My Last Duchess

by James, Eloisa

  Who could say no to them?

  Yet the die was cast. She’d had her chance at this particular happiness, and she’d said no. Hugo had moved on, asked for another woman’s hand in marriage, and that was that.

  The sleighs were slowing down now, drawing to the side of the riverbank where a long stretch of lawn, withered and brown but likely beautiful in the summer, stretched all the way to a substantial townhouse.

  The back of Lady Woolhastings’s London estate, presumably.

  “Rich as Croesus,” Lady Knowe muttered beside her. “Can’t imagine why she wants him.”

  Ophelia could think of so many reasons to want Hugo. The strong lines of his jaw and broad shoulders were only the first that came to mind. The way he kissed her; the way he looked at her as if he truly saw her; the way he talked about his children. The way he made her feel safe, even to the point of giving up her child to his arms.

  His twin chuckled and then broke into open laughter as color crept up into Ophelia’s cheeks.

  “It’s this red hair,” Ophelia said, deciding to laugh as well, because she knew perfectly well she’d turned a deep rose color. “I can’t hide anything.”

  “I’ll take it from you that my brother is still reasonably attractive,” Lady Knowe said, hooting.

  Just in the nick of time—for Ophelia had decided that she had no interest in visiting Lady Woolhastings’s house—she heard an enraged scream.

  “Your baby’s as loud as Joan,” Betsy said, her head popping out of the fur blanket. “Guess she’s mad.”

  “I will have to say goodbye,” Ophelia said. As the sleigh ride drew to a halt, the two boys’ heads appeared too. “Betsy, Leonidas, and Alexander, it has been a true pleasure meeting you.”

  With a smile and nod for Lady Knowe, she hopped down from the sleigh and took her screaming child away from the duke.

  Lady Woolhastings’s lips were thin and pressed together. “Children should not appear in public until they can compose themselves.” She gave Viola a disparaging glance. “My ears are ringing.”

  Ophelia decided not to respond. Viola thankfully quieted down once she was in her mother’s arms, so Ophelia bobbed a curtsy in Lady Woolhastings’s direction and started up the lawn toward her waiting carriage, her back very straight.

  She hadn’t gone more than a few steps before Lady Woolhastings said, “A casual household, from what I hear, which one might guess from her appearance.” Perhaps the lady didn’t realize that her aristocratic tones had such carrying power.

  It was true: Ophelia had no nanny. And the wind had blown her hair into a tangled cloud around her shoulders.

  “The color,” Lady Woolhastings added, with a tone of disdain, if not disgust.

  “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow!” Lady Knowe called.

  Ophelia stopped halfway up the slope, and turned. “Excuse me?”

  “The opera?” Lady Knowe was walking up the slope, a devilish smile on her face. “Lady Fernby’s house for dinner.”

  Maddie. She’d forgotten about Maddie, and the need to make all of polite society believe that Maddie was carrying a child.

  Ophelia managed to paste a smile on her face. “Of course! Until tomorrow, then.” She turned and walked the remainder of the slope even faster.

  She and Viola belonged together.

  The three children had each other, and, of course, there were all those boys from the duke’s first marriage as well. The bond between the second duchess’s children would weather a disengaged third duchess.

  Lady Woolhastings was more than capable of launching Betsy and Joan on the market. She’d be a perfect duchess: regal, and supremely confident of her own superiority.

  Whereas Ophelia climbed into her carriage, cheeks blazing, feeling inadequate in every way. Compared to Lady Woolhastings, she was short and fat. Her child was ill-behaved, and she was a bad mother for taking her into the winter weather. Her hair was scandalous and so was her nanny-free household.

  Even more egregious, she was a lustful woman. She wanted the duke—Hugo—in a way that was quite improper for a lady. Her knees trembled, walking away from him. No mother was supposed to feel this way; she was certain of that.

  “Mama,” Viola said, popping her thumb out of her mouth. “Cake.”

  “I have rusks in the carriage and they’ll have to hold you until we are home,” Ophelia assured her.

  Thankfully, Bisquet was waiting in the street. And even better, bundled on the carriage seat were all the lovely things they’d bought at the fair.

  Ophelia promptly opened the bag containing a baker’s dozen of small mince pies, still holding warmth from the oven and smelling deliciously of raisins and spice.

  “I want!” Viola said, learning forward eagerly.

  They each ate a mince pie.

  When Ophelia thought about the disdainful way that Lady Woolhastings’s eyes had rested on her hips, and the way her lip curled when she talked of food bought in an open market . . .

  She ate another one.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Duke of Lindow’s townhouse

  Mayfair

  Hugo arrived home with his sister and children after a lengthy tea at Lady Woolhastings’s house—the very best tea from China, but no cake, as children shouldn’t eat sweets and Betsy was apparently already plump for her age. When Lady Woolhastings told Betsy not to eat another buttered toast because she must start to think about her figure, Betsy’s mouth fell open in surprise.

  Unfortunately, the sight of her half-chewed toast disturbed their hostess. She shuddered and said, “Your governess is obviously ineffective, Lindow. Children should remain in the nursery until they can be counted upon to behave in a refined manner.”

  Neither Louisa nor he said a word in response, but Lady Woolhastings—Edith—didn’t notice a lapse. She engaged in a conversation with Horatius, and as they were leaving, informed Hugo that his heir would be an excellent duke.

  “He shows an admirable sense of civic responsibility, paired with just respect for the crown,” she said.

  Hugo bowed. And left.

  The moment the Wilde family walked into their own townhouse, all seven of his offspring dispatched themselves to the upper regions of the house, and he and Louisa turned as one and headed for the brandy decanter in his library.

  “You’ve made a wretched bumble-broth of the courting I sent you to London to do,” Louisa said now.

  Hugo looked at his twin, and then back at the glass of brandy he was holding. “I didn’t ask her to marry me.”

  “What do you mean, you didn’t ask her to marry you?” Louisa asked.

  “I didn’t.” Hugo’s voice was wooden, but beneath it was fury and helplessness.

  And beneath that was desire for Ophelia, as fierce and hot as a lava flow that buries everything in its path.

  “You didn’t ask Lady Woolhastings to marry you, although she announced that she was your fiancée?” Louisa asked, incredulous.

  He finished off his brandy. “Precisely.”

  His sister dropped into a chair. “She said it so calmly.”

  “I believe it was a simple statement of fact, as she saw it. To be fair, I have escorted her to several events. She must have decided to accept my hand; therefore, my actual proposal was irrelevant.”

  Louisa shook her head, dumbfounded. “What is she, one-eighth royal? Purple blood must be enough to poison the brain. You’ll have to have a conversation with her, albeit a painful one, and set the record straight.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “She was right to presume that I would propose. And she shared the information with others; she announced at the Frost Fair that we were betrothed.”

  “Hugo, you can’t marry a woman simply because she decided to take you.”

  “It doesn’t matter, anyway,” Hugo said, getting up and pouring himself more brandy. “I did decide to marry her, although I hadn’t got around to a proposal. Ophelia won’t have me
, Louisa. She said no.”

  “Of course she said no the first time, you idiot!” his sister snapped.

  “After I thought about it, I realized she was right,” Hugo said. “I can’t offer Ophelia what she already has. She doesn’t need money or status. I bring along a sullied name, eight children, and the endless trouble that comes with the dukedom. She has no wish to be a duchess.”

  “You are the only thing that matters,” his sister said. She pulled off her hat and threw it on a chair. “You, Hugo.”

  “Ophelia refused my proposal.”

  “Oh, for—” But she bit off the words. “Where do your children come into this? Did you pay attention as Yvette’s three asked their questions to Edith over tea?”

  “Louisa, couldn’t you have asked what the questions were before allowing them to blurt them out? It didn’t help that the older boys were roaring with laughter at the idea of false teeth.”

  “I had no idea what their questions would be before they asked Lady Astley.”

  “Lady Woolhastings was greatly offended, particularly, I think, by the question of whether she had false teeth,” Hugo said. “I can’t blame her for that.”

  “I expect that Edith is sensitive about her age. She is certainly a woman who is trying to stop the clock. I don’t say this to put you off, Hugo, but did you observe her hair, or rather lack of it?”

  “What hair?” Hugo was aware of a leaden misery in his stomach that he hadn’t felt in years. The moment he saw Ophelia walking beside Lord Melton, he was swamped by a surge of possessiveness so acute he wanted to throttle the man.

  “Edith’s wig,” his sister said. “Your fiancée’s wig.”

  “What about it?” Ophelia’s hair had escaped in silken curls that he longed to tame. Why hadn’t he remained in her house and refused to leave in the morning? In retrospect, walking away had been the most stupid action of his life.

  “Edith shaves her head, one must assume,” his sister said. “Her hat was pinned to her wig, and at one point the wind blew it to the side and I caught sight of bare skull.”

  His stomach churned. “I planned to marry a woman whom I wouldn’t bed. You agreed!”

  “We were wrong,” Louisa said flatly. “Your supposed fiancée may claim not to have a false tooth—though based on her rather startling rage at the question, I would bet a guinea that she has at least one. That’s neither here nor there. She isn’t the right person to mother your children.”

  “Because she doesn’t like rats? No one likes rats.”

  “She’ll make you bitter,” his sister said. “Another woman who doesn’t love you, and whom you cannot love? We were idiots to think that was a possibility, Hugo. Can you see her at Lindow Castle? Do you think she’ll tolerate the way Fitzy screams at all hours?”

  “Peacocks do scream.”

  “She’ll gild his beak and serve him for New Year’s dinner,” Louisa said. “The stuffed alligator in the drawing room? Dispatched to the attics. The armor in the entry? The dust heap.” She hesitated. “Me?”

  “She daren’t ask you to leave,” Hugo stated.

  “She won’t ask, but I’ll leave.” Louisa said it easily, without bitterness. “I can’t live with the woman, and I do have my own estate, if you recall.”

  “No!” The word felt as if it was punched from his chest.

  He was at a crossroads. One way was . . . No. He couldn’t even visualize it, which didn’t say much for a happy future.

  The other way held Ophelia, who had refused him, but looked at him with her eyes brimming with emotion. After Lady Woolhastings’s profound rudeness, Phee walked away up the slope, her hair practically on fire with righteous indignation.

  Yet his fiancée would likely be surprised to hear that she had insulted Ophelia, since all she offered—to her mind—were sound observations drawn from a thorough grounding in “polite” society.

  “What am I going to do?” The words ripped from his chest. “I can’t marry her, Louisa.”

  “True.” His sister came over and kissed his cheek. “I was just waiting for you to catch up to the truth. Edith’s chance of being a duchess was over when she told Betsy not to eat another piece of buttered toast.”

  “It’s a cock-up,” Hugo said.

  It helped to acknowledge that truth.

  No matter what happened with Ophelia, he wouldn’t inflict Edith on his children. That would be as stupid a marriage as his to Yvette.

  “Christ,” he said bleakly, thrusting his hand through his hair. “I have balls-all luck with women.”

  “I’d say the opposite,” his sister retorted. “Marie was a darling. Ophelia is far more interesting, perhaps because we’re all of an age now. Marie never had a chance to become interesting.”

  “But Ophelia—”

  “Don’t tell me again that you made up your mind for her that she’d be better off without you. You have moments when I think the title has addled your brains, and this is one of them. Your job is to grovel at her feet and beg her for marriage. Do you hear me?”

  He rubbed his shoulder absentmindedly because her poking actually hurt. “What if she won’t have me?”

  “Then you change her mind. You wait until she has a good look at the better parts of you. You invite her to the castle for a visit and you don’t consign her to the last carriage, but keep her at your side.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Yes, you did,” Louisa said. “You went off in the first carriage with that bald woman to whom you’d supposedly offered your hand, a few days after being refused by Ophelia . . . You could scarcely have been more offensive, Hugo. I’m not the most sensitive of beings, but even I would have trouble countenancing that insult.”

  “It wasn’t meant as an insult.”

  “Your intent is unimportant. I saw her eyes and you hurt her. Now, you learn from that mistake and don’t make it again.”

  “I’ll have to talk to Lady Woolhastings.”

  “Tomorrow at the dinner party,” his sister said briskly. “I can help, Hugo. It would be best if we could convince her that being Duchess of Lindow would diminish her countenance.”

  “I can’t imagine how, given that she decided to be duchess without a proposal,” he said.

  “Don’t underestimate me,” she said, grinning at him.

  “I never do,” he promised. Then he wound an arm around her shoulder. “If Ophelia marries me, you’ll stay, won’t you?”

  “If she wants me.”

  “I won’t take her.”

  Louisa hooted. “You don’t have her, you arrogant fool! Now I need a restorative sleep because tomorrow morning I promised we would take the children to the Tower.”

  “We?” Hugo asked.

  His sister just rolled her eyes.

  Chapter Thirteen

  As it happened, the Penshallow box at the Theatre Royal was directly across from the Lindow box. From Ophelia’s point of view, it couldn’t have been more unfortunate.

  She and Maddie arrived in plenty of time. Maddie had cheered up and decided to enjoy her role as a woman in a delicate condition; she fanned herself constantly and entertained her friends with whispered commentary about the trials and tribulations of carrying an heir.

  As far as Ophelia could see, there was near-universal acceptance of Maddie’s condition, but she knew it wasn’t enough to merely display Maddie with a cotton roll at her waist.

  At the play’s intermission, she surveyed the ladies who crowded the Penshallow box, and selected the worst gossip of them all, Lady Arden, and adroitly drew her to the front of the box, exclaiming that she hadn’t seen the lady for ages.

  Once they were cozily seated, Ophelia confided that she had insisted her darling Maddie keep her condition a secret.

  “I understand that for the first months,” Lady Arden said, looking faintly skeptical, “but so near to confinement?”

  Ophelia flipped open her fan and spoke behind it. “Surely you know that my dearest cousin’s marital relations are
stormy.”

  “To say the least!” Lady Arden’s eyes brightened.

  “Most of London believes that it is due to a lack of passion between herself and her husband,” Ophelia whispered, “but the reverse is true. There is too much emotion between them.”

  “Ah,” Lady Arden breathed.

  “Her delicate condition makes her so sensitive,” Ophelia confided. “I feared for the life of the babe.”

  “Lord Arden likes to tell stories of a time when I behaved in a most unladylike fashion while carrying our second child,” Lady Arden said, apparently won over. “Arden insisted on roast partridge for luncheon over my express command, and I could not abide that odor. I vomited on his shoes. Deliberately, he says.”

  “I have persuaded my dearest cousin that she would do best to retire from society after this evening,” Ophelia said. “I certainly don’t want her to lose control of her temper as she did at the Hunt Ball, only due to the emotional storms of the first months of one’s delicate condition. I trust you will pay us a call? She will be resting comfortably at my house.”

  “An excellent plan,” Lady Arden said, clearly recalling the way glacé cherries had bounced off Maddie’s husband’s head. “Men simply do not understand how hard it is to manage one’s feelings while carrying a child.”

  “Lord Penshallow will visit daily, of course,” Ophelia said.

  “Of course,” Lady Arden echoed.

  Then she asked precisely the question that Ophelia had been hoping to avoid. “Did you see that the Duke of Lindow is in attendance, accompanied by Lady Woolhastings?” She nodded at the box across from them, which was as thronged as their own with visitors. “I must say, that pairing has surprised me.”

  “Oh?” Ophelia asked. “I know Lady Woolhastings, of course, but she is considerably older than I am.” If she felt an errant thrill at that truth, it was only natural. Or so she assured herself.

  “Her eldest daughter and I were presented at St. James in the same drawing room, so yes, she is my mother’s age. Just look at them together!”

  Ophelia had managed not to glance at the ducal box before the play, or during the first three acts, but now she couldn’t stop herself.