Scandalous Lords and Courtship

by Mary Lancaster

  “There,” Augusta said at the end of their third attempt. “If your partner is an excellent lead, I believe you know enough to fake it.”

  “Thank you!” Marigold threw her arms around her cousin. “I had worried so much about embarrassing Nicholas and Priscilla.”

  The clock chimed the top of the hour, and before long, the others would return home.

  “I must tell you something,” Augusta said. “There is a gentleman who I think will make me an offer soon.”

  “My congratulations.” Marigold beamed.

  “And when we are wed, I want you to live with me.”

  “Oh,” Marigold looked at her hands. She had thought when her cousins married they would hire new staff or take one of the current maids. “I do not wish to take a position from Becky or Ruth,” she answered.

  “No, not as a servant!” Augusta chided. “I would introduce you into Society. I have not protected you as I ought—no, do not defend my cowardice. When I am mistress of my own home, I can ensure you have the placement you deserve.”

  The sound of a carriage in the drive signaled the end of the tête-à-tête.

  “Tell me you will consider it,” Augusta said.

  Marigold nodded and dashed to the kitchen. She had never believed that she might be rescued from her position in Nicholas and Priscilla’s household.

  Emotions swirled in her breast for the remainder of the day. Dare she hope for a better life? How terrifying. This home was all she had known. Then, she heard Douglas’s voice in her mind, telling her to consider the adventure. She had never wanted to be in Society, but she would relish the freedom from degradation. On the other hand, there was a whole world of rules and expectations about connections. Would accepting her cousin’s hospitality end her friendship with Douglas? Marigold dared not even think of the M word.

  The morning and afternoon of the ball passed in a flurry of activity. Despite the days of practicing hairstyles and perfecting accessories, Priscilla ordered her daughters to be remade from head to toe several times. They had settled for masques of feathers. Blue for Augusta, purple for Edith, peacock for Priscilla.

  At last, they were dressed and prepared with just enough time remaining for Marigold to dash upstairs and hastily dress. Her attire was nothing compared to the finery her cousins wore, but so far above her usual clothing that she felt like a princess. Having no mask, Becky managed to make some face paint. Marigold loved the final effect. She looked like herself, only enhanced.

  Dottie cried when she came up to peek at Marigold. “You look so much like your mother!”

  Beaming, Marigold was sure she had been paid no higher compliment. Spirits high, and hoping for a stolen dance or moment with Douglas, she rushed down the stairs to her waiting family.

  “Come along,” Nicholas said, and left for the carriage.

  Marigold hung back, used to leaving last. Augusta squeezed her hand as she passed.

  “Just a moment, Edith,” Priscilla called as her younger daughter began to leave after giving Marigold a dirty look. “We must help your cousin with her costuming.”

  Begrudgingly, Edith turned back.

  “See here,” Priscilla flicked one of Marigold’s sleeves. “Masquerades call for Van Dyck. We should see the chemise underneath.”

  “Allow me to help,” Edith said with feverish glee. She launched for Marigold’s sleeve and ripped it off.

  A gasp tore from Marigold’s lips, and she stepped backward, but Priscilla grabbed her arm.

  “Those are my pins,” she said about the jeweled hair pins Becky had rescued from the rubbish bin, and yanked them from Marigold’s hair.

  “And my beads!” Edith wrenched away the delicate glass beads that trimmed Marigold’s neckline.

  They continued to rip and tear at embellishments, not caring that the thin fabric, so in style twenty years before, tore under their violence. In no time at all, Marigold’s dress looked utterly indecent to wear in public. Nicholas’s voice called from the entry, and they pushed Marigold aside. Relieved to be free of their clutches, she ran through the connecting doors to the dining room and out into the garden, sobbing.

  ***

  Douglas paced his grandmother’s ballroom. Strike that. He paced his ballroom. There was no going back now. No hiding in the Highlands and pretending he did not exist. His blue blood had found him at last. While he had expected to feel tortured at this occasion, he realized peace. Douglas could still recall Marigold’s wise words and feel the softness of her lips, the taste of her mouth.

  No, he was not pacing about the mansion because he could not tolerate the mocking display of hypocrisy. Marigold had convinced him that he could look to the future and forgive the pain of the past. Becoming Duke did not mean he forgot his upbringing or rejected his mother. More than this, Marigold had shown him how he might use his position to help and please others.

  The last few evenings, he had gone out with his grandmother and made acquaintances with the area’s so-called high society. Inverness was not Edinburgh or London, and was remarkably thin when it came to titles and very wealthy gentlemen. While Grandmama had desired Douglas to spend time getting to know Lady Adeline and other ladies she deemed suitable, he had spent time meeting men. First, he wished to amass capitol and interest in his steamship venture. Secondly, he was considering gentlemen who might suit Marigold. Of course, none of them bloody deserved her, but maybe they could make her happy.

  Although his was a masked ball, Douglas was sure he would recognize her anywhere. None of the ladies present had Marigold’s lithe but curved frame or her height. She tucked under his chin so perfectly.

  Her strawberry blonde tresses did not gleam in any of the candlelight. The ladies present moved to entice and draw notice. They danced with sure steps. Marigold had been trained to be unobtrusive, and she didn’t know a single step to a dance.

  Frustration nipped at him. Where was she? He scanned the ballroom again. If her cousin had not brought her, so help him…

  “You seem to be looking for someone, Your Grace,” Sir Stirling said at his side.

  “Do you see Nicholas Kincaid?”

  “I am less likely to find him than you are. You have the advantage of a few inches.” The gentleman chuckled.

  “Aye,” Douglas returned.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement at the door. Trust blasted Kincaid to dare arrive late to the new Duke of Inverness’s ball! One, two, three ladies followed behind. Without conscious thought, Douglas’s legs carried him to the scrawny man in long strides. Hearing steps at his heel, Douglas glanced back to see that Sir Stirling followed.

  “Laird Kincaid,” Sir Stirling said when they reached the group.

  “Sir Stirling,” the man sneered.

  The group peered at Douglas with interest. “Stirling, I do not believe I have met your acquaintances.”

  “Certainly. Inverness, allow me to present Laird Nicholas Kincaid, his wife, and daughters Augusta and Edith.” Sir Stirling addressed Douglas, then turned to the family, who had collectively paled. “Sir, ladies, may I present the Duke of Inverness.”

  Douglas bent just slightly into a bow, his motion jolting the others into returning the civility with far more awe.

  “I understood your cousin would be coming,” Douglas said.

  Given the way Kincaid’s eyes darted around the room, he heard the threatening tone in the Duke’s voice.

  “She felt unwell,” his wife supplied.

  “Lady Kincaid.” Douglas’s gaze snapped to hers, and he had the unholy desire to throttle her, woman or not. He settled for a nod. She beamed at the perceived compliment.

  “Yes, Marigold is forever running ill,” the younger daughter sniffed.

  She scanned Douglas’s attire from head to toe, pausing over specific features, and when her eyes returned to his, desire flamed them. The sheltered maiden would have little knowledge of sexual temptation. She saw riches and his title and practically salivated with lust of a very different s
ort than Douglas had ever known.

  The elder daughter twisted her gloved hands and averted her eyes. Pink tinged her cheeks.

  “Augusta is quite the beauty, is she not?” Lady Kincaid said with a coy glance between him and her daughter. “She is a lively dancer, as well.”

  “Mama, please—” Augusta said.

  “Nonsense, I am sure the Duke would be pleased to dance with you.”

  Feeling he had been pushed into a corner he had neatly avoided the last several nights, he did his duty and requested Augusta Kincaid’s hand in a set.

  “I would be most pleased,” she murmured as her younger sister nudged forward, clearly hopeful of a similar request.

  “And Edith is—”

  “If you will excuse me,” Douglas said before he could be entrapped in another dance. As he brushed past Kincaid, who trembled at the contact, he whispered, “Shall you honor your debt, or shall I inform the world why Miss Marigold really cannot attend?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Douglas walked away. His blood boiled. His mind raced with images of Marigold locked away in the attic or cellar. Not giving a damn about what his guests might say, he hurried to find his butler, James still on his heels.

  “Wilson, call for the carriage.”

  “It is gone.”

  “Gone?” he and James echoed together.

  “Her Grace ordered it some half hour ago.”

  “Take mine,” Sir Stirling said.

  Douglas was unsure why he offered such help, but was grateful for his generosity.

  “Forgive me, sir,” Wilson said. “Your wife has asked for the carriage. I believe she is in the ladies’ withdrawing room. She felt unwell. Should I send a maid?”

  Instantly, Douglas saw the man transform from dangerous knight to doting husband. He began to apologize.

  Douglas held up a hand. “Think nothing of it. See to your wife.”

  As Sir James walked off with the butler, Douglas let out a long exhale. What had he planned to do? Storm over to Kincaid’s house and knock down every door until he found Marigold? Then, what? Bring her to his home and expect no one to say a thing? Her reputation—already damaged if anyone learned the truth of how she had spent the last twenty years—would be ruined. She would never find a suitable husband. No one would believe he had only a friendly interest in her. And they would be right, of course.

  Returning to the ballroom, Douglas was stopped many times for introductions and conversation. When he made it back to the chamber, it was nearly time for his set with Augusta. She danced with a gentleman of modest estate Douglas had met a few nights ago. Even to his untrained eye, they appeared in love. At least, he did not have to worry about the daughter having any hopes of gaining his hand in marriage.

  Douglas could not say the same for nearly any other guest. A middle-aged man and his daughter approached. Taking the bait, he escorted the terrified miss to the dance floor while imagining a different scene. In another world, instead of strangers and awkwardness, warmth and closeness welcomed him. Instead of vacant-headed misses wrapping their arms around his pocketbook, Marigold wrapped her arms around his neck.

  As his dance partner made an identical remark about the ball that five or six other ladies had already mentioned, Douglas reminded himself he was now a duke, and this was his lifestyle. If life in poverty had not destroyed him, neither would this nothingness consume him.

  Chapter Seven

  Marigold buried her face in her hands as she stood in the frigid air. Why, oh why, had she dared to hope? Had she been a stupid ninny to believe in the goodness of others?

  “Why do you cry, miss?”

  The unknown and unexpected voice made Marigold jump. She whirled toward the speaker. An old lady in a ragged cloak approached. The wind tugged at her garments.

  “Come,” Marigold sniffed. “Let us get you inside and warm.” She put her arm around the lady’s shoulder to help support her as they walked.

  Inside the kitchen, Marigold seated the woman near the fire and set water to boil to make tea from used leaves. She sliced up some bread and slathered butter on each slice.

  “Do you have a place to sleep?” Marigold asked the woman.

  “Do not worry about me, child.” The woman leaned forward. “Let me see you.”

  Marigold twisted her hands during the woman’s inspection, but did not flinch.

  “Yes, I see your mother in you.”

  “You knew my mother?” Marigold gasped.

  A tear trickled down the old lady’s cheek. “I was meant to protect you. Forgive me.”

  The woman placed a hand on Marigold’s face. Her fingers and palm were not as rough and weathered as she would have suspected from her outer garments.

  “How did you know my mother?” Marigold asked, staring into the woman’s eyes and feeling as though she had seen them before.

  “I am your godmother. Your mother was my niece, the illegitimate daughter of my brother-in-law.”

  “Oh,” Marigold looked to her hands. Perhaps her mother’s illegitimacy is why her cousins disliked her so much.

  “Your cousin is your legal guardian and would not let me near you, but I have maintained a watchful eye.”

  “Dottie?”

  “Yes. And others.” The woman stood and threw her arms around Marigold. “Oh, my dearest. You have matured into a beautiful woman with a kind heart.”

  Tears pricked Marigold’s eyes. She had a family. She had never been alone. “Will you tell me who you are?”

  The woman stiffened and pulled back. “I am the Dowager Duchess of Inverness, but please call me Helen.” She grabbed Marigold’s hand. “Now, call Becky and Ruth down. We will need their assistance.”

  “Ma’am—” Marigold scanned the woman’s cloak. “Are you feeling well? I do not think—”

  “Oh, never mind the disguise.”

  The duchess removed the garment, revealing a beautiful gown of garnet red cashmere with a bodice of velvet trimmed with gold and swans down. Marigold could not believe her eyes. “You—you really are the duchess.”

  “Well, of course, I am.” The woman laughed. “I should hope others are not going around claiming my title and name. Now, come along.”

  Helen glanced around the kitchen before seeing a bell pull. Having alerted the servants, she then opened the kitchen door and called out. If Marigold had any more doubts that the woman was a duchess, they vanished when the servant she met the other day stepped inside carrying boxes.

  “Your Grace—”

  She waved a finger. “Now, we decided on Helen.”

  “Please, tell me more about my mother,” Marigold pleaded. “Anything you can tell me, at all.”

  Helen sighed. “We do not have much time. Your grandfather was the younger brother to my husband, the duke. My husband would not countenance his brother’s marriage to your grandmother as she had no fortune or rank. When they found out your mother was expected, they made plans to move to America. Unfortunately, he died before they could set sail and so your grandmother, Eleanor St. Andrews, carried on without him. Once she arrived in America, she married to give her baby legitimacy. The child was christened as Mary Burns. Eleanor wrote to me often about Mary. After Mary married your father, they decided to visit Scotland and meet the family. I was overjoyed to get to know Mary at last. You made their happiness complete.”

  Marigold trembled to be told so much about her family. She had always felt unloved and unwanted. Hearing that she had family that cared for her caused tears to well.

  “Now, no more tears.” Helen pressed a handkerchief into Marigold’s hands. “We will talk more later. I hope to have good news for you soon. However, I have wanted to spoil you for your entire life, and I will this night.” Footsteps at the back stairs made her smile. “Here are the ladies.”

  “Marigold, child, is anything wrong?” Dottie called before the door fully opened. She, Becky, and Ruth stumbled into the kitchen.

  “Your Grace,” Dottie gasped and dropped a
n awkward curtsy, mimicked by the maids.

  “None of that.” Helen waved them off. “We do not have much time to get Marigold to my grandson’s ball. He is very impatient.”

  “Ma’am…” Marigold looked down at her ragged clothing. “My gown…”

  “Oh, never mind that. I brought one.” She motioned for the servant to come forward. “With your coloring, I think blue.”

  The servant set aside several boxes and Helen opened one. “I did not know what size you would be so this is the best I could do.”

  Helen lifted out a blue satin slip gown with full, short sleeves and trimmed with white lace. It was the most beautiful gown Marigold had ever seen. She reached to touch it and then pulled back.

  “Go on, my dear,” Helen said.

  The only time Marigold had ever touched such fine fabric was on washing day. To imagine wearing such a gown was more than she could bear.

  Helen opened a second box and held up another gown. It was styled as a long robe of white crepe designed in the Polish style, also trimmed with white lace. Designed to fit over the blue gown, it clasped in front with satin beads. “Wear this with it.”

  The final box contained a warm but fashionable pelisse to protect against the winter air.

  “Hurry, lass!” Dottie shooed Marigold into the parlor along with Becky and Ruth.

  “I cannot believe this,” Marigold said as she slipped the beautiful, satin fabric over her head.

  “You deserve this,” Becky said. “Enjoy yourself and pay attention to everything so you may tell us all about it.”

  Ruth nodded as she clasped accompanying necklaces around Marigold’s neck. Next, she twisted Marigold’s hair into a fashionable style and pinned it in place. Becky tied the ribbons of the prettiest pair of blue satin slippers around her ankles. Finally, Helen produced the fashionable pelisse to keep Marigold warm in her new attire.

  Thanking her friends as she kissed them goodbye, Marigold followed Helen to the carriage. For some time, they rode toward the Duke’s house in silence.