The Making of a Marquess

by Lynne Connolly

  Leo nodded. He and the dowager agreed on that point. “Liking will be enough.”

  “Indeed, you may lavish affection on your mistress,” Her Grace said. She shifted a little, enough to make the footman standing behind her chair hurry forward to help her stand. Not that she needed it, but she appreciated an attentive servant.

  “I did.” Leo shuddered, recalling La Coccinelle’s final tantrum. Final for him, that was. He had sent her the deeds to the house he’d bought for her, and she could consider their affair at an end. He would certainly not return there.

  Getting to his feet, Leo tossed his napkin down on the table before making his bow. “I will uphold the dignity of the dukedom, never fear.”

  “I know you will. You always do.”

  * * * *

  “You look lovely,” Angela said. “You’ll do well tonight, Phoebe, mark my words.”

  Phoebe let her mouth tilt up in a doubting smile. “I’ll d-do well enough.” She flourished her fan. “At least I m-mastered that part.” Her relatively plain gown marked her as inferior, so she didn’t expect any special notice. In fact, she’d positively dislike it. They were standing outside Angela’s bedroom door, ready to go downstairs and greet her guests.

  Angela took her hands in hers. “You’ve come a long way since you escaped from your odious suitor in the country. Now you may enjoy yourself.”

  Phoebe smiled back. Yes, she had. Sir Marcus Callow, a bold, handsome, overbearing man had set his sights on her in the provincial Assembly she regularly attended. He was unexceptional, except that he wanted his own way in everything. Phoebe had avoided him. When he’d tried to press his suit by forcing a kiss on her so rough that it split her lip, Phoebe had grabbed Angela’s invitation to visit her and escaped. All the way to London. With any luck, when she returned, Marcus would have settled on somebody else. Having a retiring nature did not mean she was compliant or weak, as many people supposed. And she would not marry Marcus. Not if she had to remain a spinster for the rest of her days.

  Phoebe waited for Angela to lead her down the stairs and into the brilliantly lit hall below. Angela’s Uncle Harold, who acted as host at times like this, waited for his niece. He was, as always, austere in the darkest of blues, his fashionable white wig firmly in place.

  This was Phoebe’s first society ball. She’d attended a few affairs in the week between Easter Monday and today, and now she was glad of it, because this was society at its most glittering.

  This spacious London house took her breath away every time she went down into the main reception rooms, although Phoebe knew enough by now not to gawk. She bobbed a curtsey to Angela’s uncle. “Good evening, sir.” He gave her a smile and a nod.

  Phoebe followed Angela through to the main chamber, the biggest drawing room, which was acting as the ballroom.

  Forced up to the highest echelon in society, she was still overwhelmed by the grandeur and sheer luxury everyone displayed with a carelessness that concealed their wealth. Everyone except Phoebe. She’d come from a small town in Buckinghamshire, where her mother was the resident queen of local society to—this.

  This being hundreds of candles in glittering chandeliers, precious gems around the women’s throats, expensive French lace at every elbow—three rows of it—the most sumptuous fabrics used in careless profusion and a plethora of liveried servants ready to attend one’s every need. And the sound of chatter, noisy and loud, buzzing in her head. The ball had only just started, and already the rooms were full. At least Angela had decreed no receiving line. This was more a rout than a ball, apparently. Not that Phoebe was entirely sure she knew the difference.

  People crowded forward, eager to meet Phoebe’s cousin.

  Phoebe’s stomach swooped, and she slammed her foot to the floor as the other slipped forward, and she nearly lost her balance. She should have roughened the soles of these shoes, but in her haste she’d forgotten. Now it was too late, and the parquetry floor was polished to a high shine. The servants hadn’t even put French chalk on the part of the floor meant for dancing. If anyone else had shoes with shiny soles, the result could be interesting.

  Angela responded to everyone, and Phoebe curtseyed when people deigned to notice her. Which they did too often for her liking. Her head spun with the names of all the earls, dukes, marquesses, and Lord knew who else flocking to the house for this ball. They politely enquired after her welfare, but their gazes never rested on her. They drifted past her to Angela. She doubted any of them would know her if they passed her in the street if she was here on her own.

  The humiliation of that careless disregard annoyed her, but she could do nothing. As she was stiffening her shoulders, someone stopped. Lady Hamilton smiled and met her gaze. “Good evening, Miss North.” She’d even remembered Phoebe’s name. “Are you well?”

  “Tolerably, I thank you,” Phoebe said, dipping into a token curtsey, warming to the lady. “Is your daughter here tonight?”

  Lady Hamilton wafted her fan in the vague direction of the dancers. “I believe so. But my son has arrived from the Continent. Do you think Miss Childers would like to meet him?” Not would Phoebe like to meet him, because who cared about her?

  A sigh threatened to escape. And she was actually thinking that someone wanted to talk to her! How foolish she was. “I daresay she would, my lady. I’m sure she will enjoy meeting him.” She would have to warn Angela before Lady Hamilton trapped her.

  Angela headed, as she always did, to the group in the corner. The women and girls who sat together for company, chattering and pretending that not being asked to dance was exactly what they wanted. She always said she was one of them, even though she could obviously have any man she wanted for her husband. She chose not to, that was the difference.

  Phoebe followed her.

  This was where Phoebe belonged, with the older sisters who had not taken in society, women of little fortune, or those who genuinely did not care for dancing and popularity. This was the natural home of companions, the employed, or poor relations. A few widows, wealthy and otherwise, were sprinkled in for interest. Phoebe felt more at home there than anywhere else in a fashionable ballroom. When Angela left the group, Phoebe would stay.

  Angela spoke to a few women, then took a seat, ignoring the stares from the more exalted guests. Fans fluttered, enough to make the flames of the hundreds of candles flicker in their holders. “Ladies, it does my heart good to see you.”

  They didn’t titter or giggle. The women here were beyond that. They sat, a phalanx of the rejected, keeping each other company and pretending they didn’t care. Some truly didn’t, of course, and scorned society. Others did.

  The lady next to her froze, and Phoebe lifted her gaze. And also froze.

  A dark shadow in male form loomed up. His Grace, the Duke of Leomore stood and waited politely for Angela to notice him. He always made Phoebe shudder, and she did not know why. She had seen him before, since he attended most society events, or the ones that would amuse him. This season, or so gossip said, he intended to find a bride, which explained his attendance at parties he usually avoided.

  He wore his hair naturally, a raven’s wing tied back in a black bow. His eyes were dark gray, his frame large. But it was the intensity of this gaze that gave her pause, the way he saw through everything to the person beneath.

  As far as she knew, he’d never actually noticed her.

  Her heart pounded when he came to stand close to her. He bowed, not making his obeisance too deep, as gentlemen sometimes did, intending their bows as mockery rather than gestures of true respect.

  Angela turned her attention to him with one brow raised slightly and met his smile of greeting with one of her own.

  “Madam, it is always a delight to see you looking in such good heart,” he said. “Would you do me the honor of dancing with me?”

  “I’m afraid my hand is bespoken, sir.” Angela cou
ld beat anyone at elaborate courtesy if she wished, which she rarely did. “May I present my cousin, Miss Phoebe North?”

  The duke bowed to her, his expression stony. Fobbed off on the companion!

  Phoebe nearly burst into laughter but sealed her lips firmly until she had risen to her feet and curtseyed to the exalted being. Although her reaction lasted but a second, she had the disconcerting impression that he’d noticed her amusement. Why should she care when he evidently thought so little of her? She should not, but she couldn’t prevent her reaction to him.

  At least he hadn’t turned his back on her, even though Phoebe had fully expected him to do so. She was perfecting her bitter laugh. Perhaps she could use it on him.

  But he didn’t turn away. He gave her a bone-melting smile. “Would you do me the honor of favoring me with the next dance?”

  A duke wanted to dance with her? Angela had adroitly turned him to her, but Phoebe was not sure this counted as a favor.

  “Do you feel quite well, Miss North?” he enquired gently as she stifled her amusement.

  Good Lord, this man was observant. She forced a smile. “Quite all right, th-thank you, Your Grace.” The highly polished marquetry floor slid under her feet.

  “I saw that,” he said. “When you came in and you slipped. Take care, Miss North.”

  He’d noticed her faux pas? Who else had seen it? Were they already laughing at her?

  He held her hand properly, that was to say, barely at all, and led her in the first steps of the country dance. Phoebe took her courage in both hands, finding his manner daunting. The perfection of his moves, the way he stared down his nose at everyone, marked him as the kind of person she preferred to avoid. “May I call you sir, or d-do you prefer that I use your proper title all the time?”

  “Leo will do,” he said carelessly. Of course, he would not care what she called him. She was well below his notice.

  “I cannot c-call you by your first name,” she said. While she was mindful of the correct address, she knew young ladies did not refer to gentlemen by their given names. “I c-cannot p-possibly call you something so familiar.” She would call him “sir,” as was proper.

  “My given name is George. Nobody calls me that, or I might be confused with a dozen or more other men here tonight. My title is Leomore, and since I inherited, people call me Leo.”

  “Of c-course. L-like the lion. But I would not presume.”

  He cleared his throat—or was that a laugh? “Perhaps when we’re in private you might consider doing so.” Was that a gleam of answering challenge lighting his gray eyes?

  Before they separated in the dance, she had time to reply. “I feel c-convinced that will n-never happen, sir.” Curse it, her stammer had broken in once more. She thought she had overcome that burden. It was the bane of her life. She rarely stammered in private, but in London, where she did not feel comfortable, it had started up again. The harder she tried to overcome her stammer, the worse it became.

  As the dance demanded, she moved on to her next partner.

  Well, if she’d seen interest in him, she had certainly doused it now. An awkward, stammering woman, dressed in one of the plainest gowns possible and wearing a ribbon around her throat instead of jewelry—he wouldn’t be interested in anyone like her. Moreover, one who could not keep steady on her feet.

  Country dances involved little skips and hops. Every time her foot left the floor, Phoebe held her breath and prayed she would land safely. She managed very well, even though when they changed partners, the men looked over her head or to one side, as if she was not good enough to meet their gaze. She wasn’t imagining the way they didn’t look at her. Their unspoken snubs only made her straighten her spine and dare them to meet her gaze. If they wouldn’t look at her, she would stare at them. Dare them to continue to ignore her. Which they usually did successfully.

  Did she feel excluded? Yes, because they meant her to. For that reason, she would never show them how deeply the treatment affected her.

  Eventually this torture of a dance would end. With relief she faced the duke once more, because that meant the dance was drawing to a close. He gave her his hand with no hesitation, his manner impeccable. His expression was warm without condescension. Leomore had such perfect manners that he quite cowed Phoebe, whereas she felt only defiance to those without such address.

  After the dance he would return her to the corner of the room from where he’d collected her, thank her for her company, and never give her another thought. Women glanced at him, sending him flirtatious glances, but he took no notice. His manners were far better than most other people in the room, despite him being a duke, which meant he could probably strip naked in the middle of the dance floor and everybody would treat it as a mild eccentricity. Or that he was setting a new, amusing fashion.

  She should not have brought that image to mind because now her cheeks heated, and her breath came shallower. He was tall, broad-shouldered and with no trace of padding in his clothes to make up for a lack of muscle and shape. He was wonderfully good-looking. With the excuse of the dance, Phoebe could examine that blade of a nose, the flashing steel-gray eyes, and surprisingly full lips. His cheekbones were as high as his station demanded, and he moved gracefully for such a large man. His clothes, while dark in color and sober compared to the popinjays here tonight, were nevertheless of the best quality. The buttons marching down his waistcoat and coat were probably real gold. Disdaining the fashionable wig, he had adopted the new style of gentlemen wearing their hair naturally, but most did not draw it back so simply. The black velvet bow behind his head absorbed the light from the chandeliers.

  Thinking about the duke naked had fatally distracted her. Phoebe hit the floor awkwardly. Her stomach opened into a bottomless pit as she skidded, more like a skater on a frozen lake than a graceful dancer. The sickening sound of ripping fabric rent the air, piercing the melody of the quartet in the corner, quickly followed by a clatter and a crunch as she dropped her fan and promptly stepped on it. Someone sniggered, but she was too busy trying not to fall to discover who.

  The duke’s hand slid from hers, and Phoebe’s heart plummeted along with the rest of her. She would land with a decided thump and have to leave the floor ignominiously on her own, running the gauntlet of amusement.

  He was as bad as everyone else, and she was mistaken thinking him a gentleman.

  Except she steadied when he grabbed her lace-covered forearms and simply lifted her off her feet. He set her down so gently she hardly felt it and had to force herself not to flail as if she was falling once more. The next moment, he touched her elbow. “Come with me,” he said softly.

  Phoebe glared down at where her feet peeped out from the hem of her gown. Those new shoes had let her down at last. The rest of the season loomed in front of her, terrifying and ominous. She would be known forever as the clumsy stammerer who could not keep her feet in a simple country dance.

  He supported her, one hand firmly under her elbow. “Keep your head up. Smile.”

  His voice was so low she hardly heard it, but automatically she responded to the command inherent in his tones, and she did as he bade her, even though her ankle hurt like the devil. Doors either side of the ballroom opened to stone staircases that descended to the garden. She counted every one and ensured her foot was well planted on them. Her care did her no good, because on the second to last, she stumbled.

  With a curse, the duke swung her into his arms and carried her off, as if she was some kind of princess who couldn’t walk.

  She squeaked in alarm. “I can manage.”

  “Be still,” he commanded as she struggled.

  “This is ridiculous. I’m not hurt. Please, sir, put me down.” She could not call out. Someone might hear.

  “If you stumble again, we will never get that ruffle repaired. It’s early in the evening, and a chilly night. Nobody will see you. Don’t
you think this is better than people watching and speculating?”