THE DEFIANT LADY
Page 3
The Duchess’s mouth formed into a tight line of disdain. “You fish?”
Ivy was used to scrutiny. In ballet lessons, eyes were always on her. Every step she took had to be precise, her body in perfect form. Any mistake would be pointed out immediately and without hesitation. After Ivy became used to that type of close examination, she knew how to perform under pressure. She employed that skill now, glad that some part of her past could be of use in this new, strange life.
“I used to fish, Your Grace,” Ivy lied. “When I was younger. I do not anymore.”
The Duchess’s eyes raked over Ivy, searching for the truth. “Fishing is not ladylike. You will put your mind to learning other more useful skills now, and eventually you will have something to offer a husband.”
“Fan waving and polite conversation? Will that prove my value?” Ivy shot out sarcastically, unable to keep silent. In France, men loved women of witty intelligence, but it seemed in England that any stamp of originality was rubbed out at birth.
The Duchess lashed out in contempt, “Right now, young lady, you do not have anything to offer as a high society wife. You have no wealth, no breeding and no feminine accomplishments to your name. What man of quality would ever think to offer for you?”
Ivy’s eyes flashed dark green in anger as she rose. “I cannot change my breeding or my wealth. My mother thought it was more important to cultivate a strong mind and character than learn how to paint. One thing I do have is pride. I would not care even if you were Queen of England, I will not sit here and allow you to lecture me on circumstance.” Ivy stormed out, leaving Willow alone with the Duchess.
“Your sister has quite the temper,” the Duchess said finally.
“Yes, she does.” Willow looked at the Duchess with uncertainty.
The Duchess arched a brow. “I think she may survive London after all.”
Chapter III
Paris, France, March of 1815
“Would you like another cup of tea, dear?”
Emily smiled at her aunt and replied, “Thank you, Aunt Mildred. Another cup would be lovely.”
Even though Mildred made her home in Paris, she was still quite English at heart, and Emily loved staying with her when she visited. After all, Mildred lived in a fashionable district and in a luxurious townhouse that was decorated in vibrant colors.
“I am so glad you are here, Emily.”
“You are my favorite aunt, and I am glad I came to visit.”
Mildred patted her silver hair and said with a wink, “Especially since you are going to be a married woman soon. I will, of course, travel to England to see you wed. I cannot wait to see you married in all of London’s splendor.”
“I am excited to begin the wedding preparations.”
She did not mention to her aunt that the engagement had yet to run in The Times, high society’s way of announcing betrothals, but she was confident that it would all go off without a hitch.
“You must speak to my modiste. She has the ability to design you the most splendid wedding gown. Every girl who sees you will want one just like it. You will be a sensation!”
Emily smiled to herself, and her mind began to wander. She would become a countess. She tried to remain humble, but it was difficult, especially when she thought of her friends back in England. Neither Mathilda nor Alyssa were engaged yet and the letters she received from them were bland, with no interesting information whatsoever. She pitied them. After all, they were not nearly as beautiful as she was, nor were their fathers as wealthy as hers. He was only a baron, but Emily had class and wealth enough to attract the Earl of Stanton. No doubt her friends would marry men of lesser titles with modest wealth.
The thought of her new dress brought her back to conversation. “I would love to meet your modiste, Aunt Mildred.”
***
Hampshire, England
Cy read the note from the Dowager Duchess of Cavehill, requesting a meeting immediately. Though it was vague, Cy knew the letter concerned the unresolved debt between their families. He penned a quick reply and gave it to his waiting footman.
He called at two in the afternoon, ready to inform the Duchess of his impending marriage, and to assure her that the money owed would be in her hands in less than a fortnight.
Benson, the Duchess’s butler, led Cy to an intimate salon where he admired the rich elegance of the room. When the Duchess entertained, though she had not done so in a few years, no expense was spared; the woman had immaculate taste.
The Duchess rose from her seat when Cy entered, her bearing straight and her mostly silver hair arranged into a neat bun. She was still quite young, he realized.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice, Stanton,” the Duchess greeted, her intelligent gaze sliding over his muscled form and height.
“It is my pleasure, Your Grace.” He sat and crossed his long legs, waiting for the Duchess to explain why she wanted him to call on her.
“I would like to speak plainly, if I may.” Cy nodded in agreement and she went on, “There is an outstanding debt incurred by your father that now rests on your shoulders. I am willing to forgo repayment in full on one condition: you marry my granddaughter.”
Cy schooled his face into a blank slate, even though his heart skipped a beat and then resumed a steady rhythm. “I did not know you had a granddaughter.”
The Duchess sighed. “I have two. My son had a Parisian mistress that he kept hidden and fathered two children with her.”
Cy’s mind reeled. It was unusual for anyone in their class to admit to skeletons in the family closet, especially to someone not considered friend or confidant.
“My eldest granddaughter, Ivy Sinclair, wrote me weeks ago asking for my assistance. She and her sister were living in Paris, training to become prima ballerinas. Not long ago, their mother died unexpectedly, and because they have no other living relatives, I sent for them.”
“How generous of you. Why are you taking me into your confidence? This is a private family matter.”
She folded her hands in her lap. “As you well know, I have not pressed you for full repayment. I simply do not need the money. Marry Ivy and I will relinquish the debt and provide her with a dowry.”
His eyes narrowed. Her granddaughter must be a spiteful shrew, he thought unkindly. Why else would the Duchess offer her granddaughter to him, willingly volunteer to clear the debt and bestow a dowry?
“I am engaged to Miss Emily Fitzgerald,” Cy stated. The ink was barely dry on the contract, but it was an engagement nonetheless. He would not rescind; he was no scoundrel.
The Duchess stared at him in disbelief. “Then why have I not seen an announcement?”
Touché, he thought. “It has only just been settled,” he averred.
“Do you care for Miss Fitzgerald?” the Duchess asked pointedly.
Cy’s face remained impassive. “I fail to see how that is any of your concern, nor does it matter.”
Surprisingly, the Duchess cackled and responded, “Your deflection answered my question. I loved my husband. We were the darling set of society. Our relationship, though unusual, was envied by all.”
“What makes you think I would marry a woman I have not even met?” Cy inquired, skipping over the topic of love. Love was not a necessity, not for his marriage. More so, in his circle, love was mentioned in the same breath as the lost city of Atlantis.
The Duchess inclined her head. “Miss Fitzgerald may be lovely, but she will bore you. Are you marrying her for her dowry?”
“My reasons for marriage do not concern you, Your Grace,” he answered in a clipped tone. “Did your husband ever tell you why he lent my father money?”
She shrugged elegantly. “I did not ask William about his affairs. All I knew was that a large sum exchanged hands. After William died, I discovered from the family solicitor how large the debt had grown from lack of payments on interest.”
Cy smiled without humor. “Ah, of course. You can thank my father for that.”
“At what cost?” Cy brooded. “You are trying to seek a title for your illegitimate granddaughter. Are you trying to buy her way into society? Is she not pleasing to look upon, or perhaps she is a harpy with a vicious streak? Surely there must be someone else who is indebted to you so that you can shackle one of your granddaughters to another titled man, or am I so far in debt that you think I have no other choice?”
The Duchess’s face darkened in anger. “Are you so exceedingly cold and cynical that you would marry a woman merely for her dowry? If that is all you desire, then why not marry Ivy, or do you also wish for your wife to have noble blood? Miss Fitzgerald is the daughter of a lowly baron. Ivy is the granddaughter of a duke, Stanton! The Cavehill line is old and prestigious. Your children can have everything that was meant for them. Your future will be secure. The debt will be cleared, and two powerful families will finally have an alliance.”
“You cannot simply buy me, Your Grace. I still have a sense of pride,” Cy stated very quietly, his gaze level. “And I highly doubt you are overjoyed to have two reminders of your son’s indiscretions living under your roof.”
The Duchess flinched as though Cy had reached out and slapped her. “What I feel for my granddaughters is none of your concern. I, too, have pride. You are entitled to yours. I am giving you an out, Stanton. Why not take it? I am not unfeeling towards your plight.
“Your father was not shrewd with financial matters, but pride never entered his mind when he thought of asking my husband for money to save the land and estate that has become your inheritance.”
She was presumptuous and self-righteous, but she was correct. Damn the woman! Cy thought irritably.
“At least meet Ivy before you dismiss the idea of marrying her. You will see she is neither homely, nor mean spirited.”
Cy sighed and finally relented to the battle of wills. “As you wish, Your Grace. I will meet your granddaughter.” It would do no harm, though he doubted he would be swayed from his course of marrying Miss Fitzgerald.
The Duchess rang her brass bell, and a moment later a maid entered. “Please bring Miss Ivy to the salon.” The maid curtsied and left. “Miss Fitzgerald does not have the fire you need, Stanton. Your life will be dull and empty with her as your wife.”
Cy’s mouth quirked in amusement. “And your granddaughter is…?”
Before the Duchess could reply, a musical voice asked from the doorway, “You requested my presence, Your Grace?”
Turning slowly, the breath left Cy’s lungs. The woman who stood at the entrance to the salon was simply stunning. She was petite with flawless, porcelain skin, high cheekbones and emerald green eyes that gazed at him speculatively. Her hair was a mass of molten, titian waves that fell all the way to the middle of her back. Cy’s gray eyes roved appreciatively over her, settled for a moment on her plush, pink lips and then drifted back to her face. He rose immediately, unfolding his long frame from his seat.
She was staring at him with nothing more than courteous interest, and suddenly he wished to see her eyes darken with passion. He was completely caught off guard by his own desire.
“Ivy, this is our neighbor, the Earl of Stanton,” the Duchess introduced plainly.
Ivy turned to him and fell into a graceful curtsy. He crossed to her, took her hand in his and kissed it. She rose, and craned her neck to look at him. She was so delicate, and he was well over six feet. He towered over her, enjoying the hesitancy in her eyes, as if she did not know what to make of him. Though she obviously attempted to conceal her emotions, she did not win the conflict. She was so expressive, and he enjoyed the fact that she did not appear aloof. Instantly, he knew she was not like other young ladies her age that simpered and acted coy.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, My Lord,” she murmured.
“Miss Sinclair, your grandmother has told me such wonderful things about you.” He noticed her disbelieving glance in the Duchess’s direction, and raised a mocking eyebrow.
Ivy responded glibly, “Her Grace is the epitome of hospitality and generosity.”
“How is your dance lesson coming along?” the Duchess interjected quickly.
“Well. It is one area where I excel. If you will excuse me, I would like to get back to it.” Ivy curtsied again and then left in a swish of blue muslin.
Cy leisurely turned back to the Duchess and began to smile slowly. “I should have given you more credit, Your Grace. You missed your calling. You could have been an agent against Napoleon for all your skill in battle.”
The Duchess raised her eyebrows and inclined her head in salute. “She is spirited, Stanton. It must be a quality of their mother. Her sister, though different in appearance, shares some of the same characteristics.”
“Dear God,” Cy breathed. “I forgot there was another one. Why did you insist that I meet Ivy and not her sister?”
The Duchess spoke candidly, “Willow will no doubt enjoy the excitement of courting in London, and as beautiful and charming as she is, she will have no lack of suitors, but Willow accidently divulged that Ivy would much prefer to fish than wave a fan. She needs to be with a man that appreciates pluck, Stanton. Ivy is headstrong and willful, but she listens to reason. Do not let the circumstances of her birth sway your decision. I saw the way you reacted to her. Given some time, I believe you will both come to an agreement that suits us all.”
Cy looked at the Duchess with skepticism. “Will your granddaughter agree to my suit?”
The Duchess set her cup of tea down and said, “I have made it quite clear that the girls will marry in accordance with my wishes, but I have not informed Ivy of my decision to make a match between the two of you.”
They stared at each other for a long moment. Finally Cy nodded and said, “I will extract myself from Miss Fitzgerald post haste. However, I want a few weeks, perhaps even a month with Miss Sinclair so that we might get to know each other.”
“As you wish. I am throwing a ball for the girls in May to introduce them to the rest of our neighbors. You will of course be in attendance.”
“I would not miss it. I am sure it will be a most diverting evening,” he replied politely.
***
Paris, France
Emily gripped her hands tightly to keep from reaching for one of Aunt Mildred’s small glass figurines on the fireplace mantle. She wanted nothing more than to pick one up and throw it against the wall and hear its fragile body shatter.
The Earl of Stanton had broken their engagement, and she did not have the faintest idea why. I am beautiful, well-bred and would make any man a perfect wife, she thought loftily. Yet here she was, sitting in Aunt Mildred’s drawing room hearing from her father that her betrothed had cried off, tossing her aside like rotting vegetable one throws out with the refuse.
There had been no repercussions.
“Em, kitten, you must look at the bright side,” her father soothed, ignoring her glare. “At least he broke the engagement off before it was announced. No one has to know.”
“Why did you come here?” she demanded angrily. “I could just as easily have read about it in one of your letters.”
He sighed. “I had business to attend to, and I thought it only fitting to be the bearer of bad news in person.”
“Perhaps if we had immediately sent the announcement to The Times none of this would have happened! You claim he is a gentleman, but no gentleman would do this! He is a lying, deceitful coward! This is your fault!”
Fitzgerald shook his head regretfully. “Now Emily, you do not know all the reasons behind his decision. Marriage is a business, my dear. You will see, when you are engaged to someone with an even greater title. Trust me. I will find you someone else. Would you like that?”
She crossed her arms and seethed as her father rose and swiftly retreated.
Finally succumbing to her rage, she picked up one of her aunt’s delicate glass swan collectibles and threw it against the wall as hard as she could. It gave a resounding crash, but did nothing to appease her anger.
Chapter IV
Hampshire, England
A few ready-made outfits, including riding habits for Willow and Ivy were delivered the day before to the Duchess’s home. Willow had jabbered excitedly while holding up different gowns, marveling at the expense and construct. Ivy was glad to have a riding habit. Ever since she stepped foot in England, she had been relegated to the confines of the manor. She yearned for the freedom of galloping across the countryside on the back of a mount. She had chances to ride outside Paris in her very limited spare time, and she had loved every minute of it. The feeling of air being forced into her lungs and the wind whipping through her hair while galloping on a fast mare made her feel alive and carefree.
The late winter morning was unusually sunny as Ivy made her way to the stables. She was impressed by the choices of mounts and horses, and chose a spirited gray mare with snowy white feet named Moonlight.
“I shall saddle her right away for you, Miss Ivy,” the groom said.
Ivy shook her head. “That will not be necessary.” She took the reins from the groom and quickly mounted the horse despite her cumbersome green skirts.
The groom was scandalized. “You cannot ride without a saddle!”
Ivy grinned at the younger man’s wide eyes and astonished face.
“I can and I will,” she said confidently. “I have spent many hours cultivating such a skill. I can control a mount perfectly well while riding this way.” She would not have every freedom renounced. She refused to give up all the things she loved, and would not forget the girl she used to be. She practiced ballet at night in the privacy of her room, but without a real bar and studio, it felt sloppy.