I glanced over my shoulder at William, who chatted and laughed with some young women near a window. My face burned, and I hastily batted my eyes away. “Yes, I’m terribly sorry about that. Now you are forced to suffer through my company with no reprieve.”
Again, he looked stunned, before he offered me a wobbly, bashful smile. “Oh no, not at all. I find I . . .” His gaze darted around the room. “I usually avoid these types of affairs. I generally keep to my own company, for I am not skilled in the practice of conversing either. Though I should like to be.” Our eyes locked again and he tilted his head toward me. “Especially when I find myself alone with a beautiful woman.”
The heat rose to my cheeks. If William had uttered a comment like that, it would’ve been accompanied by a roguish grin and hooded eyes. But there was no such expression on the duke’s face, only a candidness and openness that took me aback. Here was a man—a stranger—paying me a great compliment, and in it, offering . . . sincerity?
Yes, that was it. There was a realness about his stare and the way he spoke that made me believe he meant every action, every word.
And William . . . William was not that way.
I stopped. Why on earth was I comparing them? I hardly knew this man, whereas William was a lifelong friend.
“I thank you, sir,” I finally said.
In the silence that was becoming familiar in the duke’s company, the faint strains of a cello soloed out, and then the distant roll of applause. “I believe they are starting the next set,” he said suddenly. “I would be delighted if you would dance with me.”
I blinked, not expecting that. In fact, I was so surprised that I said, “Oh,” before I realized it probably wasn’t the best response.
His eyebrows slanted. “I’ve botched it all again, haven’t I? That is, I meant to ask, would you do me the honor of this next dance, Miss Wycliffe?” He flushed and his eyes dashed from the floor to my face. How could a man as handsome as him—and a duke, no less—be shy?
I smiled, attempting to put him at ease. “Of course,” I said, and I thought I heard him sigh before he stood, offered his arm, and led me to the dance floor.
Chapter 3
Sluggish feet trudged up the paved stone stairs to our townhouse. My legs throbbed and my feet were sore, my entire body drained from smiling and laughing for hours on end. William had been right. The night was exhausting.
A waiting footman opened the door. I stepped out of the chilly night air, thankful for the fire-warmed house. After shrugging out of my overcoat and gloves, I gave them to the footman, then plodded across the black and white tile entry. Even in the dark I could make out the ebony wood tables holding bouquets of snowdrops, peppered with sweet violets. Candlelight flickered from the drawing room to my left. Mama had waited up for me.
Lately, she had stayed up to all hours of the night, despite being under the weather. I had caught her embroidering or reading or writing letters, and couldn’t understand how she didn’t have time for those tasks during the day—or why she would prefer to wait until the house was asleep to complete them. Padding across the entry, I wondered if I should leave her to her solitude. She seemed to enjoy it. Not to mention I was liable to collapse from fatigue at any moment.
I picked up my skirts and treaded more gently as I passed the open drawing room door. Mama’s soft voice called, “Eliza?”
I turned back around, poking my head into the room. “Yes, Mama, I just returned.”
Her fingers stitched a baroque design on an opaque cloth, flashing different shades with the flicker of the dozen candles on the table next to her. She focused only on her deft fingers. “Why don’t you come and visit awhile?”
My feet and shoulders ached in protest, but I shuffled into the doorway and leaned against its frame. Wisps of her gray hair had escaped its bounds and hung about Mama’s face. The bags under her eyes were larger, and though her hands were sure in their movements, they shook. Why was she not resting?
“How was the ball, dear?” She still hadn’t looked up. “Was it all you imagined it would be?”
I thought back on the night, of William and the Duke of Allerton and those curious stares William’s friends had given me. “I am not entirely sure,” I said at last.
“Anything interesting happen?”
I shook my head. “Not especially. William introduced me to a host of people, and I danced nearly every dance.”
“With whom?”
Had I known this was to be an interrogation, I would’ve dodged the conversation entirely. “First there was William, and then there was Mr. Privet, Sir Hastings, the Duke of Allerton, and Mr.—
“Allerton?” Mama finally looked up from her embroidery. “The Duke of Allerton?”
“Yes, why?”
“He solicited a dance from you?”
I nodded slowly.
Her eyebrows shot up and she laid her embroidery aside. “My! That is a high compliment indeed.”
I shrugged halfheartedly. “I should think he asked me more out of obligation than anything. The only way to rid himself of my dull company was to ask me to dance and be done with it—”
“You conversed as well?” Mama leaned forward in her seat, face hard with astonishment and excitement.
“Well . . . yes, I suppose so.”
“My daughter!” She laughed. “Catching the eye of a duke—and the Duke of Allerton, no less.”
“I did not catch his eye. If anything, he was stuck with me.”
“Eliza, I do not think you realize that men of title are particularly careful with who they pay their attentions to.”
I gave a little chuckle. “Then Peter must be the only one of his kind.”
Peter had met his wife, Lily, by colliding into her under a tree at Ambleside. At the time, he hadn’t known her real identity, or that she was a woman with scandal tied to her name. And after he found out, he didn’t particularly care, choosing to pursue her regardless of the rumors it was sure to spark.
“Your brother’s case was a special circumstance. The duke would not have asked for a dance lightly. It shows a marked interest—one you should weigh carefully.”
I moved further into the room, folding my arms. “He was merely being polite.”
“Darling, the Duke of Allerton has a history of avoiding social functions. He can be a rather shy fellow, and if you exchanged a few words with him, then you are worlds ahead of any other young lady when it comes to securing him.”
I stopped short. Securing him? He had been shy, yes, but . . . interested? “If that is the case, I would not wish to string him along. I should discourage him immediately.”
“You will do nothing of the kind.”
A few dazed seconds passed before I could properly react, my arms unfolding, my mouth dropping open. “Mama!”
“He is a duke. You cannot marry higher than that, my dear, and you would do well to remember it.”
“Marriage?” I laughed. “Who said anything of marriage? I hardly know the man—let alone love him.” Not to mention that my shadowed suitor hadn’t revealed himself to be Allerton during our meeting or the dance that had followed. And why would I marry anyone who wasn’t the most perfect man for me?
“In time, you might find that you could.”
My stare grew hard, straining to see if Mama was really in earnest, or if my tiredness and the poor light were playing tricks on me. “Why are you so insistent upon this? I have barely had one night of my Season—one which you delayed for a whole year—and already you are trying to marry me off? I do not understand.”
There was a heavy pause, layered only with the ticking of the mantelpiece clock and the popping of the fire in its hearth. “Oh, Eliza,” Mama sighed softly as her shoulders slumped. “I have much to tell you.” She gestured to the seat next to her, and waited. After a brief hesitation, I came and sat, legs groaning in protest at every step. “Please know that what I am about to say pains me, and that I did not keep it from you to wound you.”
“Your father was a man of substantial means,” she began, removing her spectacles and tapping them on her knee. “He had a title, yes, but he also tripled his wealth in the course of his life. When he died, that wealth was transferred to his children.”
“Yes, I know. Mama, what is this about? I don’t see how that’s—”
“Please, do not interrupt. This is difficult for me to say.” Her spectacles slipped from her trembling grasp and dropped onto the soft rug near her feet. But Mama didn’t bend to retrieve them, instead heaving an exhale strong enough to blow out the candles next to her, had she but turned her neck.
“I received word from our lawyer about a year ago,” she said. “He became aware of some unfortunate particulars concerning your father’s will, and wished to discuss them with me. According to the will, Peter was given Ambleside and the majority of the fortune. Matthew was given an estate in Sussex and the rest of the money. And you . . . You, my dear, were given nothing.”
My lips parted and I choked on my words. “Nothing? You mean I am penniless? What about the £12,000? What happened to it? It can’t have just disappeared.” Even the very poor had a dowry, even if it was a few measly pounds. But nothing?
“The particulars are rather messy and quite unalterable . . . That is to say, you are wealthy, but your wealth is transferred vicariously through me. Essentially, this means that upon my death, you will be destitute.”
I could hardly believe it. I? The daughter of a viscount, without fortune?
“Destitute,” Mama went on, “unless you marry before I die, in which case the £12,000 will be allotted to your husband.”
I blinked. “And if I don’t?”
“It will be split among your brothers. With Matthew being still at home and not of age, it would be several years more before he came into his portion.”
My eyes shifted across the floor as my mind tried to wrap around the situation. “So you are saying . . . if I am not married when you pass away, I have no fortune? And why have you waited until now to tell me?”
“I did not want to worry you. Financial burdens are not fit to be borne by young women.”
Financial burden? It was my future—and if I was not fit to bear it, I didn’t know who was.
“I have no worry that you would be taken care of,” she continued. “Your brothers would not dream of letting you want for anything. But unfortunately, without even the smallest of dowries, there is no guarantee you will make a good match—let alone one you could be happy in.” Mama wilted. “I suppose what I am saying is, if I die . . . you may not have a choice. So do not discard the thought of the Duke of Allerton. He may surprise you.”
I laughed, a cold, breathy sort of sound. “Even so, I needn’t worry—you still have a good many years left. I am sure to find a husband sometime in the coming years.”
As if on cue, Mama started coughing. At first it was light and wheezy, but it quickly turned rough and brutal, an unnatural crunching coming from deep in her chest. It took several moments before she recovered, and several more before she looked back up, a profound, regretful look on her face.
Her eyes glimmered as she whispered, “I am dying, Eliza. I have not told Peter or Matthew yet, but the physicians know it, and I know it. It is only a matter of months, now.” She leaned forward and gripped my hand severely, a stark contrast against the hopelessness in her face. “I know you shall be taken care of. But this fortune . . . it is what allows you to choose who you marry, instead of having to settle. And I should die happy indeed, if I could see you properly married first.”
I swallowed, tears gathering in my wide eyes. She could not be dying. She could not. My face hardened in confusion even as a hot tear escaped down my cheek. Mother was my constant, the one who was strong for me when I couldn’t be for myself. Father had already gone, and it had ripped the family apart. We were only just starting to become whole again and now . . .
Now this evening that had started out so vibrant and full of hope was souring into a nightmare.
“I do not understand,” I said. “Why did you delay my coming out?”
“Back then, I had such high hopes for a better recovery—and you were still such a child! So star-crossed and fanciful. I wanted to better prepare you for the real world. I did not know then that time was running out.”
I sat in stunned silence, digesting all the news, unsure what to think of it all.
“You are still to have your Season,” Mama said, jolting me out of my shocked reverie, “and it is still to be a happy time. I want you to carry on as if you did not know.”
My Season? How could she think about something so inconsequential at a time like this? “But Mama, if you are dying, I should want to spend the time with you—and so would Peter and Matthew—”
“Please, girl,” she said so softly it broke my heart. Tears slipped down her cheeks. “Do not speak a word of this to anyone. It is my news to tell. Let me watch my sons being happy just a while longer. And please . . . do this thing for me. Let me see you happy as well, before I go.”
How could I deny her anything in a moment like this? I gulped, daunted, but gave my reply without hesitation. “I will, Mama. I will find a match.”
She gathered me in her arms and I clung to her, chest squeezing. When at last we broke away, she cupped my face, looking at me with a mother’s loving gaze. “You are so beautiful, my dear. Quite grown up.” She stared at me a long while before adding with a glassy smile, “Now off to bed with you.”
After inhaling one last, shuddering breath, I stood and left, heavy feet carrying me to my chambers—though they weren’t sore or weary as they had been before. I couldn’t feel them at all. Couldn’t feel anything at all.
Slowly, I sank onto my bed and buried my face in my hands, sobbing quietly. Moonlight shone through the single window, illuminating the tears turning my sheets black. I looked out the window, up into the sky, searching for the star William had shown me. It twinkled from the heavens, distant but constant, cold but reassuring.
It watched me in this moment, wondering what I would do.
I wondered, too.
How was I supposed to fall in love when Mama was dying? How could she expect me to act as if our lives were put together, when they were being shredded apart? How was I to live without her?
How was I to find a match?
Chapter 4
I was a pit of sorrow and mourning for the next several days. Despite Mama’s wishing for me to continue as if nothing had changed, I hovered around her, seeing to her every need and feeling like a despicable daughter for not having appreciated her before—at least, not as I should have. Running about the house more frenzied than the maids, I plumped her pillows, poured her tea, and fetched items like her spectacles, her wrap, or her books.
After three days of swarming her, Mama finally stopped me by the elbow and told me sternly, “Carry on, girl. Carry on.” The message in her eyes was clear: Remember the promise you made me.
My promise. Of course.
Securing a marriage at a time like this would normally be the last thing on my mind. But given what she had revealed about my inheritance, my chances of making an advantageous match were slim unless it happened within the next few months. Time was of the essence, and Mama was determined to see me married.
And I would sell my soul, if I knew it would make her happy.
Now, as I sat at my desk, I thought on what I needed to do to see it through. My mind flitted to the tall, shadowy image of my mysterious suitor. There was no doubt Mama’s revelation had changed things, but that didn’t mean both our wishes couldn’t be fulfilled at the same time. I’d simply had to find him sometime in the next few months.
After dipping my quill in the little inkpot, I poised it over my journal, thinking. Then I started to make long, flowing strokes.
How to catch a husband.
Step 1. Attend all functions I am invited to.
That one wasn’t hard. I enjoyed being in society. It was only logical that the more functions I attended, the more men I would be introduced to, and the more opportunities I would have to evaluate prospective husbands.
Step 2. Employ a matchmaker.
This one was a bit harder. I wasn’t acquainted with any formal matchmakers, and if I were, I wouldn’t put my complete trust in one. Regardless of whether or not it was their occupation, I didn’t believe a stranger could find my perfect man in a few short months. But it would certainly help to confide in someone with a large network of acquaintances who could initiate introductions and pick up tidbits about potential candidates. If I were to be successful in fulfilling Mama’s desires, I needed to enlist what help I could get.
The last step I added on after thinking of my interaction with the Duke of Allerton.
Step 3. Learn how to flirt.
I doubted I would ever be much good at it—and how I was supposed to learn the art, I hadn’t the slightest notion—but try, I would.
Just then the sound of a rumbling carriage stopped outside. I stood and parted the lacy curtain to peek outside. Two gray mares harnessed to William’s berlin carriage whickered and stomped in the cold.
I’d nearly forgotten the tea party!
It was time to practice step one; if I were lucky, by day’s end I’d have accomplished step two as well. Snatching my gloves and spencer jacket laid out on my bed, I hurried out the door and down the steps, putting the items of clothing on as I went. William had barely hopped out of the carriage when I exited the house, glided down the stairs past the wrought iron fence, and clambered inside.
“Well!” he said. His extended hand which I hadn’t taken fell to his side. “Now that you’re officially “out,” am I always to be thus snubbed?” As I situated my skirts, he entered and rapped the ceiling for the driver to continue. “You seem in quite a hurry to arrive at the most monotonous tea party of the Season.” The carriage lurched forward and a mesh of houses, trees, and black fence began to blur by.
A Lord of Many Masks (Wycliffe Family Book 2) Page 3