He bowed, trying to stifle a sigh as he thought of the work that needed to be done.
Lady Charlotte nodded to the small rosewood secretary that sat nearby. “You’ll find the list on the left-hand corner. The invitations are to go out in tomorrow’s post.”
“Yes, me lady.” He went to fetch the list written in Lady Charlotte’s delicate handwriting. Some fifty or so guests were listed on the neatly written sheet. Beside each man’s name were a series of marks. After looking at it for some moments, he carried it to Lady Charlotte. “I beg yer pardon, me lady, but these marks here . . .” He pointed to them.
“Oh, that! Ignore it. It’s just our code.”
“Code?”
“Yes. We place a tick beside each bachelor. Then we give each man with a title a small circle. If they have a fortune, then we draw a pound symbol.”
“And what’s this symbol, me lady?” He pointed to what appeared to be a drawing of a sprout of grass springing from the ground.
“That’s what I drew if the bachelor in question had all of his own hair.” Lady Charlotte glanced at the duchess. Satisfied her grace was busy murmuring endearments to Randolph, her ladyship leaned toward MacDougal and said in a low tone, “Her grace didn’t deem it important, but I do like a man with a full head of hair.”
“Yes, me lady, although this symbol looks a bit like a sprout o’ grass than a head o’ hair.”
“I suppose it does.” She shook her head sadly. “It’s quite disappointing how many gentlemen did not earn that mark. It is perhaps the most important of all.”
Unable to think of anything more to say, MacDougal merely nodded. “Aye, me lady.”
The duchess gave Randolph a hug and placed him back on the floor, where he waddled to the fire and plopped onto the rug. “MacDougal, her ladyship and I shall be planning some activities to amuse our guests. We want them to mingle, of course.”
The duchess was indeed up to her old tricks, so he’d best ready the castle. As he folded the list, his mind was already racing ahead to which footmen would need to be pressed into service in the front hall and during dinners, and the outcry Mrs. Cairness would make on discovering that bedchambers must be prepared, and quickly.
“It’s a simple three-week affair. My goddaughter Miss Lily Balfour will be attending.”
Lady Charlotte beamed before saying in a confidential tone, “It’s because of Miss Balfour that we’re having the house party at all, although she thinks we’ve had it planned for months.”
MacDougal remembered Miss Lily Balfour’s sister Rose quite well, and how determined the duchess had been to match the young lady to Lord Sinclair. “I take it there are to be several outings fer the guests?”
“Small ones. A picnic, a visit to the folly, perhaps a boat ride on the lake . . .” The duchess waved her hands. “Those sorts of things.”
“But no archery,” Lady Charlotte said, shuddering. “Not after our last house party.”
“Och, no!” MacDougal said, remembering the mayhem from their last attempt.
Both ladies stared at him and MacDougal hurried to add, “The weather is so chancy in the spring.”
“Very true,” her grace said. “Although it is appealing to think of an arrow accidentally hitting the grand duchess.”
Lady Charlotte instantly agreed, telling MacDougal, “That woman had the temerity to suggest that our king was too fat to serve as the head of state.”
“Actually, I must agree with that comment,” her grace stated. “It was the only thing she said that made any sense. If the king gets any fatter, they’ll have to exchange his steed for a draft horse similar to those used in the fields.”
“That wouldn’t be very kingly,” Lady Charlotte said.
The two continued to discuss the king’s weight as MacDougal considered the planning that needed to be done. The floors and silver must be polished, bedchambers cleaned and readied, and the grand ballroom opened and prepared, the furnishings uncovered and dusted. It would take every servant available, as well as some hired from the village, to get the house ready. He looked at the list once again and noted a small scribble in one corner.
As soon as there was a slight pause in the conversation, he asked, “Yer grace? I beg yer pardon, but ye wrote somethin’ upon the bottom o’ yer list.” He squinted. “It says ‘Butterfly Ball.’ ”
“Oh yes! I almost forgot. We’re to have a ball, too. A small one, but a ball nonetheless.”
Lady Charlotte added eagerly, “It will be quite a feat for her grace if she can entice enough people from the London season to attend a ball in the middle of the country.” Her knitting needles ticked along. “Everyone will want to come, for her grace will offer the gentlemen something they will be longing for—hunting!”
MacDougal managed to look sufficiently impressed, though he secretly thought that Lord Roxburghe wouldn’t be pleased to hear that his carefully selected stables were about to be invaded by a pack of potential suitors. Sadly, his grace was in London, attending to business, and was not to return until a week after the scheduled party.
The duchess looked like the cat who’d swallowed the cream. “No man will be able to resist the lure of my invitation, especially after weeks of being forced to toe the line of society. We shall have plenty of eligible bachelors for Miss Lily to choose from.”
Well, there was no more to be said. Every moment he stood here was a moment wasted. With a graceful bow, he said, “Yes, yer grace. I’ll see to it that the invitations are sent and the house readied immediately.” At her pleased nod, he left the sitting room, pulling the door closed behind him.
Out in the hallway he called to the young footman who hovered in the hallway, “Come, John. It’s time to batten down the hatches. Her grace is on the warpath again, and it’s all men to stations!”
Three
From the Diary of the Duchess of Roxburghe The entire castle is being readied for our guests. So far, over one hundred and ten have confirmed their attendance at our little Butterfly Ball, with forty-two staying the entire three weeks for the preceding house party. Charlotte says that Countess MacInnis is beside herself with envy, but I never pay attention to what other people think. I simply plan excellent entertainments and let the world do what they may.
Meanwhile, my goddaughter Miss Lily Balfour arrived yesterday. She’s quite lovely, with gray eyes and bright red-gold hair. We had a lovely talk, and I could tell from what she did not say that funds are tight at Caith Manor and she is, indeed, in dire need of a well-placed husband. I have found the perfect candidate: the wealthy Earl of Huntley, who’s been widowed for over two years and is now in the market for a tractable, wellborn wife, though he’s had lamentable luck in that area—until now.
Judging from the sparkle in her eyes, I don’t believe Miss Balfour is tractable, but she is both lovely and wellborn. In addition, she is not a society miss, like so many others who’ve set their caps at the poor earl. I think Huntley will find her innocence and honesty refreshing.
I must say that if they happen to enter into a marriage, my reputation as a matchmaker extraordinaire will be established once and for all. Not, of course, that I intend to meddle. Such is not my style. I merely present the opportunity, and stand back and allow nature to have its way. . . .
Lily turned her horse down the wide path that led toward the woods. Behind her, Floors Castle sat amid well-manicured lawns filled with flowers. The castle was luxurious and beautifully appointed, but Lily felt nothing but relief as the trees obscured it from view.
For the last two days she’d been a perfectly behaved guest, smiling and nodding, greeting people she didn’t know with the appearance of pleasure. Every minute had been torture. The days had been filled with nonstop introductions, and if she had to remember one more name, she feared her head might explode.
The shade under the trees cooled the air, and she pulled Dahlia’s red cloak tighter. Lily allowed the horse its head, the peacefulness of the forest calming her frayed nerves. She�
�d had no idea how uncomfortable and lonely it would be, coming to a castle where she knew no one. The duchess had been lovely, although she and Lady Charlotte had quizzed Lily mercilessly when she’d first arrived. She’d let them know in as delicate a manner as possible that she was quite ready to form a suitable marriage, but she’d offered no more than that. No one needed to know about the Balfours’ distressed financial situation, but she had the uncomfortable impression that the duchess’s shrewd blue eyes had seen far more than Lily intended.
The horse’s hooves were muffled on the packed dirt, the trees moving overhead in the breeze. Birds sang, leaves danced, and the scent of pine tickled her nose. Peace settled over Lily as the quiet wood settled about her.
It was so good to get away from the pressing crowd at the castle. This morning the duchess had mentioned that the Earl of Huntley would be arriving tomorrow, and it was obvious from her arch glance that she favored Huntley as a potential suitor for Lily. Apparently the earl was wellborn, fabulously wealthy, handsome, and a perfect gentleman.
Lily should have been excited—here was her chance for a more-than-favorable marriage, one with a carefully selected candidate. Instead, all she felt was deeply and irrevocably sad.
She sighed and tilted her face to the dappled sun streaming through the leaves overhead. If she wished to save her family, she had to come to terms with a marriage of convenience. It wasn’t unusual; in fact, women were judged on the quality of husband they managed to snare. Women groomed themselves and learned genteel arts such as embroidery and watercolors, a smattering of foreign languages, and just a touch of classical history, in order to attract men of wealth and breeding. They learn everything but the art of making a well-cut riding habit. She sniffed derisively. That’s a true art.
She smoothed the navy-blue skirt of her habit with satisfaction. Just this morning, as she was waiting for her mount to be brought around, two of the duchess’s august guests—both ladies dressed in the highest fashion—had stopped to ask which modiste had made her habit. She smiled with pride. If I can’t find a satisfactory husband, I can always support the family. If only my skill with a needle could also save Papa—and Caith Manor—from his folly.
She sighed. It has to be marriage, then. Why, oh why, am I finding this so difficult to accept? She firmed her chin and said aloud, “This is how the world operates.” Men looked for women who would grace their table and manage their homes and present them with heirs, while women looked for men who would provide for them and the ensuing family. It had been this way for centuries. So why did she feel so . . . bereft?
“I’m being silly,” she told her horse.
His ears flickered, but he offered no further comment.
She sighed and patted his neck, glad that no one was about to hear her. Really, it was a simple—
A fox jumped out of the shrubbery and dashed across the path, a streak of red near the horse’s hooves.
The horse reared, whinnying madly as he pawed the air.
Lily hung on for dear life, clutching at the horse’s mane, at the saddle, trying to hold on to anything that might stop her fall. But being perched upon a sidesaddle and weighted with the heavy skirts of her riding habit, she was no match for the frightened horse.
The horse threw itself upon its back legs and, with a scream, Lily tumbled to the ground.
• • •
Twenty minutes earlier, on the other side of the river, a carriage had creaked to a stop beneath a towering oak. An old woman pushed back the curtains with a hand heavy with jewels and looked out the window, disbelief on her deeply wrinkled face. “This is it?”
“What? You do not like it?” Piotr Romanovin, Prince Wulfinski of Oxenburg, threw open the carriage door and called to the coachman to tie off the horses. “It is charming, nyet?” Flashing a smile, the prince reached up to help his grandmother to the ground.
His Tata Natasha, a grand duchess more aware of her title than any king or queen he knew, gathered her velvet cloak as if it were a shield and stared at the cottage that sat in a small clearing. In silence, she noted the broken shutters, the half-missing thatch roof, the front door hanging from one hinge, and a profusion of flowering vines growing across the windows. “Nyet,” she said bluntly. “This is not charming. Come.” She turned back to the carriage. “We will go back to the big house, where we belong, and leave this foolishness to the wilds.”
“It’s not a big house, but a manor. And this”—he gestured to the cottage—“is to be my home. It is here I shall live.”
“You are a prince of Oxenburg. You cannot live in a hovel.”
“I’m a grown man who will live where and how he wishes.”
Tata Natasha scowled. “This is all your father’s fault. You are the youngest and he could never tell you nyet.”
“Oh, he’s said it quite often.”
“Pah! You are spoiled and don’t even know it.”
He arched a brow. “Do you or do you not wish to see my new home?”
She scowled at the cottage. “Just look at this place! The roof—”
“Can be fixed. As can the shutters and the door and the chimney.”
“What’s wrong with the chimney?”
“It needs to be cleaned, but the craftsmanship is superb. It just needs some care.”
She eyed her grandson sourly. The prince was larger than all of his brothers, and they were not small men. At almost six feet five, he towered over her and all nine of their guards.
But large as Wulf was, he was her youngest grandson and the most difficult to understand, given to fits and starts that were incomprehensible to all and left his parents in agonies.
Take the simple matter of marriage. His brothers seemed to understand their responsibilities and were scouring the courts of Europe for suitable brides. But not Wulf. He’d refused every princess that came his way, be they short or tall, thin or fat, fair or not—it didn’t matter. With only the most cursory of glances, he’d refused them one by one.
Tata Natasha shook her head. “Wulf, your cousin Nikki, he was right; you have gone mad. You purchased a beautiful house—” At Wulf’s lifted brows, she sighed. “Fine, a manor, then. One with twenty-six bedrooms, thirty-five fireplaces, a salon, a dining room, a great hall, and a ballroom. It is beautiful and fitting for a prince of your stature. This”—she waved a hand—“is a hovel.”
“It will be my home. At least until I’ve found a bride who will love me for this, and not because I can afford a manor with more chimneys than there are days in a month.” He tucked his grandmother’s hand in the crook of his arm and pulled her to the cottage door. “Come and see my new home.”
“But—”
He stopped. “Tata, it was your idea for me to meet the world without the trappings of wealth.”
“No, it was your idea, not mine.” When his gaze narrowed, her wrinkled cheeks heated. “I might have suggested that it would do you good to discover what it was like to be a normal man and not one wrapped in privilege, but I never suggested this.” She waved at the cottage.
“But you were right; I must find out for myself. Now come. See my new home.” He pushed the crooked door to one side.
“Such a waste of time.” She tugged her arm free so that she could hold her skirts out of the dirt. “Why not marry a princess?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t see one that I liked.”
Tata Natasha turned to face him, her chin pushed forward. “What do you like, Wulf? What sort of a woman do you wish to meet?”
He raked a hand through his black hair, his gaze distant. “I want one who will treat me as a man and not as a bag of gold. One with passion and fire. One who will marry me because of me—not my title or wealth.”
“You cannot deny your birthright. Your father would have an apoplexy if he found out, and his health is not good.”
“I know.” Wulf’s jaw tightened. “For that reason, I will not hide that I am a prince. But I will not admit to my wealth.”
Tata sighed. �
��I wish your father had never passed that ill-thought law allowing his children to marry as they wished.”
“He married for love and he wished us all to have the same luxury.”
“He married my daughter, a crown princess!”
“Of the Romani.”
Tata’s black eyes flashed. “The Romani blood is purer and older than any other royal bloodline!”
“I know,” the prince said simply. “But it was against the laws of Oxenburg, which only recognized traditional kingdoms—”
“Foolishness!”
“—so he changed those laws. Thus he was able to marry his bride and make her the queen he always thought her.”
“Humph. He could have just written a law acknowledging the Romani.”
Wulf wisely refrained from pointing out the political imbroglio that would have caused and said in a soothing tone, “Father did what he thought best. He married Mother because he loved her and she loved him. He knew he was fortunate in that, and he wishes for all of us to have the same.”
Tata threw up a hand. “Love, love, love! That is all you and your father talk of! What about duty? Responsibility? What about that?”
Wulf smiled indulgently as he pushed open one of the shutters, letting light stream into the cottage, illuminating a stream of golden dust motes that danced in the air. “Rest assured that I will marry a strong woman, one who will give me many brave and intelligent sons. Surely that is responsible of me?”
Tata wished she could smack her son-in-law. What had he been thinking to free his sons to marry commoners? It was ridiculous. And look what it had led to. Here was her favorite grandson, looking for a wife among the heathens that populated this wild and desolate land. “If you will not believe in the purity of bloodlines, then how will you know which woman is right for you?”
“I’ll know her when I see her.”
Tata ground her teeth. “Why did we have to come to this godforsaken part of the world to find your bride? Scotland isn’t even civilized.”
He sent her a humorous glance. “You sound like Papa.”
Duchess Diaries [2] How to Pursue a Princess Page 3