My rightful place. What place was that? Ana Maria wondered. For more than twenty years, she’d been the late duchess’s unpaid and unappreciated drudge, doing anything that required doing, if the duchess ordered her to.
And now? Now she was supposed to become a lady overnight, a person who didn’t know how to polish silver, who would order a bath without considering just how long it would take to boil water, and who treated the help as though they were just that—help, not people or even friends. Who did not have an opinion about dust, because she wasn’t aware it existed.
But even if her status was suddenly elevated, she was not.
If only her half brother, Sebastian, had remained as the duke she would have been far more comfortable. But Sebastian was not the rightful duke, not since it was discovered that the late duchess—in this particular case, the dastardly duchess—had lied about her relationship to Ana Maria’s mother. When it was revealed that the two duchesses were sisters, not cousins, it had invalidated the second marriage because English law forbade marrying the sister of one’s dead wife, making Sebastian a bastard, so the title went instead to their cousin Thaddeus.
Thaddeus was kind, in his way, but he wasn’t Sebastian. Ana Maria had only wanted to become a lady because Sebastian had seemed to want it for her so desperately. And now that he was established in his new life with his new lovely wife, it all seemed so pointless.
But it wasn’t as though she could toss off her elegant clothing and grab an apron and pretend things hadn’t changed.
They had. This room, redecorated to her taste and overflowing in flowers from potential suitors, proved it.
She liked the flowers—even if some of them made her sneeze—but she did not appreciate the attention. The gentlemen who sent them would never have noticed her when she’d been wearing her apron, and she knew full well why they were noticing her now. Thaddeus, continuing what Sebastian had promised, had bestowed a generous dowry on her, one that was drawing all of Society’s eligible bachelors like—like ants to sugar.
“What are you thinking about then, my lady?” Jane’s voice said, interrupting her thoughts.
“Flowers, ants, and sugar,” Ana Maria replied, snorting at her own words.
“It’d be better if you were thinking about your suitors and which one of them you’ll decide on. I like the looks of that earl’s son, Lord Brunley. He’s quite handsome and has nearly all of his teeth.”
“High recommendation,” Ana Maria replied drily. “So I can look at him while he chews.” Is that what marriage was? Dearest, let me pop that toast in your mouth as I gaze upon you.
“What else is there to require in a husband?”
It was unfortunate Jane asked so many questions. So many questions Ana Maria could answer, but not to anyone’s satisfaction but her own.
What else is there to require? A kind soul, someone who would listen and care for her? Someone who would want her, not the daughter and cousin to a duke with a fortune?
How would she be able to tell if a suitor truly cared for her? Someone who would ask her why she was thinking about flowers, ants, and sugar instead of regarding her with a horrified look because she wasn’t thinking about proper ladylike things?
Someone tall and protective and solid.
Someone very like—no. She could not finish that sentence, not even in her own mind.
She’d rather die by sneezing than admit to her own interest. If Sebastian, or Thaddeus, or worst of all him, at all suspected she harbored a secret fascination for a certain tall, grunting gentleman with a penchant for frequent pacing she would be completely mortified, and it wouldn’t do any good anyway.
He treated her as a sister, and not even as a much beloved sister. More like a forgotten sister who was only noticed when she was a nuisance. And since Ana Maria was so well behaved, she was never noticed. Not by him, anyway.
No. Better to consider the gentlemen who were now noticing her. Or even better, figure out something that didn’t involve gentlemen or marriage so she could at least be satisfied in her own life, even if she ended up alone.
There was a knock at the door, and then it opened, revealing the butler, who always seemed as though he were disapproving of Ana Maria.
Or that could be her imagination.
“My lady?”
“What is it, Fletchfield?” Jane answered.
The butler gave a slight frown, indicating what he thought of Jane’s presumption.
“Miss Octavia Holton is here to see Lady Ana Maria.”
Ana Maria smiled. “Please see her in, Fletchfield. We will take tea as well.” Miss Octavia was Sebastian’s young sister-in-law, and a welcome addition to Ana Maria’s acquaintance, though their ten-year age difference made it seem as though Ana Maria was Octavia’s older sister. Until Octavia, Ana Maria hadn’t had any friends in her new world, and the friends from when she was a drudge all treated her differently now.
Even Jane.
That was one of the reasons she’d refused to hire a companion—it was shocking, Ana Maria knew, not to have someone to chaperone her, but the last thing she wanted was yet another person treating her differently. Thankfully, Thaddeus was too engrossed in his new duties to see the impropriety of it.
Fletchfield bowed, and Ana Maria turned to Jane. “I’ll be up later this afternoon to discuss what gown to wear this evening.”
“I thought the blue—” Jane began.
“Later this afternoon,” Ana Maria interrupted. One of the few good things about being a lady—besides not having to scour kitchen grates and sweep dirt—was getting to choose which of her new gorgeous gowns she’d wear. And Jane had an opinion, as she always did, but Ana Maria was beginning to trust her own taste better than her lady’s maid’s.
That felt wonderful, at least. To know she was looking her absolute best thanks to her own decision.
She’d never had that kind of confidence. Not least because she always wore whatever castoff her stepmother allowed her to. But also because nobody had entrusted her with making any kind of decision her entire life—and even now that she was supposedly a lady in the highest echelon of Society she was denied the same choice.
Well, she’d have to say no, thank you, to that. She was going to make her own choices and live her own life, which meant going where she wanted to when she wanted to, by herself if she wished, even if Society would raise its eyebrows. Or not marrying someone merely because he sent her some posies and could chew on his own.
It wasn’t much as standards went, but it would do for now.
Fletchfield held the door open for Miss Octavia, who stepped inside, her customary lively expression on her face. “Good afternoon, my lady.” Her eyes widened as she scanned the room. “Look at all those glorious colors!”
Ana Maria felt the unfamiliar warmth of a welcome compliment. “Thank you.” She patted the cushion of the seat next to her. “Do sit down. Tea is on its way.”
“Please tell me you decided on everything entirely on your own.”
That warmth furled throughout Ana Maria’s whole body. “I did.” She tilted her head to regard the bright silk of the curtains. “I’ve never done anything like this. I wasn’t certain I’d like it.”
“You have to tell me where you got all this. Or better yet, take me yourself.” Miss Octavia squinted in concentration. “You have a real talent.”
“Thank y—achoo!”
“You’re achoo—welcome,” Miss Octavia replied with a cheeky grin.
Her friend’s exuberant delight infected Ana Maria, making her want to cast off all the doubts and hesitations that had claimed her imagination since she’d first been elevated to her current social status.
And why shouldn’t she cast them off? Shouldn’t the whole point of being independent be . . . to be independent? To stride forward in life without worry?
“What in heaven’s name are you thinking about? You have the most intense expression on your face.” Miss Octavia wrinkled her nose. “You look like my
sister Ivy when she’s puzzling out a particularly difficult bookkeeping problem.”
Ana Maria shook her head. “Nothing nearly that complicated.” Only the rest of my life. She smothered a secret smile as Fletchfield arrived bearing the tea things, including some of Cook’s most excellent lemon scones.
She would decide on her future after she had some tea and possibly a few scones. A person had to have their priorities straight, after all.
Chapter Two
“The silver one,” Ana Maria said in a firm tone.
Jane humphed and shook her head as she withdrew the silver evening gown from the wardrobe.
They were in Ana Maria’s new bedroom, a grand step up from her previous living quarters in the attic. The bedroom had been a guest bedroom, used very rarely since the late duchess did not like visitors. Or, honestly, she did not like anybody but her son, Sebastian, Ana Maria’s half brother.
Ana Maria hadn’t gotten to redecorate this room yet; she’d wanted to live with what she’d chosen in the salon for a bit before taking on a bigger project. But now that she was pleased with the results there, her fingers were itching to change everything in here to reflect her taste.
Bright, vibrant colors instead of demure beiges and browns; plenty of pillows for lounging rather than the standard two per person; a small scattering of rugs rather than the enormous carpet.
But redecorating here would mean finally accepting that this was her life, and she was close to that, but not nearly there yet. What else would you want to do? a tiny voice murmured in her head.
I don’t know, but I want it to be my choice, Ana Maria replied.
But for now she was choosing her own gown for the evening. She sighed in satisfaction as she regarded it. It was the most outrageously opulent gown she had ever owned, but that wasn’t saying much, since until six months ago her gowns had been the duchess’s lady’s maid’s castoffs.
But even when measured with opulent gowns in general, this one was opulent. It was made of a silver fabric, but that wasn’t its entirety; it had tiny puffed sleeves made of sheer netting, while the body of the gown had small clear gems sewn on, only a few at first, then cascading to gather in a momentum of brilliance at the bottom.
“It’s the kind of gown,” Jane said in a worried tone, “that wears you more than you wear it. You have no experience wearing this kind of thing. I don’t even know how we’re going to do your hair either.”
Jane’s words, spoken with love, nonetheless shot straight to the heart of Ana Maria’s insecurities. Worry that she wouldn’t be accepted in her world paired with an equal worry that she would be, thus making her precisely like every other lady prancing about on dance floors and sipping tea.
It was an oxymoron, but it was her oxymoron, so it made sense to her.
“But that’s precisely why I should be wearing it,” Ana Maria reasoned. She couldn’t resist reaching out to stroke the gown, its thin fabric a silky whisper under her fingers. “I want to begin as I mean to go on, and I won’t hide at the corner of ballrooms, embarrassed about my past.” Even though that would be my preference. “If I am to make my way in this world as it seems you and everyone else who knows me wants me to, I will do it my way—wearing beautiful gowns, unashamed of my past and my heritage, and if someone does not like that, then I do not want them in my life.”
Bold words from a woman who had only recently begun to be bold. Begin as you mean to go on.
“You’re going to look absolutely spectacular in this,” Jane warned. “I just hope you’re up to the challenge.”
“I am,” Ana Maria promised, vowing to herself as much as to her maid.
She was not, as she soon discovered, up to the challenge.
Ana Maria stood at the entrance to the ballroom, her cousin Thaddeus at her side, holding her breath as she surveyed the crowd.
So many people, none of whom she knew. Of course not, how would she have met them? Unless they accidentally stumbled into the duchess’s kitchen when she was sweeping the ashes from the stove. And even then they would have looked over her head, or anywhere but at her, since she was clearly a lowly servant and they were—well, they were the cream of Society. People who wouldn’t have the first idea of what to do with a stove, much less how to clean it.
First you had to assemble your tools: a brush, a dustpan, a piece of cloth destined for the garbage. Then you had to clean from the back forward, using patience to collect all the ashes and scrape the stuck-on bits.
Thoughts that would no longer be of use to her. Now she needed to know how to sweep into a room, not sweep out a stove.
It was just far more intimidating than a pile of ashes. Though far less dirty.
The room was enormous, cleared of all furniture except for the chairs that lined the walls and a large table that held a sparkling bright punch bowl, filled with some sort of enticing pinkish-red beverage.
The musicians sat on a raised dais diagonally to the right of where Ana Maria and Thaddeus stood while footmen weaved in and around the crowd bearing massive silver salvers holding champagne glasses. The music had just stopped, and Ana Maria could hear the low chatter of people exchanging pleasantries. Or gossip that would shred someone’s reputation in a single whispered word.
“Breathe,” Thaddeus commanded.
“Perhaps I can give a short lecture on stove management,” Ana Maria muttered. The thought made her chuckle, which then had the effect of forcing her to breathe.
“Pardon?” Thaddeus said.
She shook her head. “Nothing. Just working on breathing.” As you ordered.
Thaddeus had, until recently, been in command of an army regiment, and still spoke as though everyone was serving under him. Of course, now that he was a duke, that behavior was entirely warranted, so perhaps there was no need for him to change.
“Good,” Thaddeus said.
“The Duke of Hasford, Lady Ana Maria Dutton,” the butler announced.
And then all the breath whooshed right out of her again as everyone in the ballroom turned, as if on command, to look at them.
To look at her.
She tightened her grip on Thaddeus’s arm and stepped into the ballroom, an imperious expression she’d stolen from the late duchess on her face.
Nash stood within arm’s length of the punch bowl, even though the punch was barely drinkable. What with not being brandy and all. His grandmother was seated just behind him, and he was annoyingly aware of her every movement.
After a nap, she’d descended into his office and badgered Robert Carstairs, his secretary, and one of his numerous half siblings, into handing over all of the invitations that Nash normally declined.
She’d insisted they attend a ball that very evening, even though he’d had plans to—well, do what he usually did. Eat dinner, then go out for hours to stride about London, steadfastly avoiding anyone who might recognize him. If he was lucky, he’d stumble into a situation requiring he use his fists to right a wrong and then return home in the wee hours of the morning, exhausted and bloody.
It kept his demons at bay.
But he couldn’t very well tell his grandmother any of that. For one thing, it would reveal that he shared some of his father’s . . . tendencies, though Nash worked like the devil to control them. And now he had a purpose so he could prevent someone who apparently did not control them from inheriting the title when he was gone.
Which was why he looked like a gentleman who would far rather drink punch than throw one.
“That one looks tolerable,” she said, poking him with her infernal cane, then raising it to point toward a lady who was nodding and smiling at some sod who looked as though he actually liked getting dressed like this.
She was medium height, medium build, and wearing a gown in pristine white, her blond hair drawn up with a few curls spiraling to her ears.
As he perused her, she happened to glance over at him, her eyes widening as their gazes met. And then she arched one perfect eyebrow and her lips curled int
o a faint smile, and he could practically see the wheels churning—I’ve caught the eye of a duke. Because there was no possibility she would offer him that look based just on his appearance. He knew he was too tall, too broad, and too scowling. Not to mention his hands kept moving up to tug on his far-too-tight neckcloth.
“No.”
“And why not?” His grandmother’s tone made it sound as though he was refusing a sweet, not the person he might possibly spend the rest of his life with.
Though he didn’t want to care about his potential life companion nearly as much as he would a sweet. And if the option was a glass of fine brandy?
Well, he’d take the alcohol every time.
“I could reconsider.” He hadn’t entirely thought this all through yet, had he? His grandmother wanted him to marry, to produce children, so that Mr. John Davies of the Violent Tendencies wouldn’t inflict the family’s particular affliction onto the title. He hadn’t thought much—or at all—about marriage before, except to know he didn’t want it, because the only example he’d ever seen was fraught with tears and angry blows, ending with a mother who’d deserted her only child because the alternative was likely death at the hands of her husband.
But since it seemed he had to marry, he should marry someone he didn’t feel any emotion toward. Someone he could tolerate. Someone, he thought, he could live apart from, once they’d ensured the succession. That would be the ideal situation—a wife who lived her own life while he lived his, neither of them bothering about the other. Neither of them caring enough about the other to incite violence.
The blonde in the distance? The one with the raised eyebrow and the faint smile? The one whose appearance was pleasant enough?
Tall, Duke, and Dangerous Page 2