Autumn Duchess: A Georgian Historical Romance (Roxton Series)

by Lucinda Brant

  Antonia mistook his silence for cavalier insolence and she straightened her spine, every inch of her small frame a duchess.

  “M’sieur, I do not know how persons conduct themselves in good society in India, but here it is not your place to make comment on matters that do not concern you. Most definitely you do not have the right to criticize my son M’sieur le Duc d’Roxton. My family, our affairs, I will not discuss, particularly not with one of M’sieur le Duc’s guests. What happens to me, it is not for you to bother about. I do not want your opinion, or your concern. Nor did I ask for your company. Now you will leave me in peace and return to the big house where you belong, and never are you to come here again! That is all I have to say. Good day. You may go away now.”

  She had every expectation that Jonathon would immediately acquiesce, step aside with a respectful bow and allow her to pass. She was, after all, used to unquestioning obedience. From the day of her marriage her noble pre-eminence amongst servants, retainers, tenants, family, friends and peers had never been in question. So when Jonathon just stood there, silent and unmoved, she sighed her annoyance, muttered something under her breath about him being deaf as well as stubbornly bad mannered, snatched up a handful of her petticoats and brushed past him without a second glance. What he did next was without precedent.

  He caught her above the elbow, fingers tight about her silk sleeve, spun her about and yanked her hard up against him. A hand to the small of her back and she could not move, breasts pressed to his chest; petticoats crumpled and concertinaed against his legs. She blinked up at him, astonishment making her mute, blushing furiously, outraged that he dared to touch her without permission, and this the second time. Gone was the even-tempered friendly stranger of first acquaintance. There was an unfathomable intensity to his brown eyes and the thin line to his mouth was unnerving, but what caught the breath in her throat and ripened the color to her cheeks was the sudden rapid beating of her own heart and a sensation, very like pins and needles, that washed over her from throat to toes. From somewhere deep within her something sparked and ignited. It was so thoroughly unexpected that it shocked her beyond belief.

  “I am all for laying myself at your feet,” he said with suppressed feeling. “But when I prostrate myself before you, it will not be because you are Her Grace the most noble Dowager Duchess of Roxton, but because I have decided that is where I wish to be. You are first and foremost uncommonly interesting, and that alone makes you deserving of my attention. But I am not blind. You are unquestioningly the most beautiful woman I have ever set eyes on. And I am not immune. I find you utterly desirable. So the sooner you see me as a warm-blooded male worthy of your notice and consideration and not a mindless, neutered functionary the better for both of us.”

  At that he let her go and with a small bow and a curt nod of farewell he strode off across the lawn to the jetty.

  He did not look back.

  Antonia watched him disappear over the rise of rolling lawn.

  He was insufferably arrogant. Overbearing. Dangerous.

  She must keep her distance. Be aloof. Forget he had ever been to her pavilion. Better still, she would ignore him; pretend he had never introduced himself.

  Yet, Jonathon’s astonishing declaration was still occupying Antonia’s thoughts several hours later as she joined upwards of ninety guests dining in the splendid magnificence of Treat’s formal banquet room. The rows of polished mahogany tables creaked under the weight of silver, porcelain, large arrangements of flowers and bowls of fruits, and elaborate epergnes of silver and gold. The place settings were Sevres, the knives, forks and spoons highly polished silver. Behind every mahogany ribbon back chair stood a blank-faced liveried footman. Three courses each consisting of twenty to twenty-five dishes were consumed with gusto and much laughter and conversation, the melodic strains of a string orchestra in the upper gallery aiding in digestion. And when the ladies finally adjourned to the Long Gallery for coffee and sweetmeats, the gentlemen remained to unbutton their silk waistcoats, be comfortable, sip liquors and talk politics and horses for an hour or two before rejoining the ladies for conversational whist.

  Antonia knew it all, from the place settings to the silver, to the order of the dishes presented. The first course of soups, stews, an assortment of vegetables in sauces, boiled fish and every type of meat, all placed around the table in a precise arrangement that allowed for ease of ladling and serving by the guests themselves. Next came the remove dishes at each end of the table, tonight wild boars dressed and stuffed and providing a talking point while the second course was on its way. More vegetables, with different sauces, more meat and fish and a plethora of exotic pies with delectable pastry and filled with all manner of game bird, hen and combination thereof. And finally, to the even more elaborate and mouth-watering selection of cakes, jellies, sweetmeats, sugared fruits, ices and creams that made up the twenty-five courses of dessert. With a French pastry chef and a confectioner, the guests were entertained with sugary sculptures and delicate pastries of such sweetness and buttery lightness that the Roxtons were the envy of their noble friends.

  And then there was the ritual leave-taking of the ladies with their hostess the Duchess leading the way to the Gallery, where coffee and more sweetmeats awaited the ladies who sat about languidly fanning themselves while nibbling on more sweet confections and exchanging the latest gossip.

  The vast house and its gilded furnishings, the army of soft-footed servants, the ritualized household customs, the daily routine of every family member, guest, upper and lower servant indoors and out, stable hand, gardener, tenant farmer, tradesman and apprentice, local villagers, parson, shopkeeper and merchant on this large country estate, from just before first light when fires were reset, to the black of a midnight sky twinkling with stars when bedchamber candles were snuffed, everything remained precisely as Antonia had managed it since her marriage to the fifth Duke of Roxton two months after her eighteenth birthday.

  Antonia should have been flattered her daughter-in-law, who had taken to her role as the sixth Duchess with all the confidence and aplomb of one born to position and title, had not seen the need to change the practices she had so painstakingly put in place to ensure the smooth running of such a large and complex household. But Antonia wondered if Deborah kept to her routine, not because it was the way she wanted life to be, but because she and the Duke thought it was the way life must be ordered while her mother-in-law remained living on the estate; that any changes, however small and insignificant, would upset the Dowager Duchess of Roxton.

  He said she was uncommonly interesting. Monseigneur declared her to be incomparable.

  When she had arrived for dinner, Spencer and Willis in tow, it was evident her presence was an awkward surprise. From across the crowded drawing room, her daughter-in-law exchanged a look with the Duke that said you did not tell me your mother would be attending. And he had responded with a raise of his eyebrows and a smile he kept exclusively for her that said I understand your frustration, my love, but I have every confidence you will deal admirably with the situation.

  Antonia liked her daughter-in-law Deborah very much. The young woman had a good heart and she loved the Duke and their children unconditionally. Deborah brought out the best in her husband and fulfilled her duties as his Duchess with aplomb. And she was nobody’s fool. She was forthright, opinionated and when required, brutally honest. But Antonia was well aware that Deborah was in awe of her and that this made it difficult for the two women to be as close as Antonia would have liked. Even now, as the sixth Duchess, and having produced four healthy children, three of them boys and thus heirs aplenty for the continuance of the Roxton dukedom, Deborah remained unable to shake off her diffidence and apprehension whenever in Antonia’s presence.

  ...I am not blind. You are unquestioningly the most beautiful woman I have ever set eyes on.

  But many men had told her that over the years and she took such verbose compliments with the pinch of salt they deserved. She
knew she was beautiful. It was not a vain presumption; it was fact. So why did his saying it bother her? She mentally shook herself and resolved to put him out of her mind

  With the ladies comfortably ensconced in the Long Gallery, Antonia sipped her coffee and gazed out through the French windows to the tiled terrace and sweep of rolling lawn beyond. A peacock strutted into view, brilliantly colored plumage spread wide for the appreciation of its mate. The peahen did not even bother to raise her head, even when the peacock honked loud and long.

  Several of the ladies jumped in fright at the peacock’s raucous call. Antonia heard their gasps and the resulting laughter but could not see their startled expressions because she always sat furthest from the tea things, and thus furthest from her daughter-in-law, wingchair turned slightly away from the gathering. She used the excuse that she wished to look out on the view. The truth was more complicated. By sitting in the furthest chair and not involving herself, Antonia hoped her daughter-in-law would be more at ease carrying out her duties as Duchess. After all, it could not be easy for Deborah to play hostess with her mother-in-law, who had had the running of this house for a quarter of a century, witness to her every move.

  But Antonia was not one of these women who, having lost her position in society and over a household that had once been hers, tried to find fault with her successor as a means of keeping alive her self-consequence. Antonia’s attachment to the trappings of her noble station, to the rituals and responsibilities of being a duchess, and the attendant material comforts that flowed from her marriage to the wealthiest duke in England, were of little consequence if she could not share them with the man she had loved with every fiber of her being.

  And so she sat, solitary and silent, an audience of one to the strutting peacock’s performance.

  I find you utterly desirable... Monseigneur had said she was completely intoxicating...

  The breath caught in her throat. She set the fine porcelain cup on its saucer and blinked with dawning realization as to the true meaning of his words. He was attracted to her. Of course that was what he had said but only now had she come to fully appreciate what he meant. But he must be ten years her junior. Never mind she appeared younger than her actual age and was more physically active than many women half her age. But men were only interested in women younger than themselves. Indeed, Monseigneur had been older than Jonathon Strang was now when they had married. No one had raised an eyebrow at the age divide. But a younger man courting an older woman was not only frowned upon it was grist for the scandal mill. Antonia smiled wryly to herself. He’s not interested in courting you, you foolish woman! He wants to bed you. The man was not only an outrageous flirt he was also presumptuous.

  Surely it could not be many more minutes before the children were filed in by the nursery maids to say good night to their parents and assembled guests? She wondered what explanation, if any, they had been given for not making their usual visit to her pavilion, and if Frederick’s truancy had been discovered. She had the green ribands in a pocket ready to give to him.

  Without needing to turn or look up, she held out her empty porcelain cup on its saucer, knowing her ladies-in-waiting, who watched her every move, would be there to take it from her and have it refilled. Spencer enquired if she would care for more coffee. Antonia shook her head and continued to fan herself, thoughts seemingly miles away.

  Yet she was not so self-absorbed that she had forgotten Spencer had blistered her feet wearing in a new pair of walking boots Antonia had given each of the sisters as an Easter gift; the reason she had hobbled into the carriage like one crippled. Antonia even suggested she remain behind to bathe and wrap her blisters. But Spencer would not be swayed and as Willis agreed with her sister that it was their duty to attend on her, whatever the small inconvenience to them, Antonia gave up the attempt to make them see reason.

  “Take your poor feet away, Sally, and find somewhere to sit. Do not hover.”

  “But, Mme la duchesse, I assure you my—”

  Antonia turned her head slightly, chin up and looked at her askance. It was enough to silence Spencer and when Willis returned to stand the other side of Antonia’s wingchair, a word and a look from Spencer and the sisters retreated to some nether region of the Long Gallery.

  Antonia smiled to herself. Her gargoyles. She liked very much Jonathon’s moniker. Over the long tedious dinner, she had had ample time and opportunity to set in motion his idea that she bestow on her dour guardians a little holiday with the Countess of Strathsay.

  As fortune would have it (though she suspected her son’s action to be deliberate) she had been seated beside the Countess of Strathsay, providing her with the perfect opportunity to plant the seed in her aunt’s mind that she did indeed need a companion or two for the journey back into Buckinghamshire and then had blithely sought Charlotte’s advice on a suitable destination for Willis and Spencer; the sisters were deserving of a few weeks away from Treat, ideally with like-minded females. Willis had loaned her a most ancient and intriguing tract on pietism, a family heirloom handed down in her family. It was by a German by the name of Spener and entitled the Pia desideria. Had Charlotte heard of it? No? Perhaps Willis would loan it to her, or better still, the sisters had an English translation of the tract that their German ancestor had studiously translated for his English relatives. Apparently Spener’s writings had greatly influenced the Morovians.

  And so Antonia had spent an hour listening to Charlotte drone on about her favorite philanthropic pursuit, support of the Morovian missions, and knew her time had not been wasted when the Countess diffidently enquired how Antonia would manage without the services of the sisters? To which Antonia feigned disconsolate resignation and said that she would do as best she could with Michelle and a couple of the upstairs maids for it was only for a matter of weeks, not months that the sisters would be away.

  The sooner you see me as a warm-blooded male worthy of your notice and consideration and not a mindless, neutered functionary the better for both of us.

  Mindless? Neutered? Functionary? Surely not! Did he think her in her dotage? He had been so angry with her for dismissing him in such a cavalier fashion, and she could excuse him a little for that. He was obviously used to the attentions of fawning, eyelash-batting females who swooned at the sight of such sunbaked virility. Even in her miserable self-absorption, of wishing the impossible appearance of Monseigneur at the ball, she had been sufficiently distracted to wonder why the handsome stranger was staring at her. And when he had confidently asked her for a dance, five minutes in his company told her he was completely self-assured and used to getting what he wanted.

  But there was no excuse for manhandling her. He should never have touched her, whatever his anger and annoyance with her high-handed dismissal. She was certain there was a bruise to her arm where he had grabbed her. That he had gone even further and dared to hold her against him in such an intimate way... Was it any wonder she had blushed; that her heart beat rapidly? Both were very natural responses to an upsetting situation. Yet, that did not explain away the totally unexpected and startling third sensation, the throbbing little pulse deep within her that even now, just thinking about the nearness of him, of being in his arms, brought heat up into her throat and pins and needles to her fingertips. She shot up out of her chair, face flushed with mortification, just as two of the guests swept past in a rustle of silks.

  With Antonia on her feet, the ladies paused to sink into a curtsey then retreated to huddle together on a horsehair sofa, out of earshot of the main group of ladies chatting comfortably on an arrangement of sofas, yet close enough so as not to be considered bad-mannered. That the Dowager Duchess would hear every word of their tète-â-tète was an irrelevance.

  No doubt as matriarch of the Roxton family, being deaf, blind and a little senile came with the position, thought Antonia as she sank back onto the wingchair, back ram-rod straight, and took to fanning herself, pretending a loss of hearing. Or, if she was to be charitable, perhap
s these two had no idea she understood and spoke English as she spoke exclusively French with her family. It was a common misconception and one she had never sought to correct.

  “Lord, no! Whatever gave you that idea? Strang has fleeting interests, but never attachments, Hettie dearest,” Kitty Cavendish was saying. “His is a rather restrained sensibility when it comes to women. He’s not a monk, but no one could call him a sad rake. Discernment is a word that springs to mind. Not any woman will do. But why am I telling you this, my dear? You know this well enough.”

  “Knew, Kitty. Knew.” Lady Hibbert-Baker’s sigh of regret was audible. “I had hoped… With him returned to England… Kitty, why has he returned?”

  “Business interests; to find Sarah-Jane a husband. Why, any number of reasons,” Kitty Cavendish replied airily. “Why wouldn’t he want to come home after years on the subcontinent living amongst heathens?”

  “But England has never been his home. He was born abroad, a second son of a second son. Kenny says Strang is practically a heathen. Kenny says Strang settling in England is like putting a-a rhinoceros amongst a field of deer, for all he has in common with us. Kenny says there has to be more to it than seeing his daughter married off.”

  “Rot, Hettie! He went to Harrow and Oxford and his wife was a Cavendish. What could make him more one of us than that? And once he’s remarried he’ll be one of us. In fact, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Tommy and I have decided we must find Strang a bride. It was all very well for him to remain a widower amongst the natives, but with his inheritance—”

  “Inheritance?”

  “She doesn’t have to be an heiress, Strang has bags of money for everyone, but she must be young, pliable and—”