A Most Suitable Duchess

by Patricia Bray

  Such plans were dashed when her maid reminded her that Mr. Wolcott was expected at three, to escort her to the poetry recital. And of course, it was too late for her to cancel the outing. With one last longing look at the bright sunshine, she allowed her maid to help her into her new violet afternoon gown.

  Mr. Wolcott’s eyes lit with admiration when he beheld her. “Lady Torringford, I vow you grow more beautiful each time I see you. And such an elegant gown; the other ladies will be gnashing their teeth in envy,” he proclaimed.

  Indeed Penelope felt very elegant in her new gown, which was made according to the latest Parisian style, a dark violet-colored bodice over a lighter sarsenet skirt, with no less than four rows of flounces.

  “You flatter me, sir,” she said. Indeed, she knew her own appearance was nothing out of the ordinary. It was the fashions that made a woman, as any modiste would tell you.

  The footman nodded and then opened the door, signifying that Penelope’s carriage was ready. Among the extravagant luxuries of her new position, Marcus had arranged for a carriage and horses to be stabled nearby so she would not have to rely upon hired coaches. Such was indeed a luxury in this crowded city, and thus it was her carriage that they used whenever Mr. Wolcott was her escort. It was simply a matter of common sense, really. No use in putting Mr. Wolcott to the expense of hiring a carriage, when she had one sitting idle.

  Penelope allowed Mr. Wolcott to help her into the carriage, and then he climbed in. Rather than sitting across from her he took the seat next to her. She felt uncomfortable at his nearness, though that was indeed foolish. It was not as if his body was touching hers. The bench was wide enough that three people could sit here in perfect comfort.

  Still, she wondered if it would be rude to ask him to change his seat. Or perhaps she should change her seat instead.

  “Do you know who is reading today?” Penelope asked, seeking to distract herself in conversation.

  Mr. Wolcott shrugged. “A new protégé of Lady Swinburne’s, I believe. Nothing out of the ordinary I am afraid. And then, of course, no doubt some of her guests will wish to share their own compositions.”

  “Will you be reading?” It had been a long time since he had shared his poetry with her, or indeed with anyone that she knew of. And it was not for lack of interest. Upon several occasions he had been invited to read. She knew that Lady Swinburne had invited him, as had the Edinburgh Literary Society. Mr. Kenyon, the publisher of the Scottish Review, had urged Mr. Wolcott to submit his work for publication in the autumn issue of their journal, but the poet had demurred.

  “No, I am afraid my epic is not yet ready to be shared,” Mr. Wolcott said. He sighed soulfully. “My muse is fickle, and I am afraid my poor scribblings are unworthy of her inspiration. I have failed to capture the true epic grandeur that I so long to achieve.”

  How like him to disparage his talent. It was often thus with great artists.

  “You are too harsh,” Penelope said. “Could you but bring yourself to share your verses with a friend whose judgment you trust, you would soon learn that your fears are groundless. I remember well how gifted you were five years ago, and I am certain the passage of time has only served to strengthen that gift.”

  Indeed Penelope remembered Mr. Wolcott as a gifted poet, though she could not remember the details of any of his poems. Which was no reflection on his talent, but rather an indication of how hard she had tried to forget him when it seemed he had been lost to her forever. But even if she could not remember his poems, she remembered well the acclaim he had received at the time, and looked forward to hearing more of his works.

  “You are kind. Perhaps, if it is not asking too much of your generosity, I could ask you to read the first quarto, and let me know your honest thoughts upon it.”

  “I would be honored.”

  Mr. Wolcott smiled, and took her hand in his, to express his gratitude. “Thank you.”

  Mr. Wolcott rubbed his chin with his free hand. “After waiting so long, I find I am anxious to hear your opinions. After Lady Swinburne’s we could stop by my rooms, and you could peruse the quarto there.”

  “I am afraid that would not be wise,” Penelope said, shaking her head. She withdrew her hand from his. “There are those who would see such a visit as a flagrant indiscretion, and such gossip would do neither of us any good.”

  “Of course,” Mr. Wolcott said. “I should never have proposed such a thing. I am afraid I let my enthusiasm overwhelm my sense of propriety. Can you forgive me?”

  “I have already done so,” Penelope said. “We are friends, after all.”

  Fourteen

  The library door swung open, and as Marcus looked up from his contemplation of the fire burning in the fireplace, Penelope entered.

  “Marcus, I was so surprised when Andrews told me you were here. When did you arrive?” she asked.

  Marcus rose as his wife crossed the distance that separated them. She took his hand in hers and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “You look well,” she said. “I trust you had a good journey?”

  “You look well yourself,” he said, squeezing her hand a moment before releasing it. And indeed Penelope looked very fine, her eyes sparkling and her cheeks flushed with excitement. She smiled brightly, but he did not know if the smile was caused by his presence, or simply a remembrance of how she had spent her evening.

  “You should have sent word to expect you,” Penelope scolded. “I am sure the house was set at sixes and sevens by your arrival.”

  “It was a sudden decision to come,” Marcus explained. “There seemed no point in sending a letter, when I would arrive before it did.”

  “You could have sent word when you arrived, and I would have come home at once,” Penelope said, mock-scolding him. “Or better still, you could have joined us. It was only a birthday fete for Mrs. Lawton. I know she would have wished you to join us, if she had known you were in town.”

  The servants had been remarkably efficient, once they had gotten over their initial astonishment at his arrival. They had provided him with Penelope’s whereabouts, seeming to think that he would wish to join her, or at the very least, to send a message for her to return home. But he did no such thing. Instead he had dined alone, and then sat in the library, quietly thinking as the hours passed, and his wife remained absent.

  Marcus shook his head. “I did not want to be any trouble. And besides, I was somewhat weary from the journey, and thought it best that I not inflict my company upon others.”

  “How could you be any trouble? You, sir, are my husband,” Penelope said. “We would have welcomed your presence.”

  We would have welcomed your presence, she had said. Not I. She did not speak of herself. And yet she did seem pleased to see him, although that was a small comfort when set against the dark thoughts of these last hours, and the strange restlessness that had prompted his journey.

  “Was it a large gathering?” Marcus asked.

  “No, it was just the family,” Penelope said. “And myself, of course, although I suppose I count as family as much as anyone.”

  It sounded tame enough. And there had been no mention of a Mr. Wolcott, a name that had cropped up all too frequently in Penelope’s letters of late. But still a niggling doubt remained. It was nearly midnight after all, surely a late hour from which to be returning from a small family gathering.

  Unless, of course, she had been somewhere else. With someone else.

  “Come now. I am fatigued and you must be as well. It is time we sought our beds,” Penelope said.

  He followed as she led the way up the stairs to the second floor. She paused at the door to his bedchamber.

  “I am not that fatigued,” he said.

  She smiled and blushed. “I was hoping you would say that,” she replied.

  And as he led her into her bedchamber, he forced himself to set aside all of his self-doubts and petty fears, and gave himself over to the task of pleasing his wife, and allowing her to pleasure him in return
.

  The next morning over breakfast, Penelope again asked Marcus what had prompted his sudden journey to Edinburgh. Any hopes that he had missed her company were swiftly dashed when Marcus related that he had grown impatient with trying to sort out the late duke’s affairs by correspondence. Instead he had decided to come to Edinburgh, where he could meet with the various solicitors and agents concerned, and settle matters himself. He planned to stay a fortnight, no more, and then return to Greenfields for the shooting season.

  Whatever his reasons for coming, Penelope was pleased that he had come. Most of his days were spent tied up with his various advisors, so Penelope rearranged her schedule so she would be able to spend the evenings with Marcus. As word of his presence spread, invitations began to pour in. She refused most of them, but did manage to coax Marcus into attending the theater, and one afternoon he escorted her to a painting exhibition held at Hobson’s Academy.

  She had been pleased when he agreed to accompany her. She had given careful thought to this outing, searching for an activity that she hoped he would enjoy. The academy was showing an exhibition of landscapes and country scenes, which Robert Lawton had highly recommended.

  But at first it seemed she had chosen unwisely. In the first gallery there were scenes of the hunt, and of gentlemen posed next to their hunters and dogs. She had thought Marcus would find these pleasing, but instead the pictures elicited only his scorn.

  “Do you see that? The dog there stands half the size of the horse. No dog that size could run with the pack, or hope to keep up with the riders. It is ridiculous.”

  Penelope eyed the painting. True, the dog did seem a trifle large.

  “I think the artist was trying to convey the beast’s greatness of spirit by depicting him as larger than life,” she observed.

  “Hmph,” Marcus said. “Greatness of spirit, my foot. More like the painter had no idea of what he was doing in the first place. And look at this other one he did. The horse’s head is all wrong, and those legs are entirely out of proportion. It’s a disgrace, it is. They shouldn’t allow such work to hang in the halls.” Marcus’s voice was raised in outrage.

  She could see heads turning to stare at them.

  “Not everyone shares your expertise,” Penelope said diplomatically. “Come now, surely there are other artists whose work will be more to your liking.”

  She tugged on his arm, and after a moment he followed.

  The next room was no better, for it held numerous scenes of country life done in the style of Gainsborough. Even Penelope had to agree that the scenes were idealized beyond all recognition. The country folk were too rosy-cheeked, and too improbably happy at their labors, and golden sunshine streamed down from cloudless skies.

  As they entered the third room, she was ready to concede defeat. Neither she nor Marcus were enjoying themselves, so there was no reason to stay.

  This room was less crowded than the others, allowing a clear view of the paintings that filled each wall from floor to ceiling. A giant landscape dominated the whole of one wall, easily measuring a dozen feet across.

  Marcus let go of her hand and crossed the room to stare in wonder at the canvas. She followed close behind, noticing her husband’s rapt expression.

  This canvas showed a broad river with high bluffs on either side, and dark green woods that stretched to the very limits of the canvas. To the west, the sun was slowly sinking into the woods. There was an overall sense of immensity and a lonely grandeur.

  Penelope consulted her guide. This salon was dedicated to paintings from the New World, and the central work was a painting of the Hudson River and the forests of New York.

  “Is this not marvelous?” Marcus asked.

  “Yes,” Penelope said. “It is called ‘Sunset over the Hudson.’ Painted by Mr. David Emerson during his travels in the New World.”

  Marcus nodded, his gaze still transfixed. “They say that in the New World there are forests that stretch for hundreds of miles, where no white man has ever set foot.”

  She heard the longing in his voice, and remembered her own youthful dreams of far-off places. Forests in England were tame things, managed by great landowners or held in trust for the Crown. There were no wild beasts to be feared, no native civilizations to be encountered, no great wonders waiting for someone to discover them.

  “And would you like to journey there someday and see these sights with your own eyes?” she asked.

  Marcus shook his head. “As a boy I thought of nothing else,” he confessed. “But now I have put such foolish fancies behind.”

  It was a shame. “Surely, as a duke, you are entitled to do as you please. Even venture to the New World, if such is your desire.”

  Marcus turned toward her. “And would my intrepid duchess accompany me in my madness?”

  He gave a smile of such warmth that she felt her bones turn to jelly. At that moment she would have promised him anything.

  “Of course,” she said. “I could hardly leave you alone. Who knows what mischief you would get into?”

  “I shall remember your promise,” he said.

  The rest of the afternoon passed quite pleasantly, and they dined quietly at home, as had become their custom. Much to her surprise she found she was quite content with this domesticity. The constant round of social engagements she had been a part of before his arrival had begun to pall, and she was grateful for the respite.

  And she was guiltily relieved to no longer require Mr. Wolcott’s escort for social functions. Although at first he had seemed content with their friendship, in recent days he had begun to hint that he wished for a more intimate relationship between them. Not that he had said so openly; it was not that simple. Instead it was a matter of how he looked at her, hand clasps that lasted longer than appropriate, the way he stood just a trifle too close. It made her uncomfortable, but as yet he had committed no dishonor.

  It had been a mistake to encourage his friendship, and to seek out his company so openly. But his attentions had been a balm for her wounded pride. Even when her friends pointed out the dangers of such a relationship, their opposition had only served to strengthen her resolve to prove that a platonic friendship was indeed possible.

  Perhaps it was indeed possible on her part, but it was clear Mr. Wolcott still held warmer feelings for her. She realized that she had been unfair to him. In thinking only of herself, she had unwittingly encouraged him in his devotion to her. Now she would have to find a way to break off their connection. It would be better for both of them if she set him free to find a woman who could return his love in full measure.

  Yet, she could not break off the connection abruptly, for doing so, now that Marcus had arrived in Edinburgh, might very well set off the gossip that she wished to avoid. With this thought in mind, she added Mr. Wolcott’s name to the guest list of the dinner party she had planned. It was to be a small gathering, barely two dozen in all. But it would be an opportunity to repay the hospitality she had received in these last weeks, as well as a chance for Marcus to become familiar with her new acquaintances. And including Mr. Wolcott on the guest list should send a clear message to everyone that there was nothing between them but friendship. Surely no one would imagine that she could be so brazen as to invite her lover to dine with her husband.

  The day of the dinner party arrived, and things began to go wrong from the moment she woke up feeling headachy and slightly queasy. Penelope dined on weak tea and toast in her room, and after applying a cold compress to her face, eventually managed to dress and make her way downstairs to deal with the hundred and one last-minute details.

  The first to demand her attention was the chef, who complained that the partridges were unfit for serving. She inspected them briefly, clasping a handkerchief over her face as the smell reawakened her nausea, and backed hastily out of the pantry. She agreed that game hens could be substituted instead, and the cook’s assistant was sent to the market to procure them.

  After speaking with the housekeeper, sh
e began to copy out the menus, only to discover that Mrs. Shields had sent word that she was too ill to attend. This made the party unbalanced, as Mrs. Shields had been invited to partner Mr. Wolcott. After much frantic thinking Penelope sent a message to Miss Boyle, who was kindhearted enough to agree to the last-minute invitation.

  By the time the guests began arriving, Penelope was exhausted. Even Marcus’s compliments on her appearance did little to restore her spirits. She could not understand why she was so tired. She had hosted parties many times before, and far larger gatherings. Perhaps it was simply that this was the first time she had held such a gathering in the new town house. Or perhaps it was simply that she wanted every detail of this evening to be perfect, even if she herself found little pleasure in the event.

  The dinner was a success, or at least her guests seemed to think so. The conversation was lively, and though she could not hear Marcus’s conversation from her end of the table, he seemed to be holding his own as he spoke with Lord Whilton and Roger Lawton. Lord Whilton was a sportsman of some note, and he and Marcus seemed to be kindred spirits.

  After dinner, Penelope led the ladies to the drawing room, where they sipped tea and gossiped until joined by the gentlemen. As often happens at such gatherings, the guests broke into small groups. A few of the gentlemen stood with Marcus, discussing the prospects for the shooting season, while others clustered discussing politics or literature, and Miss Boyle related a humorous tale of her encounter in the park with the Earl of Ellicott, whom she had mistaken for her cousin.

  Penelope circulated among her guests, discreetly checking on the refreshments, and offering her opinion when asked. But she did not allow herself to be drawn into any one conversation. Instead, she suppressed a yawn, and wondered somewhat guiltily if it was beyond all measure of politeness to chivvy her guests to leave at this early hour.