“I know you are good at all that…society business,” he continued, saying the word “society” like it was a curse; “If you could help her - vouchers for Almacks, invitations to the best balls…”
“Ensure that she has the best possible chance of finding a suitable husband?”
“Yes, in short,” Michael replied, not looking at her, but rather at the brocade cushions of his chair.
“If you’re sure that’s what you want,” Tabitha replied lightly, picking up her novel once more and affecting interest in it; “Then consider it done.”
“Thank you Mother.”
Michael stood stiffly and gave her a little, solemn bow. His footsteps echoed down the hallway as she heard him retreat to his library. Whoever said sons were easier than daughters had never raised a Duke, Tibby thought sadly to herself.
Chapter Eight
The hunt, it appeared, had already begun.
Isabella watched in alarm as the eyes of one Dudley St. James’ lit up with excitement as he spotted her from across the crowded ballroom. The determined gaze of the ton’s most notorious fortune hunter watched her as she hastily began to backtrack through the crowd in order to escape him.
“Drat,” Isabella thought to herself in irritation.
St. James’ had barely deigned to glance at her last season she had been such an unnoticeable wallflower, news of her much increased dowry had obviously reached his nefarious ears if he found her presence so exciting this season.
Keeping her back to the wall, and her eyes on St. James’ florid face, Isabella weaved her way through the crush of guests who thronged the perimeter of the Duchess of Blackmore’s ballroom.
As the small orchestra began to play the notes of a quadrille and the guests took to the floor with gusto, Isabella was momentarily hidden from her predator’s view. Seizing the opportunity, she flung herself bodily - and most indelicately - through a set of double doors, which were framed by two white columns.
“Thank goodness,” she said with a sigh of relief as she found herself alone in a darkened room. She turned to peek out one of the doors she had come through, into the crowd beyond. St. James’, who was clearly in his cups, was glancing around the ballroom in confusion, swaying on unsteady feet. It appeared her great escape had gone unseen - she was safe.
“I do beg your pardon,” an amused voice called out behind her; “But I appear to have interrupted a game of hide and seek.”
Isabella started violently and turned to face the person who had spoken. As her eyes lit upon the regal features of the Dowager Duchess of Blackmore, Isabella felt her heart sink. Tabitha, Duchess of Blackmore was one of the ton’s most esteemed patrons, a bad word from her could have Isabella blacklisted from every soiree of the season and she would have her vouchers for Almack’s revoked. Not to mention that she was the mother of the man she was so desperately trying to forget, though there was very little resemblance between mother and son - bar the cool, staring blue eyes.
“I beg your pardon your Grace,” Isabella said slowly wondering best how to approach the older woman, before deciding on blunt honesty; “It is not a game of hide and seek. I was hiding from one of your more enamored guests - but I have no desire to be found.”
“Is that so?” The Duchess arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow; “And which one of my guests is pursuing you to the point of seeking sanctuary in my library?”
A curious look on her regal features, the Dowager Duchess walked to where Isabella stood, opened the door a little more and peered surreptitiously into the ball room.
“Dudley St. James your Grace,” Isabella said, motioning to where her would-be-suitor now stood, his cravat mussed and a large amount of wine down his waist coat; “Though it is not the thought of me that is making him swoon, rather the thought of my very large dowry…”
“Charming,” the Duchess drawled as both women silently watched St. James - unaware he was being so closely observed - scratch his ample posterior with vigor as he stood at the side of the dance-floor.
“I rather fear he’s the best of a bad bunch,” Isabella replied glumly; “The men who view me as a potential wife are a rather sorry lot.”
“A potential wife?” another quirk of the eyebrow; “Why on earth are you compelling yourself to marry them child?”
“I’m not,” Isabella mumbled, flushing at having shared too much yet again with a member of the Blackmore family; “My step-mother is. I have to find a husband by the end of the season or marry one of her nephews.”
“And who is your step-mother?”
“Lady Peregrine, Baroness Heathlow,” Isabella answered glumly thinking upon her step-mother; “She married my father the summer just gone- she was previously married to the Earl of Suffolk.”
“Caroline Blowstock - of course, I remember!” the Duchess exclaimed, rather indelicately, and Isabella stifled a smile.
Her step-mother was something of a society legend; the Blowstock family were infamous for breeding males, and Caroline had been married at the tender age of eighteen to the Earl of Suffolk. Instead of producing scores of male heirs, as the Earl had hoped, the couple remained childless for their twenty-five years of marriage. The Earl, who was consumed with the need to preserve his ancestral line, was convinced that the problem was with his wife, and let his feelings be known to all and sundry. It was a huge blow to the Blowstock pride, and despite having married into the highest rank, Caroline soon found herself the family black-sheep. After the Earl’s death, Caroline went into mourning, only to emerge at the end engaged at the remarkable age of five and forty - to Isabella’s father, who widowed for nearly fifteen years, had decided to take one last punt at producing an heir of his own.
Not six months after their discreet marriage ceremony, a child was conceived, and now all of society was waiting with bated breath to see if if Lady Peregrine would finally produce a son. All that is except for Isabella, who now found herself attempting to navigate the marriage mart, or The Cesspool of Second Sons as she currently liked to call it.
“So Lady Peregrine wishes you wed,” the Duchess mused aloud, her as she began to pace the library floor thoughtfully; “And your father has agreed with his new wife and raised your dowry considerably.”
“How did you know?” Isabella asked, open-mouthed with shock.
“My dear, there is very little I don’t know,” the Duchess replied with a smile; “ Now, having never had a daughter of my own I’ve never been permitted to play the role of the match-making mama, but your situation presents me with the perfect oportunity.”
“Oh really your Grace, I couldn’t ask that of you,” Isabella protested - she couldn’t have Michael’s mother as her aide de camp in finding a husband, even if she was essentially the commander in chief of the London Season.
“No I insist,” the Duchess was firm. She linked a friendly arm through Isabella’s and began to guide her towards the door.
“I attempted to try and entice my niece Lydia into playing the role last season - but she’s rather stubborn, and has a most unusual way of dealing with men…”
“Oh?” Isabella asked intrigued.
“She prefers to scare them than snare them.”
The Dowager gave a sigh of exasperation at her errant niece, “Though perhaps you can take lessons from her on repelling the St. James’ of this world. If you are to be the queen of the season you have to have a certain brutality in dealing with the pretenders to the throne.”
“Am I to be the queen of the season?” Isabella asked, feeling she had no say in this if it was what the Duchess wished.
“If I have my way dear then yes.”
Judging by the determined look in the Duchess’ eye, Isabella had to deduce that this was a woman who always got her way.
“The secret is to look them in the eye when you’re telling them to go away,” Lydia Beaufort said seriously, to a much-amused Isabella.
“I don’t think I could be so bald,” Isabella replied doubtfully as she marveled at her n
ew companion’s unique approach to unwanted suitors.
Lady Lydia Beaufort was the only remaining daughter of the rather eccentric Earl of Galway. She was tall and willowy, with a far-away dreamy look in her gray eyes - in fact she looked exactly how Isabella pictured the heroines of Gothic novels to look. She was also set to be richer than Croesus thanks to a stipend to be bestowed on her by her by her father, and so she was something of an expert in repelling fortune hunters.
“You have to be rude,” Lydia replied with a sigh; “These men are either too stupid or lazy to make their own money, they rarely understand subtlety - it takes to much brain power.”
As if to demonstrate her point, Dudley St. James approached the two ladies, a brandy in hand, a leer on his bloated face.
“Go away.”
St. James stopped in his tracks, his face a comical look of confusion.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me sir,” Lydia replied, stifling a yawn behind a gloved hand; “I said go away - I and my companion have no interest in funding your reprobate lifestyle.”
“Well, I never,” St. James looked so offended that Isabella almost believed that his intentions in approaching them had been honorable..
“I have never been so insulted in all my days.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Lydia drawled as their would-be-suitor flounced off into the crowd, his nose in the air.
“See; it’s really rather simple,” Lydia turned to Isabella with a wicked smile; “You just have to be unseasonably rude.”
“So I must be rude to the reprobates,” Isabella repeated back to her; “But what about the ones that I wish to encourage?”
Lydia looked at her blankly.
“You know…the one’s who might actually be husband potential?” Isabella continued slowly, wondering if the Earl’s daughter had heard her.
“I’ve never found myself in a situation where I’ve actively wanted to encourage a man to take an interest in me,” Lydia replied, wrinkling her nose in distaste; “I have no intentions of marrying. Ever.”
“Oh,” Isabella’s face fell, before she perked up. Lydia Beaufort might not be able to help her find a husband, but she certainly seemed capable of helping Isabella repel those most unworthy to hold the mantle.
As the orchestra began the opening bars of the final dance, Lydia rummaged through her reticule and extracted a small miniature, the back of which was made from gold filigree.
“Lord Byron,” Lydia said by way of explanation to Isabella, as she smiled down at the portrait before tucking it safely back inside her bag once more.
“Oh,” Isabella responded faintly, unsure what to say. Of course this mysterious, Gothic creature was a fan of the notorious, romantic poet - and many young women carried miniatures of their beloved in their reticules. Lydia seemed to be somewhat stable of mind, at least more so than the scandalous Caroline Lamb whom Isabella had met on several occasions.
“How are you girls getting on?”
A wave of expensive perfume announced the Duchess’ arrival.
“Splendidly,” Lydia said firmly, taking Isabella’s hand and giving it a warm squeeze.
“Miss Peregrine is wonderful aunt,” Lydia continued with a wide Cheshire cat smile and Isabella felt her heart warm to the strange yet endearing young woman; “I abhor the plan of finding her a husband, but shall rally around your plan to make her the star of the season.”
The crowd was beginning to thin, and across the room Isabella spotted Lavina searching for her.
“I really must go your Grace, Lady Beaufort. I can see that my sister is looking for me.”
“I’ll call on you tomorrow,” Lydia said firmly; “We shall have to draw up a plan of action so you can steal the thunder from all these insipid, swooning debutantes -”
Not knowing how to reply, Isabella curtsied to the Duchess and went to find her Lavina, the sound of the Duchess admonishing Lydia following her as she went.
Chapter Nine
Dear Michael,
I do hope this letter finds you well, and that you are nearly finished with all your business in Bedfordshire. News of your arrival back in England has leaked and many family friends have asked when they can expect to see you. I simply tell them that I do not know – not even the Almighty can know what you will do next. Though He might suggest, in His divine wisdom, that you come to town and circulate among your friends.
I also wanted to let you know that I had the absolute pleasure of meeting with the young lady that you told me of. You’ll be pleased to hear that Miss Peregrine has become fast friends with your cousin Lydia (who sends her regards). She has also, if the papers are to be believed, become the focus of more than one gentleman’s matrimonial intentions. It is lovely to see a woman blossom and become the belle of the ball, having perhaps been overlooked as a debutante.
I hope to see you before the end of the season.
Your ever loving,
Mother
Michael crinkled up his mother’s letter in disgust and tossed it across his desk, before hastily retrieving it, smoothing it out and reading it again. Particularly the bits about Isabella being the focus of more than one man’s attentions.
What had his mother done?
Images of Isabella trussed up in low cut gowns, flirting with faceless men in crowded ballrooms danced before his eyes and filled him with…
Rage?
Certainly - at these nameless, faceless men who had designs on Isabella.
Lust?
Most definitely - at the thought of Isabella in low cut gowns…
Fear?
Yes - at the thought of losing the spirited red head who had so enraptured him to another man.
Wait, Michael thought to himself, was he really afraid of losing Isabella? And how on earth could he loose her when he didn’t actually have her in the first place? The image of her offering herself to him, flashed before his eyes, causing such a stab of pain that he immediately made up his mind to take action.
“Tibbs,” Michael roared as though he was on the battlefield, pushing back his chair and striding from the library into the great hall. The ever vigilant butler was beside him in a moment, materializing as though from thin air.
“Your Grace?”
“Fetch Rowley,” Michael ordered, referring to his valet; “Have him ready my things. And send word to the stables that I am leaving for London within the hour.”
“As you wish,” Tibbs replied blandly before discreetly exiting.
The cacophony of feelings inside him were being soothed now that he had put plans into motion, though what he was going to do when he got to London was another matter.
“Rowley,” he said, hesitantly as he entered his chamber to find his valet - the son of his own father’s valet - busily preparing his clothes.
The young man’s cheeks were pink with exertion from readying the Duke’s trunks in such a rush - and with excitement. Rowley had yearned to serve a man who dressed in the highest fashions and moved through glamorous circles - instead he had inherited a Duke with shoulders as wide as a boulder, who liked to sit in muddy fields and play at war.
“Your Grace,” Rowley replied, his eyes falling to Michael’s shirt, which this morning had been perfectly pressed and this afternoon was a mass of crinkles.
“Have you ever,” Michael began, a decidedly uncomfortable look on his face; “Ah, have you ever had to…”
“Your Grace?”
“W—w-woo.”
“Woo?”
“Yes woo,” Michael replied irritably as the word momentarily escaped his tongue’s mastery; “Have you any experience in wooing women Rowley?”
“Oh your Grace,” the valet put down the breeches he was folding, and gave Michael an excited smile; “No experience myself per se - but I read all the Lady’s Pages in the papers, and the romantic novels from the circulating library.”
Michael listened, mouth hanging open, as his flamboyant valet detailed grand acts of love -
hothouses filled with roses, public declarations and carriage races in Hyde Park, cutting in on another fellow’s waltz to claim your heart’s true love.
“That’s all very well Rowley,” Michael said slowly, as the valet trailed off with a happy sigh and a dreamy look in his eyes; “But what if the woman in question. Ah…what if she’s already asked you to marry her, and you’ve refused?”
The valets dreamy look vanished in an instant, and his head snapped in Michael’s direction, his eyes glaring.
“Then you crawl and you beg - your Grace,” Rowley replied churlishly, turning from Michael with a disgusted sniff.
“Er, that’s all hypothetical of course,” Michael muttered, before fleeing the room and his valet’s censure.
If his valet was this annoyed with him, Isabella was probably livid.
Isabella had to marvel at the difference that the patronage of a Duchess could make to one’s season in Town. Merely three weeks after first forming and allegiance with the Duchess of Blackmore and her eccentric niece, Isabella found herself the belle of nearly every ball she attended. Her dance cards were full within minutes of arriving, cards were left by the dozen with the household butler and gossip columns wrote rapturous odes to her.She had to bite back giggles whenever she read the lady’s pages; her hair was like burnt gold (thanks to the lady’s maid sent over by the Duchess), her clothes were the height of fashion (thanks to the French dressmaker the Duchess insisted she use) and she was the most sought after guest (thanks to the Duchess whispering in the right ears). If only the world knew that she was still just plain old Isabella Peregrine, and not the mysterious young woman that the papers claimed “came from nowhere to be this season’s reigning queen.”
“I came from Devon,” Isabella scoffed to Lydia, throwing the paper down on the table; “Like I did every season before this - except nobody cared to notice until now.”
Lydia rolled her eyes at the fickle nature of the gossip sheets.
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