“I’ve decided to host a dinner party!” announced Aunt Hazel. “Next week, we will dine and raise our glasses to the new Duchess of Annick!”
Lizbeth’s mouth formed an O of incredulity. “One ride in Hyde Park, and Charlotte’s engaged?”
“No, no, of course not. Don’t be silly, child. But mark my words, he will propose at the dinner party. I’m too wise not to see to that. Mark my words that in less than a fortnight, Charlotte will be betrothed.”
Chapter 7
Fat rain drops slithered down the windowpane in the study of the Duke of Annick’s townhouse. Since before dawn, rain had chased people indoors, coating the city in a gray mist of rain and soot. Sebastian leaned against the window frame, looking out onto the park across the street, observing the grass turn to mud.
A week had not been long enough to ease his torment over the masquerade dinner. What a fool he had acted. She must think him a madman.
He laughed wryly to himself—she wouldn’t be wrong.
Everything made sense at the time. It had been obvious she played him, that she was part of some joke Drake initiated, or since Drake still professed ignorance, she had asked around, learned of his life’s passion and wanted to use it to set her cap at him as a clever fortune huntress’ ploy.
Given his life thus far, it all seemed more plausible that she acted out of cruelty than attraction.
However, the more he questioned Drake, and the more he thought about the conversation, the clearer it all became: he was deranged and ruined a chance at the only good thing to happen in his life. This proved he needed to stay as far away from her as possible, even if she were in the right and he in the wrong, for he lived too close to the edge of madness for anything to work out between them, even friendship.
She wouldn’t trust him not to snap again. Not even he could make such a promise.
Bah, he was a fool. How could he ever believe she lied about her home when her entire family was in attendance? The truth would be too easy to uncover. How could she have been schooled on philosophy and literature in time for such a ploy? No, hindsight revealed he jumped to the wrong conclusions. If she were in earnest, and he believed she was, his behavior was unforgivable. He didn’t know where to begin explaining rationally how unusual it was to find his personal interests echoed.
To exacerbate his melancholy, his cousin had spent every day of the past week visiting Lady Collingwood and her nieces. Drake made sure Sebastian knew of each visit. As part of the provocation, Drake never would admit which sister he courted, knowing the mystery crawled under Sebastian’s skin, spreading a rash of jealousy.
It unsettled him to think of Drake courting Miss Trethow. Even if Sebastian couldn’t have her, he certainly didn’t want to watch Drake parade her around as his new duchess. She may have voiced her dislike of the duke, but he had yet to meet a woman who could resist Drake’s advances. No one said no to the Duke of Annick. He felt sick at the thought of them together, of his cousin dampening that raw beauty, shrouding her eager mind.
He pushed his shoulder against the window frame.
To hell with her. Let her have Drake. She deserved what she got if she accepted Drake.
No, no, no. She deserved better than Drake. She deserved better than Sebastian, for that matter. She deserved someone who wasn’t haunted by past mistakes, someone who didn’t wake nightly from visions of death.
Resting his head against the glass, he let the cool pane chill his forehead. Servants, some with umbrellas, some without, scurried to and fro on the sidewalk below, all battling the rain to deliver messages and complete errands for their masters.
The door of the study opened and closed behind him. Footsteps muffled by the rug creaked their approach when weight met aged wood panels.
“You’re going to leave a print on my window pane.” Drake settled into a Louis XIV styled chair with tapered mahogany legs. He reached for the cheroot box, lit a cigar, and inhaled the vaporous elixir.
Sebastian shrugged away his solitariness and joined Drake, pulling out his pocket clock. The feel of the etching beneath his fingertips soothed his agitation, the simplicity of the tick-tock mechanism providing order in his tumultuous emotions.
“You’re coming to that dinner party if I have to drag you by your hair.” Drake puffed the cheroot before blowing smoke towards Sebastian, antagonizing his cousin. “I’ve arranged a meeting with Mr. Trethow tomorrow. With his permission, I will extend my proposal at the dinner party.”
“To whom?” Sebastian gripped his chronometer so tightly the edges bit into his palm.
“What do you care? Either sister. Both sisters. You tell me which I should choose.” He didn’t wait long enough for a reply before saying, “Miss Trethow would make a perfect duchess, don’t you think? She’s poised, attractive—freckles aside. She keeps to herself, which will allow me my freedom. I could spend my days with Maggie and only see my wife for the evening visits. Perfection.”
Sebastian felt sick to his stomach.
Between clenched teeth, Sebastian hissed. “She’s a poor choice. Too opinionated. She would be remiss of the social duties of her station, and her bookishness would embarrass you.”
Drake studied him shrewdly as he puffed. “You could be right. Perhaps her poise is pride, and her attractiveness will fade alongside her waning youth.”
He ground his teeth.
Drake continued. “A shame you aren’t considering her for yourself. There’s an appeal to us having a sister each. Miss Charlotte is far prettier, I think. She’s as malleable as you would want a wife to be. Eager. Sensual. Her lips drive me to distraction.”
“Miss Charlotte is the obvious choice for you, then,” he grumbled.
Drake smirked before adding, “Their father is a gentleman, landed, and respected. One hell of an MP. He has some radical ideas, not unlike you, come to think of it, and he doesn’t have a drop of blue in his veins, but he is wealthy and well reputed.” With a smirk, he added, “Mother would be furious to have him as an in-law, which makes marriage to a Trethow all that more attractive.” He dropped the cigar in an ashtray and stood. “Brandy?”
Sebastian shook his head.
“Cuthbert, or Mr. Trethow rather, isn’t titled, and he’s only parish gentry, not even county gentry, but there’s no denying his wealth. I have mentioned he’s wealthy, haven’t I?” Drake queried.
He poured a drink and carried the glass back to his chair, propping his feet rudely on the mahogany table in front of him. “I’ve considered other prospects, you know. Lady Patricia is the most eligible, a duke’s daughter and well trained, but her breath is downright foul. The Cavanaugh twins are also perfectly eligible, but they’re bound to be as plump as their mother one day. Miss Wittles is a wealthy and well-connected contender if she weren’t so obstinate. None will do so well as the Trethows.” He tasted the brandy before continuing. “I mentioned the possibility of the Trethows to Prinny, and he thinks it’s a lark.”
“I hardly consider relationship advice from Prince George wise.” Sebastian sneered, for everyone knew the prince’s reputation.
“If I choose Miss Charlotte, will you be pleased?” Drake asked.
“Indifferent,” he answered noncommittally. “I do think your mother would be pleased once she got to know her. Miss Charlotte is exactly the sort my aunt had hoped you would choose.”
“That’s not what I asked, Seb. I asked if you would be pleased.” Drake tapped his glass with well-groomed nails.
“I don’t see why my opinion matters, Drake. She’s your wife, not mine.” Sebastian leveled his eyes on the floor, mumbling, “I don’t care who you marry.”
Drake rewarded Sebastian a sly, lopsided smile. “Liar. I’ve seen you dance once this entire Season, and that with Miss Trethow. I even caught you smiling. Get your head out of your arse and do something about her. Supposing I ask for Miss Charlotte, will yo
u court her sister?”
“I have no intention of it.” Sebastian dismissed Drake with a grunt and crossed his arms, his pocket clock tightly gripped in one hand. “I have obligations beyond courting someone who lives on the other side of the country. I have estate business to tend to and little time for such frivolities.”
“Estate hogwash be damned. That’s why you hire a steward. I say, if she makes you smile, she’s perfect. Besides, you’ll be the end of your line if you don’t marry. Tick-tock, old man.”
“And what if I’m the last?” He spat vehemently. “My father’s blood shouldn’t continue. The line should end with me,” Sebastian insisted. “More to the point, you know I value my privacy, something that could never be had in the company of a woman.”
“If you wouldn’t take pleasure from her company, then she isn’t the right woman after all.” With a scoff, Drake added, “When did you become so pigheaded?” Draining his glass in one motion, he set it on the table none-too-gently and stood. “Tell your father’s ghost to sod off, mate. You’re not him and have never been him. But what do I know. I’m just a pompous dandy.”
Before admitting which Trethow he would offer for, Drake left the room, the study door clicking closed as he departed.
Sebastian stared at the empty glass, mulling over his cousin’s words. His father’s ghost wasn’t going anywhere any time soon, but he knew one thing for certain. She was the right woman.
Aunt Hazel victoriously divulged to Lizbeth that Annick had come to an understanding with Papa regarding Charlotte, who as of yet remained unaware of her upcoming nuptials. The dinner party was to be that evening, and the shrewd cupid had already devised a plan to ensure the duke and Charlotte would be alone in a room just long enough for a proposal.
In a tizzy, the hostess directed flowers be placed here and flowers be placed there, and no, those flowers simply would not do. Candles were placed in front of mirrors around the room to maximize the light as evening darkened.
The dinner party would be a small affair, only Hazel’s closest friends having been invited. She made sure the invitations included those prone to gossip and excluded any young lady who would have dimmed the evening’s shining star.
The card games were already set up as entertainment in the drawing room for after dinner. Normally, Hazel would have ushered them outside into the small garden, but mud still saturated the grass from three days straight of rain.
Charlotte was being fluffed and buffed by her lady’s maid, the greatest of care being made for her gown and hair this evening. Her aunt wanted the duke to walk in, see his betrothed-to-be, and fall deeply in love. Lizbeth humored herself by thinking the only way that would happen would be if his first sight were of a mirror.
As proud of her success at matchmaking, Hazel admitted to Liz feeling guilty that she hadn’t tried harder with Lizbeth, especially after seeing her dancing at the masquerade first with the duke himself and then with an equally eligible earl. Thankfully, Hazel’s fretting over Liz’s spinsterhood was overshadowed by the glow of a future duchess in their family.
The last thing Lizbeth wanted was her family’s interference in matchmaking. Also fortunate was the decreasing appearance of Roddam in Lizbeth’s every waking thought. She had been so busy helping her aunt prepare that she had forgotten to worry about him.
Until today.
He had accepted the dinner invitation. She knew it was to support his cousin, not to see her, but her stomach knotted knowing they would be thrown together for the evening.
She hadn’t yet decided how to react to him. Part of her didn’t want to speak with him ever again after seeing his poor temperament, but the other part of her desperately wanted things resolved. Friends in this world were rare, and she cherished the few she had. Surely their miscommunication could be patched.
Hearing the pit-pat of her sister’s leather shoe soles against the wood floor in the hallway, Liz looked at the mantle clock in surprise. Guests should arrive soon.
“Oh, Lizbeth, I’m beyond excited!” Charlotte floated into the room, a cloud of pink and yellow. “A party just for us!” She looked breathtaking in a white frock over pink satin bordered with yellow flowers on tulle. A wreath of fresh flowers haloed her head of curls.
“I do believe the party is for you, not us.” Lizbeth cringed, hoping she hadn’t given away the surprise.
To her relief, Charlotte was oblivious, smelling each flower vase in turn.
“Will you play piquet with me after dinner?” Her long eyelashes framed her eyes when she looked at Lizbeth, her nose still buried in a bouquet.
“If that’s what you want, but I suggest you convince His Grace to partner you in a game of whist.”
“Do you really think he’ll come? I hope he does, and he did accept the invitation, but do you really think he’ll come? Our party is hardly a grand affair worthy of a duke.”
“I doubt anything could keep him from your side this evening.” Lizbeth smiled reassuringly, hating to think her sister marrying a rakish oaf, but happy Charlotte’s dreams would come true.
A flurry of activity occurred, then, of Aunt Hazel rushing in behind a footman with his tray of cocktails, ready to receive guests, Cuthbert and Walter not far behind, taking their places in the receiving line. The evening’s plan was a half hour of cocktails in the drawing room followed by dinner, and then a return to the drawing room for games, wine, and cheese.
Lizbeth fiddled with her cameo, worn this evening on a long pearl necklace resting below her bodice. Given no future duchess would want a dowdy sister by her side on this celebratory occasion, Liz’s lady’s maid had dressed her with care. She wore a topaz blue gown under a white open robe of gossamer. A bandeau of matching blue encircled her loosely knotted topknot, irregular curls strewn over her forehead.
The butler announced the first of the arriving guests. “The Marquess of Quail, The Marchioness of Quail, and The Lady Harriet Quail.” Soon after, “The Right Honorable Viscountess of Coombs and Mr. Hock.” After which arrived, “The Dowager Lady Leighton, Mr. Covington, and Mrs. James Covington.” Before long, “Sir Conrad Stockton, Lady Kissinger, Mrs. Holzingwood, Mrs. Popen, and Lady Sayles.”
Poor Cecil’s announcements were drowned out by the conversations around the room. The men gathered in one corner, and the women formed smaller sects of friendship circles. The clocked ticked ten minutes, and then twenty, increasing Lizbeth’s worry the duke would arrive late to his own betrothal party. Charlotte would shatter if he showed after dinner started. Or not at all!
No sooner had she begun to fret did Cecil announce the final guests. “His Grace the Duke of Annick and The Right Honorable The Earl of Roddam.”
Lizbeth gripped her cameo, steeling herself. Lord Roddam had entered the room.
She wanted to hide in the parlor with Captain Henry who would be spending his evening away from the hubbub of the crowd. She stolidly stared at Mrs. Popen a few feet away, hoping she looked wrapped in conversation with a woman who wasn’t even talking to her. She restrained her urge to eye the door.
Her spine stiff as a baluster, she shifted her feet to appear more natural, calmer. Did she look too rigid? Would he be able to tell how tense she felt? Blast that man for making her feel embarrassingly uneasy. She still hadn’t decided if she should ignore him, speak curtly, or pretend nothing happened.
Did he look wounded after their last encounter, perhaps licking his paw? Heavens, it had been so long since they had last spoken. Maybe he stood proudly at the door, his mane flowing around his shoulders, or—
“You look lovely this evening, Miss Trethow.” Roddam stood all of five feet from her, his shoulders pulled back, augmenting his height.
She gaped at him.
He wore a fine white muslin shirt with a simple-knotted cravat, single-breasted waistcoat, and double-breasted tailcoat with knee-high satin breeches and embroidered clocked stock
ings with leather shoes. His hands clasped behind his back, he was the image of stately elegance and composure. To put it mildly, he took her breath away.
Trying again, he said, “I wish the sky these past few days had matched the color of your dress. Terrible weather, eh?”
She wanted to laugh. After her week of fretting, mulling, and pouting, he greeted her with comments about the weather. Absurd man!
She looked straight into his dark brown eyes and scolded, “I would have expected better from you than talk of the weather.”
“Has anyone ever told you your expectations are too high?” He raised his eyebrows.
She had forgotten how attractive she found him. No, she hadn’t. She had just pushed it deep down into her belly, weighing his poor behavior heavier than his handsomeness.
She replied, “I suppose you just did, although I hardly consider the desire for deeper conversation than the weather constituting high expectations.”
“Clearly, I’ve been in the wrong company all these years.”
They locked eyes, hardly noticing the other guests heading for the dining room. Not until the room emptied did they realize their plight.
Lizbeth reluctantly looked to the dining room doors. “We should proceed, Your Lordship. I believe you’re sitting by Lord Quail this evening, near the head of the table.”
“I hope to talk after dinner.” He held out his arm in invitation. “If that would be amenable to you.”
She placed her hand on his forearm, his warmth pervading her glove.
“Yes, I would like that,” she confessed despite herself.
They walked into the dining room and took their seats on opposite ends of the long table. Against Hazel’s original intention, Liz had begged her aunt not to place him near her. Now she regretted that request. She wasn’t even sure what to say to him.
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