The Perfect Duchess

by Jen YatesNZ

  ‘Marriage has obviously suited you, my Lady,’ Dom said, his face sobering. ‘My condolences on your loss. Rotherby was a good man. Didn’t see him in town often. Not to his taste?’

  ‘Thank you, Your Grace. We both preferred our life at the Manor. And yes, marriage to James was the best thing that could have happened to me. I miss him greatly.’

  The sparkle in Lady Jane’s eyes dimmed a little and she dropped her gaze.

  Something made Sheri shift her glance to Bax and she was surprised to note a slight scowl marring the usually imperturbable width of his brow.

  …

  Rising late after a restless night spent alternately regretting and giving thanks for her mother’s presence during the carriage ride home from the ball, she’d ordered her horse saddled, hurriedly downed a cup of hot chocolate and gone for a comfortable canter in the far reaches of the Park in the company of her groom, and Lady Rotherby. Dom would already be on the road to Wolverton, to ensure, he’d said, everything was in readiness for the arrival of his Duchess.

  Dom’s duchess.

  Lady Sherida, Duchess of Wolverton.

  She’d hoped the ride would clear her mind after a restless night reliving those moments with Dom in the Regent’s gardens, but it was still a relentless whirl of longings, fears, and anticipation. Her ability to think clearly and concisely was rendered into smoke by the fire of his kisses. Would it always be thus?

  On her return, Maggie was waiting for her with an air of suppressed excitement.

  ‘This came from Mr. Puttick this morning,’ she said, handing Sheri a sealed packet addressed simply to ‘Mr. M. Wilson’ at 18 Grosvenor Square. ‘D’you suppose he’s sold the paintings already?’

  ‘And wants the last one?’ Sheri added in a breathless tone as she broke the seal and ripped the packet open.

  ‘It’s just as well you’re to be married then, my Lady,’ Maggie began, then drifted into silence as she stared at the bank draft now fluttering from Sheri’s hand. ‘Oh—my!’

  ‘Oh my, indeed,’ Sheri murmured then waved the draft excitedly at her maid. ‘This will send all the current crop of girls from the orphanages to Miss Dalton’s school, Maggie! Now let’s see what Mr. Puttick has to say.—Oh! He still wants the last one—title as agreed.’

  Maggie blushed brightly.

  ‘So he doesn’t write the title down? Just spoke it to me, man to man, as it were! I had ever such a job not gasping and giving the game away when he told me what the client wanted as the title of that final picture, my Lady!’

  For a moment they shared a conspiratorial grin and Sheri knew her own cheeks were as bright as Maggie’s. But her excitement quickly faded as she considered what this now meant.

  ‘How will you manage it, my Lady?’ the maid asked, proving she was totally in tune with her mistress’s thoughts, as always.

  ‘This will have to be the last one, Maggie.—I can’t risk exposure and I can’t begin to imagine the Duke’s reaction to discovering his Duchess was being paid to paint what amounts to—erotica. And that some gentleman somewhere owns a set of small portraits of her in a definite state of dishabille!’

  Maggie humphed.

  ‘None would ever know it was you, my Lady. But—you won’t sponsor any more girls from the orphanages?’

  ‘Of course I will. It was just so much more—satisfying—sponsoring them through my own efforts. But it will be more difficult to hide myself away at Springwoods once I have a husband. I’ll have to revert to painting boringly proper portraits!’

  ‘I’m sure no one would guess you were anything other than ‘boringly proper’, my Lady. And I think the Duke will be pleasantly surprised when he discovers you really are not,’ she added slyly and Sheri felt the heat in her cheeks again.

  Pleased Dom might be, but she would still have to make an excuse to go to Springwoods on her own soon after they were married. The thing would weigh on her mind until it was done.

  …

  It was mid-afternoon on the second day since they’d left London, and notwithstanding the comfort of the ducal coach Dom had sent for them, Sheri longed for the end of the journey. Mama and their two maids napped untidily in their corners. Sheri devoutly wished she could find a similar respite from the endless treadmill of her thoughts, the recurring theme; what heartache was she storing up for her future?

  What would be more painful? Condemning herself to the sterility of spinsterhood because she could not imagine giving herself to any man but the Duke of Wolverton or accepting what little of him was left for her, knowing his heart was Jassie’s.

  She was practically hanging out the window of the carriage in her quest for fresh air and distraction from her ever circling thoughts. Just as well Mama wasn’t awake to see her. Finally they crested the steep gradient the horses had been toiling up for what seemed like hours and there on a distant knoll, silhouetted against a sparkling ocean, loomed the stark curtain walls of a medieval castle. Like a sentinel, it stood, a statement of power and status spanning centuries.

  For just a moment she found herself filled with doubts for her ability to embrace all that was inherent in taking on the mantle of the Duchess of Wolverton. The road dipped down again and the view was soon eclipsed by the near stand of woodland amidst which was set a turreted gatehouse, a miniature castle in itself.

  ‘Wake up. Mama,’ she murmured, reaching across to tweak Augusta’s sleeve. ‘We’re approaching Wolverton.’

  ‘Oh praise be,’ Augusta murmured, her eyes wide awake on the instant, proving she hadn’t been asleep at all. Sitting up and straightening her bonnet, she glanced out the window towards the approaching gatehouse. ‘There’s been a Wolf at Wolverton Castle since the late 1400’s. It’s a long and noble history your children will inherit, Sheri.’

  ‘Yes, Mama,’ she murmured, checking her own attire was properly in order. She was trying not to think about having children with Dom.

  Sons with black hair and green eyes. She could almost see them racing about the castle bailey, armed with wooden swords and hobby horses. Would their children have the dark Beresford coloring? It seemed likely. Settling back against the seat and striving to portray the picture of serenity, she fought to ease the yearning ache in the region of her heart caused by thoughts of the children she and Dom might have. The ache became a panicked flutter, her heart flipping in her chest as she thought on what must transpire before those children could be born.

  The carriage drove clear of the ancient trees and Sheri focused on the distant vista, hoping Mama would think her watching for another glimpse of the ducal residence.

  ‘Are you nervous, Sher? There’s no need. You’ve known Dom most of your life—and he’s a good man. You’ve nothing to fear from him.’

  Managing to slant her mother a brief smile, Sheri turned back to the window.

  ‘Of course there’s nothing to worry about, Mama,—but—I guess, a few nerves are only natural.’

  Augusta patted her hand then fixed her gaze on the passing farmland, a small frown pleating her brow.

  Sheri smoothed her skirt and tucked away a strand of hair loosened by the breeze. Nerves could scarcely begin to describe the tumbling act going on in her belly and the quivering of her nipples and other sensitive places that despite her sternest efforts, were hungrily anticipating all that was entailed in becoming wife to Dominic Beresford.

  Three more days. There was still time to cry off, she told herself stoutly—and knew herself for a masochist as her heart loudly repudiated any such thought.

  The carriage rolled under a vast covered portico, the steps from which were already crowded with people, the Dowager Duchess standing regally above all the rest, as if it was her right to censor all who sought to enter. But search as she might, Sheri couldn’t discern her fiancé among the crowd.

  They were to be welcomed it seemed, by the staff which was now forming into a kind of guard of honor on the steps, and the woman Sheri had begun to think of as the She Devil.

  B
y the time Broughton, the stern-faced butler, had handed Augusta out of the carriage and turned to offer his immaculately gloved hand to Sheri, she’d armored herself in the regal demeanor of the Heavenly Iceberg.

  She managed a warm smile for the staff as they rose from their bows and curtsies, but as she reached the top step and came level with the Dowager Duchess her smile had hardened to a frozen kind of grimace. It felt like a mask and seemed to have set there like a calcification. The nearest she could come to acknowledging any deference was a brief nod of her head.

  Lady Veronica however, wore a wide satisfied smile that made Sheri’s teeth grind.

  ‘Welcome to Wolverton Castle, Lady Sherida. Unfortunately His Grace rode out after luncheon and hasn’t yet returned. But he’d not have worried, knowing I was here to welcome you. Welcome, Lady Parmenter,’ she gushed on, giving Sheri no chance to respond. Which was probably just as well, as her instinctive response might not have been the best introduction to her new staff.

  ‘Lady Sherida, this is our housekeeper, Mrs. McNulty,’ the Duchess rattled on, turning to a tall, gaunt woman with a mass of white hair haphazardly confined beneath a pristine white cap. Sheri caught a glimpse of steely blue eyes and a grimly tensed jaw as the woman dipped in curtsey.

  ‘Mrs. McNulty, we will take tea in the solar,’ the Duchess commanded imperiously. ‘That should give Broughton time to organize the transference of the luggage to the rooms.’

  The desire to icily countermand with her own wish to be escorted forthwith to their accommodations since they weren’t even offered the option, was difficult to bite back. But perhaps, Sheri told herself, it would be as well to let the Duchess show her true colors. Then she’d have a better idea what she faced in trying to take over her role as Chatelaine of Wolverton Castle.

  As the housekeeper came upright, Sheri offered her a brief smile and was surprised by a quick softening of the sharp blue gaze. An ally perhaps. One could hope.

  With a magisterial swish of her silken skirts, Lady Veronica swept before them down a wide, flagged hall hung with richly embroidered tapestries and lit by regularly spaced oil lanterns hooked on ancient iron brackets. It was like stepping back through time.

  ‘This part of the Keep is original,’ she informed them, waving her heavily bejeweled hands about, ‘but the family apartments are much more modern and comfortable. So do not be alarmed. You won’t find yourselves locked away in ancient stone dungeons!’

  Her gay laugh echoed off the walls and an unreasonable resentment built in Sheri’s chest against her husband-to-be. How could he leave their introduction to his home in the hands of this—she-devil?

  A footman sprang out of the shadows as they approached a pair of iron-bound oak doors and swung them wide. In one step they passed from the Middle Ages to the late 18th century. Flanked by warm oak paneling, ancestral portraits in heavily gilded frames illuminated by modern gas lamps, they came at last to a beautiful south-facing salon furnished with regal and opulent comfort.

  ‘Please do take a seat,’ Lady Veronica said expansively. ‘Mrs. McNulty will be along shortly with our tea.—How was your journey?’

  Aware of Augusta’s puzzled frown, Sheri ignored the implied order to be seated and strolled deliberately across the room to gaze out the tall glazed doors onto a well-kept Elizabethan knot garden. She wondered what other treasures the magnificent old castle harbored.

  Her mother was politely engaging the Duchess in small talk about the portraits on the walls. Which was probably a good thing, Sheri thought, because she herself had no inclination to speak at all. In fact had yet to do so since thanking the butler for his assistance in alighting from the carriage.

  Where was Wolverton? Surely it could not have been his intention they be greeted by his sister-in-law? He might be wishing her good friend, Jassie Wyldefell, was his betrothed, but she didn’t think he would treat her so shabbily on her first visit to his ancestral home.

  ‘Here is our tea,’ Lady Veronica trilled. ‘How do you take yours, Sheri?’

  Barely suppressing a shudder at the familiarity, Sheri returned to a chair near the trolley.

  ‘With just a lump of sugar, thank you, Mrs. McNulty,’ she murmured to the hovering housekeeper, and settled on the edge of the chair.

  ‘That will be all, Mrs. McNulty,’ the Duchess said sharply as the housekeeper busied herself rearranging and tidying the things on the tea trolley.

  As soon as the woman left the room, face bland and back ramrod straight, the Duchess set her own cup aside and smiled across at Sheri.

  ‘I believe Lady Windermere is to be your attendant at the wedding? How quaint she and Wolverton could stand at each other’s weddings. It could so easily have been her at his side as his bride. But that’s why he considers you’ll make the perfect Duchess, of course. You’re so accomplished at putting on a good face despite what His Grace might do—or where he might stray.’

  Chapter 9

  Sheri froze. Words were impossible. In all her years in society she’d never known anyone so blatantly rude—or poisonous. An abrupt movement from the direction of her mother dragged her stunned gaze away from the triumphant gleam in the Duchess’s pale eyes to see Augusta visibly swelling with rage—justifiably, in Sheri’s opinion. But she couldn’t allow Mama to explode because it would seriously embarrass her later.

  Her own flash-fire temper was perilously poised but Mrs. Rabone at her exclusive seminary for gentlewomen had taught her many strategies to forestall it. The icy demeanor had always worked well and would serve now also. She was to be Duchess here. Best she started now. Rising and grasping the bell-pull in the corner of the room as if she was already mistress of the castle, she gave it one vicious tug. To her gratification the door immediately swung open and Broughton bowed himself into the room as if he’d been hovering beside it for just such a summons.

  ‘Thank you for being so prompt, Broughton. Mama and I would like to be shown up to our rooms. It has been a long and—tiring—day.’

  ‘Certainly, my Lady,’ he said, studiously ignoring the Duchess, whose attempt at a bland smile couldn’t completely hide the malicious smirk twisting her mouth.

  Broughton immediately dispatched a footman to fetch Mrs. McNulty. Sheri turned back to Augusta, who had come to her feet, her glance darting between her daughter and the Duchess. It was plain from the blaze in her eyes explosion was imminent and since there was no doubt Lady Veronica was angling for just such a confrontation, it was imperative she remove her mother before the most aristocratic cat-fight of the century could ensue.

  ‘Mama! Come!’ she commanded brusquely. ‘We’re rumpled and tired and should’ve been shown to our rooms to refresh and recuperate long since.–Please lead the way, Broughton,’ she said with a regal nod to the stiff-faced butler. ‘Come, Mama, give me your arm.’

  Sheri would dearly have loved to glance back to see how the Duchess responded to her blatant rebuke but decided it best to quit while she appeared to have the upper hand.

  Mrs. McNulty hurried towards them as the butler led them further along the hallway into a glassed gallery opening onto a flagged courtyard with a marble fountain at its center.

  ‘The ladies would like to be taken to their rooms, Mrs. McNulty.—Er—I will accompany you up also.’

  The housekeeper’s dark, piercing gaze locked briefly with Broughton’s bland one, then she turned and led the way up a wide curving staircase at the end of the gallery, which had opened out into a formal entry hall.

  As they climbed the stairs the housekeeper explained this part of the castle was actually a new house built by the current Duke’s father, abutting the south side of the ancient keep.

  ‘There is much history and tradition attached to the old keep and it attracts many visitors. But the house is always kept completely private. I have put Lady Parmenter in the Queen’s Boudoir,’ she said, ushering them into a large room ornately furnished in the style of Louis XIV. ‘King George III and Queen Charlotte stayed here two night
s back in the late 1770s. It’s been maintained in that style ever since.’

  ‘Excuse me, Mrs. McNulty,’ the butler interrupted her cheerful chatter, ‘but I’d like a quick word with Lady Sherida before I return downstairs to—um—see the Duchess off—hopefully.’

  The last few words were muttered in a non-butlerish mumble and Sheri swung round to see the man firmly closing the door between them and the hallway. A muscle twitched in his cheek as if he was grinding his teeth. She was beginning to wonder how anyone in this place had any teeth left in their heads.

  With a noisy huff of exasperation Augusta sank onto a beautiful period bergère chair upholstered in royal blue velvet, which was situated in the window bay.

  ‘Well, of all the—!’

  ‘Mama!’ Sheri strode across and laid a hand on her mother’s. ‘Let us hear what Broughton has to say.’

  ‘Of course, Sheri my love, but I must say—!’

  ‘No, Mama, you must not,’ Sheri said firmly, squeezing Augusta’s hand a little. ‘Broughton?’

  The butler’s chest rose and fell as if he was compelled to speak but not quite comfortable with what he wanted to say.

  ‘I speak on behalf of the staff of Wolverton Castle, Lady Sherida, when I say we’re delighted to welcome you here. We’re greatly looking forward to you taking over the management of the place—and you need not be worried, for Mrs. McNulty and myself will always be on hand to guide you should you need it.—We—er—expected some sort of confrontation when the—um—Lady Veronica um—appeared not long after your carriage was spotted passing through the gates. I think already you’ve had to stand in the status His Grace has invested in you. I merely wish to say, you’ll have the full support of the entire staff. I hope you do not deem me to be stepping out of my place in speaking thus.’

  ‘Well, I for one am glad someone has the wit to speak up,’ Augusta said roundly. ‘I’ve never been so rudely received anywhere. I can’t begin to think what the Duke is about to countenance that person as his hostess!’