Mending the Duke’s Pride

by Admirand, C. H.

  “While we are pleased to have you join us, I cannot help but wonder what precipitated your call,” Lady Farnsworth said, ignoring the small gasp from her daughter.

  “As you are well aware, I have not attended any entertainments as of late, and only today chanced to hear some disturbing news…” he glanced in Persephone’s direction, “which prompted my call.”

  She felt skewered by this intensity of his deep blue gaze but, for the life of her, could not discern why his direct look would affect her so.

  “And what news might that be?” her mother inquired.

  “It has to do with what transpired during the Chellenham ball.”

  Persephone’s sharply indrawn breath was audible but could not be helped, so great was her mortification. Why would he speak directly to her and her mother about that horrid rumor?

  “I came to offer my assistance.”

  “Have you?” Lady Farnsworth drawled.

  “Indeed.”

  “My daughter was within eyesight the entire ball. Nothing untoward occurred under my watchful eye.”

  He rose to pace in front of the fireplace. After the third trip, he stopped in front of Persephone. “I do not doubt someone with far less to do than attend to their own selfish needs started the mal-intentioned rumor.”

  Persephone’s gaze lifted to his. Her throat felt raw, her head throbbed, and tears sprung to her eyes. She blinked them away. “I do not care in the slightest what anyone wishes to say about me.”

  She rose and walked to the doors to the salon.

  “You will apologize to His Grace and be seated at once.” Her mother’s tone brooked no disobedience. Her mother’s face was tinged red…never a good sign. Persephone stammered an apology before returning to her seat.

  The duke inclined his head in acceptance and, this time, sat across from Lady Farnsworth. “Given the misunderstanding of my behavior at the Hollisters’ ball, I thought the least I could do to make things right was to help circumvent this Banbury tale involving one of Chellenham’s footmen and your daughter.”

  Persephone wished the floor would open wide so she could sink into the deepest of holes. She had no idea what to say. That never happened to her. Ever. Was it the duke’s station in society, or something about the man himself that rendered her nearly mute? She hadn’t a clue.

  Her mother was about to speak when Mrs. Peele knocked and entered, followed by a servant carrying the heavily-laden tea tray. “Thank you, Mrs. Peele.”

  “Shall I pour for your ladyship?”

  “That will not be necessary.”

  “As you wish.”

  Once the door closed behind their housekeeper, Lady Farnsworth motioned for Persephone to join her on the green and white striped settee. “Would you kindly pour for His Grace?”

  Persephone nodded and performed the task slowly, carefully. She greatly feared she’d bobble a teacup and saucer, spilling hot tea in his lap. After pouring for her mother and then herself, she offered a plate of sweets to the duke: treacle tarts, cream scones, and currant cake.

  “Thank you, Lady Persephone.”

  “You’re quite welcome, Your Grace.”

  He sipped in thoughtful silence, leaving Persephone to wonder what he was waiting for. Her mother broke through the uncomfortable silence by asking, “How do you propose to accomplish this feat?”

  His glance swerved away from his teacup and saucer to her mother. Setting the delicate china down on the table in front of him, he eased back in his chair, steepled his fingers and announced, “I have taken it upon myself to hire the footman in question. He is, at the moment, settling in at my town house, becoming accustomed to his new duties.”

  Persephone glanced from the duke to her mother and back again. Unable to contain her curiosity, she asked, “Whatever possessed you to do such a thing?”

  He stared at her for long minutes, until she started to grow quite warm and shift about on the settee, before asking, “Is it commonplace for one to question a duke’s actions?”

  “I must apologize for my daughter, Your Grace. She rarely attends social gatherings, preferring to spend her time in the country. It is my fault entirely for her awkward behavior.”

  Persephone found her voice. “I think not, Mamma. I am responsible for my own actions. I merely asked His Grace a question.”

  “Daughter, do be quiet! His Grace should never be spoken to in such a manner. I have obviously failed if you did not know such.”

  “Mamma—”

  Lady Farnsworth raised a hand, and Persephone dutifully fell silent. “As I was saying, the fault is mine for her behavior. However, I find I, too, am curious as to why you would hire away the footman who saved my daughter from grievous injury had he not acted quickly.”

  “One of the many reasons for hiring him. I confess I am unaccustomed to London’s societal restrictions. I have found life in the country to be more to my taste, as well.”

  Persephone was back to staring into her teacup. Her mother had the right of it. She was not handling the conversation as she’d been brought up to do. She would listen first and then, if prompted, answer questions in a more deferential tone.

  “I only wished to reassure you I will do all in my power to uncover the source of this contemptuous rumor and rout out the culprit.”

  Persephone stared at the duke’s profile, utterly captivated by the conviction behind his words. She believed he meant to do as he said. Not for the first time, she wished she’d been a fly on the wall during her mother’s call on the duke the other day. Mayhap there was more to their discussion than either was willing to disclose.

  Persephone was free to watch the way the duke held himself, in a proud, arrogant manner. His frockcoat was once again an unrepentant black. The fit across his broad shoulders—perfection. She shook that last thought from her head—having no business thinking of the duke in such terms. Focusing on his black waistcoat and crisp white cravat, she caught herself before letting her gaze drop to inspect the fit of his trousers.

  She grew warmer the more she thought of his physique. What is wrong with me? She had never entertained such thoughts before. It must be the talk of rumor and innuendo about her inappropriate behavior with a footman. “A footman,” she rasped.

  “I beg your pardon?” The duke’s tone of voice had her realizing she’d said that last out loud.

  “I apologize for interrupting your conversation, Your Grace.”

  His gaze locked on hers long enough for her to wonder if he was sorting through the thoughts in her brain, picking and choosing one he wished to extract and thence discuss.

  “Quite so,” he continued as if her interruption were a minor inconvenience to his ongoing conversation with her mother. “I do not wish to implicate either of you any further than you already are.”

  “You have our deepest gratitude, Your Grace.” Lady Farnsworth’s voice sounded a bit strained to Persephone, but she knew better than to interrupt her mother again. She’d wait until the duke took his leave.

  “Will you be attending the Darnleys’ musicale this evening?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “I shall look for you there.” The duke bowed over her mother’s hand and then before she could collect herself, he stood before Persephone reaching for her hand.

  “Until this evening.”

  Her throat went dry. Completely and totally dry. Persephone could not summon enough moisture in her mouth to speak without sounding bacon-brained. All at once, she realized, he still had hold of her hand and swiftly nodded her agreement with the hope he’d set her fingers free.

  With the slight lift of his lips, and corresponding sparkle in his brilliant blue eyes, he replied, “Your servant.”

  Crompton magically appeared to escort His Grace to the door where his coachman no doubt waited to whisk him away in his shiny new carriage.

  “What came over you?” Lady Farnsworth demanded.

  “When? What do you mean?” Persephone had a feeling she knew what her mo
ther wanted to find out, but she’d be dashed if she could explain why she’d felt comfortable enough to speak so freely in the duke’s presence.

  “I have never been more embarrassed in my life,” her mother bit out. “And after the way you behaved at the Hollisters’ ball…”

  “I apologized for that. It wasn’t entirely my fault as I reminded you Phyllida—”

  “One of your bird-witted acquaintances.”

  “You don’t truly mean that, Mamma. Do you?” Persephone had no idea her mother felt that way about her closest friend.

  Her mother sighed and patted Persephone’s cheek. “Do be a good girl and lie down so you can rest for tonight’s round of entertainments.”

  “I thought we were only attending the musicale.”

  “With the duke’s reassurance he will come to our aid, I do believe we should send word around to Lord and Lady Andrews that we will be attending their ball after all.”

  It was of no use to argue with her mother. Persephone believed her mother’s threat. Fearing she’d be married off to one of the many fortune hunters lined up at their door. Mayhap not quite so many would be waiting to make an offer of marriage now that rumors circulated about her and the former Chellenham footman, who was now in the duke’s employ.

  As she slowly made her way to her room, she wondered what had possessed the duke to hire on the very footman who’d supposedly taken advantage of her? She had asked rather pointedly if she were to admit it.

  And the duke had very pointedly deigned not to respond.

  “And there’s the rub.”

  Used to the ton’s perfidiousness, she was quite certain there was more to the duke’s offer than good intentions.

  Given the time, this evening, she’d watch and ferret out the details she needed to form a considered opinion.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Persephone wondered if she could politely change her seat to the back of the Darnleys’ music room. Lord Darnley’s eldest daughter hit another shrill note, leaving Persephone to wonder if one’s ears would ever recover from the constant barrage of dissonant notes.

  Lifting her fan, she gently swirled the air in front of her face. Mayhap, if she appeared to be suffering from the close quarters and number of people delighting in Lady Larissa’s musical debut, she could excuse herself to the ladies’ retiring room.

  “Are you unwell?” Her mother’s question gave her the added courage necessary to withdraw from the music room.

  Leaning slightly toward her mother, she replied, “I fear so.”

  Before she could move, her mother had signaled to one of the servants standing at attention at the room’s perimeter. Thankfully, she and her mother were seated off to the side, nearest the door.

  “Your servant,” a footman bowed.

  “Lady Persephone is unwell. Kindly show us to the retiring room.”

  With as little disturbance as possible, given the close quarters and number of people in attendance, the footman eased the way for Lady Farnsworth and Persephone. Once they were in the long hallway, Persephone was able to draw in a breath of much needed air.

  A glance from her mother warned her not to speak until they had reached their destination abovestairs.

  The footman opened the doors to the well-appointed room, bowed and asked, “Shall I summon Lady Darnley?”

  Lady Farnsworth declined and waited until the footman had closed the doors before saying, “I shouldn’t have insisted we go about in society until after the rumors had been squashed.”

  “It’s not that, Mamma,” Persephone insisted. “I was afraid my ears were beginning to bleed.”

  Her mother’s mouth gaped open. Before her mother could speak, Persephone added, “Thank you for never hosting a musicale where Father and you expected me to get up in front of your closest acquaintances to sing.”

  Her mother slowly smiled. “I fear Lady Larissa will not secure a husband from any eligible parti in attendance tonight.”

  Persephone agreed while glancing about her. “Lady Darnley appears to favor the color pink in her surroundings as well as her wardrobe.”

  Lady Farnsworth shook her head at her daughter. “You, of all people, should not question another’s choice of color.”

  Persephone knew her mother was correct. “But tonight, I’m wearing another of your gowns in a lovely shade of deep rose, not pink, with an overabundant froth of cream-colored lace around the neckline like our hostess.”

  “Mrs. Peele did compliment you on your appearance this evening, Daughter. I am well pleased.”

  “I feel a bit exposed without my spectacles.”

  Her mother lifted her eyes to the ceiling and Persephone knew at once it had been the wrong thing to say. Her mother’s lips were moving. She was counting again in a bid for patience.

  “Er…borrowed spectacles, I should say.”

  Her mother opened her fan and waved it frantically in front of her face. “Dash it all, Persephone! I fear I shall never see you married. Never dandle a grandson or granddaughter on my knee.”

  The retort poised upon her tongue went unsaid as Persephone realized there was more to her mother’s desire to see her wed. She’d never thought of her mother in that particular role. She’d only been thinking of her own needs, ignoring her mother’s. Quite selfish of her, Persephone realized.

  “I had not thought to have children, Mamma. That would require me accepting an offer of marriage, which I had not thought to do.”

  Her mother’s fan stilled in her hand as she glanced at Persephone. “I know. Just a mother’s fond wish to see her daughter well established with a man of excellent breeding and fortune with a family of her own.”

  “I cannot see myself in that regard,” Persephone whispered. “I was never like the other debutantes making their bow at Almack’s four years ago…I didn’t take.”

  “Persephone,” her mother said as she walked over and brushed a lock of hair off her daughter’s cheek. “Society has often dubbed one or more of the Season’s newest debutante’s as the latest Incomparable. One to emulate in all things: the color of their hair, cut of the gown, the way they speak. Your father and I never wanted you to be anything other than yourself.”

  “I’m afraid my height and hair color were not all the rage then…or now.”

  Her mother drew her arm through her daughter’s and led her to one of the many Chippendale settees about the room. “When your father passed away so suddenly, it was a shock. I confess to not knowing how to go about…what to say or do.”

  Persephone wished she had been able to reach outside her own grief at the time. “I am so sorry, Mamma. I should have seen past my own suffering to yours.”

  Lady Farnsworth patted her daughter’s hand and slowly stood. “One can only move forward, not backward. Shall we return to the music room? I do believe Lady Larissa’s younger sister is to delight us with her musical abilities.”

  Resigned, Persephone agreed. Rising to stand beside her mother, she said, “I thought the Duke of Wyndmere was supposed to be in attendance this evening.”

  “His Grace arrived partway through Lady Larissa’s repertoire. He’s seated on the opposite side of the room from our seats, all the way at the back.”

  “Lucky man,” Persephone said. “His ears could not be suffering as greatly as ours given the distance from the dais in the front of the room.”

  Her mother smiled. “Come, let us return.”

  If Persephone had thought no one would notice her return, she was mistaken. Heads turned, quizzing glasses were raised…along with a few notable masculine eyebrows…and fans fluttered rapidly. Unease knotted the muscles at the base of her neck. Dread had her temples throbbing in time with the notes hammered with little finesse on the Darnleys’ pianoforte.

  Her mother guided her to one of the vacant seats nearest the door. Posture perfect, spine rigid, Lady Persephone suffered through the last two songs, both of which were familiar to her but played with an unaccustomed verve and style she’d never h
eard before.

  The enthusiastic crowd applauded, although because of the talents of Lord Darnley’s daughters or because the concert was over, she had no idea. As she glanced about the room, she realized more than one of her contemporaries were staring at her, fans covering their faces as if to hide the fact they were speaking about her.

  Persephone sighed, wishing there were some way she could simply stand in front of those assembled and tell them the truth…she had not had an assignation with the Chellenham’s footman—or anyone else for that matter. No one had approached Persephone in the last year and a half while she was in mourning for her late father. Prior to that, well…she had been known to speak her mind with a bit too much enthusiasm.

  Would anyone believe her? Would everyone in attendance merely give her the cut direct? Lord Whithead had, by not sending word around he was unable to take her for a drive earlier in the afternoon as he’d intended. She’d rather have someone turn their back on her in public than to simply not show for a planned outing. Bad form on Whithead’s part.

  “Lady Persephone, would you do me the great honor of accompanying me for refreshment?”

  Persephone blinked, twice. “Your Grace!”

  His blue eyes sparkled with amusement. Was he laughing at her or something else? The duke held out his hand. Bits and pieces of their conversation in her mother’s salon earlier that afternoon echoed through her head, reminding her to be circumspect and show the duke the respect one of his social consequence deserved. She put her hand in his.

  Awed by the strength in his fingers, her gaze shot up to meet his.

  His eyes deepened from a brilliant blue to sapphire. “Shall we?”

  The depth of his voice wrapped around her, adding a layer of protection his consequence would surely give her. But it was the vivid blue of his eyes, the intensity of his direct gaze that had her stomach fluttering with uncertainty and the heretofore unknown.