.”

  “You see?” Persephone said. “She thought it wonderful.”

  “Quite the opposite. She admitted to finding it abhorrent.”

  Persephone looked away from the censure in her mother’s eyes. “Very well, Mother.”

  “Wear the pale blue embroidered morning dress with dark blue velvet spencer. I’m assured it complements your fair skin and raven hair.”

  Persephone sighed, knowing she had no choice.

  “You will look your best, Daughter. Need I remind you of the tenuous line you walk?”

  She hung her head in abject misery and fought to regain her composure. “No, Mother. I understand.”

  Lady Farnsworth rose and held out her hands to her daughter. Persephone let herself be helped from the chair and into her mother’s embrace. “There now,” she said, stepping back. “Go enjoy the rest of your visit with your darling friends before we must shoo them along their way so you can rest before Lord Whithead’s arrival.”

  Persephone tried to put on a brave face, returning to the downstairs salon, but Cressida and Phyllida understood it was only for show. A short while later, they said their goodbyes.

  “We’ll do our best to quash this horrid tale,” Cressida promised.

  “And get to the bottom of its origin,” Phyllida declared.

  Her friends hugged her and left.

  A few hours later—after what her mother referred to as a necessary rest—Persephone was dressed in her mother’s gown, spencer, and bonnet, waiting for Lord Whithead’s arrival.

  The appointed time came, and yet his lordship did not call.

  An hour passed and still no Lord Whithead.

  “Mother, it’s best you hear what news Cressida and Phyllida brought with them earlier.”

  “Daughter, I know all about those fustian rumors about last night. Not a one of them is true. You were accompanied by either Lady Phyllida or me the entire evening.”