“Come, help me dress, Suzanne. I am going out,” Dahlia turned toward the door to her rooms.
“I will join you shortly,” Aaron said. “Just let me put on my boots and jacket.”
“Oh, My Lady,” Suzanne gasped, “Your arm! We should put something on it right away. Vinegar and brown paper is supposed to be good for bruises.”
“It is all right, Suzanne,” Dahlia said. “Really, I can’t go about smelling like a pickle.”
“Let me ring for some tea, then,” Suzanne pleaded.
“Thank you, Suzanne,” Dahlia soothed. “Thank you, but just help me dress. And no heavy stays, please. I need to walk, I need some air.”
“Of course, my Lady.” Suzanne busied herself finding a comfortable walking dress, a warm cape and a bonnet that would shade her lady’s face from the sun.
Dahlia restrained her emotions while being dressed. She managed to remain calm while being attired in her petticoats and the walking dress. But when she sat down at her dressing table to have her hair done. She could bear it no longer. She put her forehead down on the cool marble and let the tears flow.
“Oh, my Lady,” Suzanne said, gently smoothing back the heavy golden curls.
“I can’t bear it, Suzanne,” Dahlia sobbed. “How can my father expect me to marry such a man?”
Suzanne did not comment, just smoothed Dahlia’s hair as if she were a child.
“I’m sorry, Suzanne,” Dahlia sat up, gaining control of herself, “How can you possibly dress my hair when I’m acting like a demented ostrich?”
“I will fetch the rosewater, my Lady, then we will make you fine for walking out with your brother.”
This is madness. I am trapped. I am as constrained as a slave, and I can see no way out.
Chapter 8
At the last house on his list, the Duke of Shelthom was assured of an entrance.
Aaron Lovell, the Marquess of Bochil was on the list of people given to him by Jeremy. Roger had sent a footman around the previous evening and had received back word that the Marquess would see him this day. Roger gave his card to the butler and was shown to the small parlor just off the main entry.
The room was well appointed. It was not so fine as some Roger had seen. The wall coverings were hand-stamped linen in an understated blue-tone floral design. Deep wine-colored drapes, matching deep blue sofas and chairs and a thick worn Persian carpet made for a gloomy setting. A freshly ignited fire crackled in the small fireplace and brightened up the chamber.
The butler announced, “Aaron Lovell, Marquess of Bochil and his sister, Lady Dahlia Lovell.”
Roger stared. She is the loveliest thing I have ever seen. Fortune be hanged, this is the woman I would like to marry.
* * *
Dahlia paused on the threshold of the small, downstairs drawing room. She and Aaron were about to make good their escape from the house, when the butler announced that Aaron had a morning guest.
“Dash it all!” Aaron exclaimed. “I quite forgot that the Duke of Shelthom sent his man around last night to ask if he could call on me. This should not take long.”
“I will come with you, if I may,” Dahlia said. “Do you mind?”
“I do not mind,” Aaron said, “Although it is likely to be deucedly dull. Shelthom has been living rather fast for the last two years, and no doubt has come with some scheme or other to recover himself.”
“I would rather stay near you,” Dahlia said. “I would just as lief give Lord Goldstone little opportunity for a tête-à-tête.”
“Hmmm,” Aaron grunted by way of comment. “Very well, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Now, Dahlia paused on the threshold. The man standing in the drawing room was tall, broad shouldered and sported a long scar on one cheek. His brown hair was tied back neatly with a black ribbon. His coat, although not quite in the current style, was neat, well-brushed and pressed. It fit him closely, but not in a way to confine his movements. His neckcloth and collar, while not of an extreme mode, were nicely arranged and were snowy white. His pantaloons were soft tan leather that molded to his thighs in the most amazing sort of way, and his boots were polished to a high gloss.
He was, in short, every inch the gentleman.
When the butler announced Dahlia and Aaron, and the Duke of Shelthom turned to face them, Dahlia liked him right away.
He has a boyish face in spite of the scar, not so very different from Aaron’s. But he seems tired and a little distressed.
The Duke shook hands cordially with her brother, then turned to her, accepting her hand to kiss. Then he stopped, still holding her hand, and appeared stunned. She had never seen such a look on any man as dawned on his face then.
“Why, I do believe we have nearly met,” Roger said.
It was all she could do not to gape at him. “Whatever do you mean, Your Grace?” she stammered, looking into clear blue eyes that gazed into hers, unwaveringly.
“As I was riding into town yesterday, the sun broke through the clouds and illuminated the most animated scene. A lovely Diana was playing ball with her handmaidens,” said the Duke of Shelthom.
“Oh, dear!” Lady Dahlia laughed, her face growing hot with embarrassment. “Your Grace, what you must think of me. My sisters and I often take the air in Green Park in the afternoons.”
“Your sisters. They must have been the young ladies who were also tossing the ball. You are very good at catching, but the smaller one is not quite so good at tossing.” The Duke watched her with that strangely attentive expression.
Dahlia laughed again, trying to cover her confusion. No one had ever spoken to her this way before, not during her entire four seasons in London. “Violet is enthusiastic, but her aim is far from true. Rose has better aim but is so careful her throws often fall short.”
Oh, dear, what he must think of me, romping with my sisters so.
The Duke then said slowly, “Dahlia, Violet, Rose…you all have flower names.”
Oh, no, not that again. Lady Dahlia nearly rolled her eyes, but then caught herself. “Yes, Your Grace. Our mother was fond of flowers and spent most of her time retreating to her solar. The place was full of them.”
“It must have been a lovely place.” The Duke’s eyes still had not left her face. It was more than a little disconcerting.
What do I say now? Where do I look? Hands. It is always maidenly to look down. I can look at my hands. “It was, my Lord. It has been sadly neglected since she passed away.”
“I am sorry to hear that she is no longer with us, my Lady,” said the Duke of Shelthom. “It is very difficult to lose your mother.”
The sadness in his voice caught Dahlia’s attention. “Your Grace, you speak as one who knows such a loss.”
The Duke swallowed hard. “Yes, My Lady,” he said, struggling to get a grip on his emotions. Poor man. No wonder he seems so sad.
“I am so sorry, Your Grace,” Dahlia said softly, feeling her eyes fill with sympathetic tears.
For the first time since Dahlia and Aaron entered the room, the Duke of Shelthom turned to look into the fire. Aaron donned his mantle as host, and it was as Lord Bochil that he cleared his throat, and spoke quickly, “Sir, you came to see me, I believe.”
So focused was she that she paid no attention to the conversation between her brother and his guest until the Duke of Shelthom said, “Lady Dahlia, do you object to this plan?”
Dahlia shook herself, turning her eyes his face and registering his words. “It sounds like a lovely plan, Your Grace,” she said, “But let us go walking in Hyde Park. It is nearer the market.” And a place where Goldstone is not likely to come looking for me.
Aaron looked at his sister thoughtfully. “It is rather farther along than Green Park,” he commented. “Perhaps we should go riding, instead. I can lend you a hack, Shelthom, if you did not bring transport.”
“I have my curricle,” the Duke of Shelthom said. “If she is willing, I could take the lady up in that.”
Befor
e her brother could demure, Dahlia said quickly, “Oh, could you, Your Grace? I have always admired a high stepping pair. Perhaps you could show me their paces.”
Aaron quirked an eyebrow at his little sister, but all he said was, “Very well. I’ll send for my horse.”
* * *
Although the hour was advanced, the morning was still fine, and the Duke’s pair of strawberry roans pranced along at a fine pace, almost as if on parade. Duke Shelthom handled the lines delicately, taking the corners circumspectly and not displaying any of the extravagant moves often shown off by young whips. Aaron rode alongside the curricle.
“They are a very fine pair, Your Grace,” Dahlia said.
“Thank you, my Lady,” the Duke replied. “They are a pair of two-year-olds, bred from my own stables. I am at a standstill, now, however. For I cannot breed them back into any of the lines I now own.”
“Would you, if you could, Your Grace?” she asked.
“I would,” he said. “They are both excellent little mares. High-steppers with good spring action to their hocks, steady and stable in the traces.”
The conversation languished then for a few blocks. “What do you plan to buy at the market?” the Duke asked.
“Just some ribbons and lace, Your Grace. My sister, Rose, will have a birthday soon and will have her coming out not long after. I plan to make some nosegay holders and a fan or two for her to use during the Season.” Dahlia felt her face growing warm again.
“I see,” the Duke commented, “I wonder that so lovely a young woman as yourself is still unattached.”
“Oh, as to that,” Dahlia said with studied carelessness, “I am holding out for the perfect husband, Your Grace.”
“Hmmm,” said the Duke of Shelthom. “So, what are your criteria, My Lady?”
“Nothing too strenuous, Your Grace. Someone I can talk to, who will talk to me as if I have the ability to think and express myself. Someone who is not too old to enjoy a bit of fun.”
“You are not holding out for a fortune, then, Lady Dahlia?” The Duke had that odd look on his face again.
“No, not really.” Dahlia considered the question. “I will have a small inheritance from my mother when I am of age, and I have taken good care to learn a little of business matters from my brother and governess. I am not ambitious, Your Grace, but my father might hold out for a man of substance.” And dear gods, he has chosen one for me that I hold in greatest repugnance.
They rode a little farther in companionable silence. The Duke seemed to be lost in thought. Dahlia tipped her bonnet back so that she could enjoy the movement of the air and the feel of the sun on her skin. She watched the Duke out of the corner of her eye. He seemed to have his attention fixed gravely on the behavior of the pair, as well he might for the traffic in the area was becoming heavier.
Before either of them could think of anything more to say, they had reached the market. The Duke carefully handed her down out of the carriage. He and her brother paid two stable lads to walk the horses up and down and to water them while they escorted Dahlia on her shopping expedition.
Dahlia was quick with her shopping. She wanted to have more time to talk with the Duke, to learn more about him before they had to return home. In less than half the hour she acquired several colors of ribbon, some spools of lace, and a bouquet of embroidery silks. These she would put to good use in preparing gifts for both her sisters, for even though Violet was not to come out this season, she also had a birthday coming up.
While she shopped, her brother and the handsome Duke seemed to have some business to discuss. Observing that they had their heads close together and were engaged in what appeared to be a serious conversation, she examined some seeds, a stall of spices and a shawl which she had no intention of buying, but it whiled away the time until her brother and Duke Shelthom concluded their conference.
At length, her brother said, “That would probably work.” Aaron then strode toward her, leaving the Duke standing beside a rack of fine leather harnesses. “Dahlia, sister-mine, is your shopping done?”
“Done and more.” She smiled back at him. “Have you and the Duke repaired the fortunes of London and restored wits to the king?”
“Nothing so productive as all that.” Her brother laughed, “But well enough for now. We must be heading back lest our father take exception to your avoiding Goldstone.”
“Am I so obvious as that?” Dahlia asked.
Aaron shook his head, “Only to me. And I will keep your secret safe.”
“Thank you. Oh, Aaron, whatever shall I do? I have no wish to marry Goldstone. And…” Dahlia dropped her head and blushed.
“And you are developing a regard for the Duke, who is a fine fellow but is a trifle cucumberish, which will not set well with our father,” Aaron commented in a low voice.
“I thought I was being circumspect,” Dahlia whispered, glancing toward the Duke, who was now examining a set of wine glasses at a stall close by seemingly with no intent to buy, ostentatiously not listening to the brother and sister.
“When your face lights up like a sunset whenever he speaks to you? Hardly, sister. But have no fear, I will keep that secret, too.”
“Lord Bochil, you are the best of brothers.” Dahlia smiled up at Aaron.
“And you are my favorite little sister. Dahlia, we shall find a way to come about meritoriously. But we need to return home before it is time for afternoon tea.”
Indeed, the sun was well over the yardarm when Duke Shelthom pulled up in front of the Cottleroy’ townhouse. Dahlia curtsied prettily to him, her heart beating very fast. It had been such a lovely afternoon. She hoped that there would be a chance to enjoy another soon.
But that hope was dashed as soon as the butler opened the door for her, and she was met by her father. One glance at his face was enough to know that Cottleroy was in a towering rage.
Chapter 9
The Duke of Shelthom would have liked to ride home in a delicious reverie, thinking back over the past few hours. It had been a long while since he had spent so pleasant an afternoon.
Lady Dahlia was an incredibly lovely young lady, yet she seemed completely unaware of it. She did not simper or flirt, even though she colored up prettily when he spoke to her, as if she was fresh out of the school room instead of having four London seasons behind her.
His team, however, had chosen this time to misbehave and were dancing about as if every stray bit of newspaper was a wolf about to devour them. With great relief, he gave them into the care of their groom.
The horses’ antics hadn’t quite driven away the vision of golden curls, bright blue eyes under naturally shaped brows and translucent skin that blushed so readily. But, watching the horses brought him down to earth. Whatever had he been thinking these last two years? The team was beautiful and well-bred. But they’d clearly not been exercised enough if only an hour or two of gentle driving and being walked by a well-trained stable lad had them acting like two spooked cats.
The front hall table was a further dampener on his mood. There was a card or two in response to his morning visits. The cards were flanked by a tall stack of what were unmistakably bills. He thumbed through them quickly: coal and kindling for the kitchen, the green grocer, the butcher, and fodder for the stables.
There was one letter, however, that puzzled him. It was from his old commander and stamped with an unmistakably official seal.
Roger picked up the odd letter and the stack of bills, intending to retire to the study with them, when the butler approached him.
“Your Grace, there is a strange man waiting for you in the small withdrawing room. He says that he will only speak to you. He left that letter, there. The one in your hand.” The butler waited expectantly, as if sure that the stranger would be invited to leave.
“I know him,” Roger said. “It is quite all right, I will see him. Which room is he in?”
“The little withdrawing room just off the dining room, Your Grace.” The butler made it clear w
ith his stiff posture and blank servant face that he felt the visitor deserved no better.
The Duke of Shelthom hastened toward the little withdrawing room. He completely ignored the butler, flung open the door and cried out, “Major! How very good to see you.”
“And very good to see you, too, Captain Kingman. No, that’s Duke Shelthom, now, isn’t it?”
“Well, it is, but not by design. Well met, sir, well met! How are you faring these days?”
“Can’t really complain, Your Lordship. No, confound it, that’s not right. Your Grace, isn’t it?”
The Hazardous Gamble of the Alluring Duchess: A Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 5