Aurora had been so patient and kind all the summer long, and Cally was not so big a fool that she didn’t realize it. Still, she found it irritating to watch her sister having such a good time when she could not. Not that it was the sort of good time Cally was truly envious of, for it was not. And the beaus! There had been any number of them Aurora had flirted with and then discarded. But those young men she refused always remained to become her friends. Cally didn’t understand it. One thing remained constant, however. Justin St. John. He was not discarded, and Cally doubted he would have gone if he had been. It was becoming very obvious that he intended to make Aurora his wife.
Cally didn’t blame her sister for playing the field, for taking her time, for holding back before agreeing to marriage. If only I had really known what was involved in being married, Cally thought, I should not have been so quick to jump. If I hadn’t, it would be Aurora who would be lying here, her belly all blown up, while I flirted with all the gentlemen. But then, of course, I shouldn’t be a duchess, Cally considered. Still, she was beginning to wonder if it was really worth it just to be the Duchess of Farminster. In retrospect, all she had needed was a rich, doting husband who would let her live in London and become one of its celebrated hostesses. A rich old husband. A man with grown, or half-grown children who would not make unpleasant demands upon her person, but would be satisfied that she was young, and beautiful, and desired by all his friends, who would, of course, envy him his young and beautiful wife. It would be easy to love a man like that, Cally decided. If only she hadn’t listened to Aurora. Aurora was really to blame for all of this nastiness.
Cally’s eyes narrowed again. Aurora would be sorry soon enough. Justin St. John looked to be very much the same sort of animal that her own husband was. He would make demands upon Aurora, and Aurora would surely suffer, hopefully, even more than Cally had. And, Cally knew, St. John would not take Aurora to London. He would keep her down here in the country, giving her child after child until her beauty was ruined. And I shall be up in London having a wonderful time, Cally thought. Yes! I shall have my revenge eventually. And St. John didn’t even have a title! He was simply a wealthy man with good if nebulous connections to the Hawkesworth family, or so Aurora said.
“Are you all right?” the dowager asked as Calandra suddenly winced in pain. The old lady was seated next to the young duchess, acting her usual role of chaperon.
“The little beast just moved again,” Cally said. “I hate it when it does that. Fortunately, it is not too often. I feel as if I had swallowed a roast boar whole, ma’am.”
“Being enceinte can be uncomfortable at times,” the dowager sympathized, although frankly she was sick and tired of Cally’s complaints. All the little wretch did was whine, and she was openly counting the days till she could leave Hawkes Hill and return to London. Valerian had made no bones about the fact that when his wife recovered from her childbirth, she could depart. Farminster House would be put at her disposal, along with a suitable staff. She would have an allowance, which hopefully she would live within, and unless the child was a girl, she would not have to return to Hawkes Hill unless she desired to come. A wet nurse was already engaged to feed the baby.
Aurora ran up and flung herself on the grass. She was flushed and laughing. “You really are a poor loser, St. John,” she mocked.
Justin St. John sat down beside her. “No girl should play tennis like that, Aurora. You play like a boy.”
“If I were, would you expect me to let you win?” she demanded.
“Ma’am, I turn to you for a judgment in this case,” he said to the dowager duchess.
“No! No! St. John, you will not get me to take sides in this matter,” Mary Rose Hawkesworth chuckled. “You were beaten fair and square. Your backhand is deplorable. Why, I vow that I could have beaten you myself had I been of a mind to play.”
He clapped his hand over his chest, a pained expression upon his face. “Ma’am, you have wounded me grievously,” he declared.
The dowager rapped his shoulder sharply with her fan. “You are not that delicate a flower, St. John,” she scolded him. “Will you stay for supper? Valerian should be back from the mills shortly.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said. “I should like that.”
“Cally, will you join us too?” Aurora asked.
Cally shook her head. “I am not comfortable sitting straight up any longer,” she complained. “You have no idea, sister, how discomforting a thing it is to carry an unborn child within your own body.”
Aurora patted the sticky-fingered hand that lay upon Cally’s skirts. “Would you like it if I rubbed your shoulders and feet for you later tonight before you go to sleep?” she inquired solicitously.
“Ohhh, would you?” Cally smiled. “That would be so nice. You are the only one in this whole house who understands how miserable I am, sister. Thank God I have you, else I should die of loneliness.”
Mary Rose Hawkesworth bit her tongue to prevent a pithy retort. The entire household had been turned upside down to ensure Calandra’s comfort and satisfy her every ridiculous whim. And she positively abused Aurora’s kindness, although Aurora never complained. If I remain here another minute, the dowager thought, I shall say something quite cutting. She arose from her chair. “It has become a bit cool for me,” she lied. “I think I shall go inside, my dears. Please remain and enjoy yourselves. Perhaps I shall take a nap.”
She walked slowly across the lawns to calm herself, but she was still angry at Calandra’s selfishness, and knew she could not nap. Entering the house, she decided to walk in the picture gallery. Viewing the family portraits, seeing the faces of those who had come before her, remembering the family history, was always enjoyable. She must bring Aurora here one day soon, if she could get her away from Calandra. Aurora had so very much enjoyed reading the history of the family. She would certainly enjoy putting faces to the names in the book.
It was a long gallery that had been added to the house several hundred years earlier. It had been created from a windowed hallway that originally connected one wing of the house to another. Tall windows ran along one side of the gallery. They faced southwest. The wall opposite was paneled in warm wood. The wide-board floors were well polished and laid with beautiful Turkey carpets of red and blue. Afternoon sunlight now flooded the room displaying the portraits at their very best. Mary Rose Hawkesworth smiled as she entered the gallery.
There was her late husband, looking dashing, and quite handsome. There was their son, Charles, and his sweet wife, Henrietta. There were even separate portraits of Valerian, and his sister, Sophia, as children. The dowager moved deliberately, looking at each face of each lord and lady represented. Here now was the First Duke of Farminster, his wife, and his children. There were his parents, the last earl and countess, and their children. The daughters, the first duke’s sisters, were lovely young women. She smiled back at the portraits, and then, suddenly, the Dowager Duchess of Farminster gasped. Unbelieving, she peered at the name plate upon the portrait. It read: CATHERINE HAWKESWORTH KIMBERLY, 3 MAY 1630–28 OCTOBER 1700. The young woman in the portrait was the girl who had been married to the Kimberly who had been given St. Timothy by King Charles II. And she was Aurora’s image!
That is why Aurora has seemed so familiar to me, the dowager realized. How many times have I seen this portrait in passing over the years? She looked at the painting next to Catherine Hawkesworth Kimberly. It was of Anne Hawkesworth Meredith, who looked very much like her elder sister. What can it mean? Dear God, what can it mean, the dowager thought. But she already knew what it meant. Valerian was married to the wrong girl, and she could not, at least not now, tell him the truth. If it was the truth. But she knew it was. Who could confirm it for her? Aurora’s servant, Martha. She would tell the dowager the truth, if pressed, and she would not allow her young mistress to be hurt. Mary Rose Hawkesworth hurried from the portrait gallery, and going to her bedroom, she sent her maid, Jane, to fetch Martha, ascertaining first tha
t Aurora was still outdoors.
“Yes, my lady, you sent for me?” Martha stood politely before the dowager, curtsying.
“You may leave us, Jane,” the dowager said quietly. “Please keep watch as I have asked, and let me know the moment Miss Aurora comes into the house.”
Jane nodded, and hurried from the room.
The dowager looked at Martha in what she hoped was a stern but not confrontational manner. “I want the truth,” she said quietly. “Is your mistress the girl who was really betrothed to my grandson?”
Martha hesitated a moment, and then she sighed. “Yes, my lady,” she said. “It’s her who should be the duchess, and not Miss Calandra. I warned her that no good comes of lies, but she didn’t listen.”
“Tell me what happened,” the dowager said. “Was it the stepmother’s idea? Why on earth was this deception played?”
“Oh, no, my lady! Mistress Oralia wanted no part of it at all. Only at the last minute, when it became apparent that Miss Aurora would have her way, did she give in, but she never wanted it, nor did she agree willingly.” Then Martha went on to explain to the Dowager Duchess of Farminster the truth of the entire matter. She concluded by asking the old lady, “How on earth did your ladyship find out?”
The dowager smiled softly. “Aurora has seemed familiar to me from the moment I met her,” she told Martha. “Then this afternoon I was in the family portrait gallery, when I came across the painting of the first duke’s younger sister. She is Aurora’s image, as is her sister, who was married to a Meredith. Calandra does not bear even the faintest resemblance to these ancestors. The Hawkesworths are not dark usually. Valerian gets his coloring from his French mother.”
“Forgive me, lady, but are you going to tell?” Martha questioned the dowager nervously.
“How can I, Martha? Calandra was married legally, although if she were not with child, I should tell, and have my grandson annul the marriage based upon the fraud involved. However, Calandra is with child, and the child is innocent of its mother’s deceit. No. I shall not tell my grandson; nor shall I tell Aurora, although I am angered by her deceptive actions. And you will say nothing either, Martha, of this conversation. Perhaps, however, your load has been lightened by the fact it will now be shared, eh?”
“Oh, my lady, I knew it was wrong, but what could I do? I am a servant, and even Mistress Oralia and Master George was forced to go along with my mistress. She can be terribly stubborn!”
The dowager patted Martha’s plump hand and smiled encouragingly at her. “Go along now, Martha. Somehow it will work itself out.”
Martha curtsied and departed the room.
Well, the dowager thought gloomily, her new knowledge was nothing more than an irritant. Nothing had really been accomplished by confirming her suspicions. What a fool she had been! She had been so distraught by her James’s death that she hadn’t been thinking clearly. She should have sent for Mistress Kimberly and her charges to come to England. Perhaps then Aurora could have been convinced that marrying Valerian Hawkesworth was not a fate worse than death. But no. Cornered, the girl had created an ingenious scheme, and it had almost worked had it not been for her little stroll through the portrait gallery today. If Mistress Kimberly had come to England, perhaps the dowager would have seen the portrait sooner and discovered that they were in the process of being deceived. Now I shall have to live with this information, she considered irritably. What a coil!
At dinner, however, her mood was barely noticed because of the sparring between Valerian and St. John over Aurora. Dear God, the dowager thought, annoyed. They are like a pair of schoolboys, and there sits Aurora, encouraging them by her very jibes. The girl must be married, and as soon as possible, before she tempts Valerian and there is a scandal! It was obvious to her that Valerian was attracted to Aurora despite his marital state. And why not? The girl was clever and amusing. She held his interest with her intellect and not simply her beauty, unlike poor Calandra, who honestly believed that beauty counted for everything. Yes, Valerian was intrigued every bit as much as his cousin was. As for St. John, it was quite apparent he wanted the girl too, and sensing the duke’s interest in Aurora, baited him as had always been his habit when the two fought over something. St. John had a very wicked sense of humor, unlike Valerian, but an equally strong will. Yes, there was going to be a scandal if the dowager could not prevent it.
The meal, she suddenly realized, was over. “Take Aurora for a stroll through the gardens, St. John,” the dowager said, encouraging her young relative to action. She sent a fierce look toward her grandson.
“It has surely grown chill,” the duke replied, ignoring his grand-mama’s silent warning. “Perhaps Aurora does not want to stroll in the evening air.”
“I like the evening air,” Aurora spoke up. “I will take a shawl and be quite cozy.” She arose from her seat.
“And I am quite capable of keeping Aurora warm should she grow cold,” St. John remarked, his amber eyes dancing with devilment.
“Behave yourself, boy!” The dowager playfully rapped his knuckles with her ivory fan. “I’ll have no naughtiness!” But she chuckled as she spoke. “If your intentions are honorable, however, my dear St. John, that is an entirely different matter,” she finished. Then she watched with a smile as St. John escorted a blushed Aurora from the dining room. Her look was one of satisfaction.
“Hellfire and damnation, Grandmama,” the duke swore irritably. “You would do well peddling maidenheads on the London bridge. Aurora is far too good for my cousin. Why do you encourage him?”
“Control yourself, sir,” she said sternly. “Your interest in your sister-in-law becomes too obvious. You cannot have her, Valerian. You have a wife, and I know you would not disgrace the Hawkesworth name or dishonor Aurora by offering her a lesser position in your life than Calandra now holds.”
“I love her,” he said low, his face agonized.
“I know,” his grandmother responded. “That is the tragedy, dear boy. You love her, and she would have made you a better wife than her sister, but fate had other plans for you both. Calandra, for all her faults, is expecting your heir, and Aurora must be married off as soon as is possible to prevent you from yourself, Valerian. St. John is an ideal candidate for her. He may not be titled, but he is a member of this family and a wealthy man. Aurora’s dowry, while a good one, is not good enough for a title, I fear. If she weds St. John, she will be near her sister, and that, I believe, is to the good.”
“Calandra will leave Hawkes Hill as soon as she is recovered from the birth of our child,” he reminded the old lady. “You know that is our bargain, and I will keep to it.”
“Perhaps she will not want to go if Aurora is near,” the dowager said hopefully. “In any event, Aurora must be married whether her sister remains here or departs back to London.”
“I do not think I can bear to see her married to another man,” the duke admitted. “What a weakling I am, Grandmama!”
“Then Aurora must return to St. Timothy with her brother and his bride when they leave in early November,” the dowager said firmly.
“No!” He shook his head vehemently. “I would rather she be wed to St. John and here, where I could at least see her, than send her back to St. Timothy, where I would never see her again.”
“You will have your child, Valerian, my boy,” the dowager said softly. “He will need you, for he will, I believe, have no mother. Let the child become your world. You will be happy, I promise you.”
Valerian Hawkesworth sighed sadly, a sound so filled with pain that it almost broke his grandmother’s heart, particularly that she knew the truth, thanks to the portrait in the family gallery and Martha’s forced honesty. I will forget I ever knew about this deception, she decided silently. Then she turned her head to gaze out through the dining room windows onto the garden, where Aurora walked with Justin St. John. They were merely shadows in the twilight, and she hoped that St. John would press Aurora to marry him. She wished she could hear
what they were saying, and then she smiled at herself for being a nosy old lady.
“Do you sense we are being watched?” Aurora said, her voice tinged with amusement. “I can almost feel the dowager’s eyes on the back of my neck.” She chuckled. “I do like her so much!”
“She has come to love you,” St. John said, “as have I.”
“Are you about to propose to me again?” she teased him. “How many times will this make, St. John? Five? Six?”
“This will be the seventh time, Aurora, and seven has always been a fortunate number for me.” He stopped walking and drew her into the circle of his arms. “This time I will not take no for an answer, my dear.” He ran a finger down the side of her face, and then caught her chin between his thumb and his forefinger. “I want you, Aurora. Do you understand what I mean? I want you!” The amber eyes blazed at her.
This suddenly forceful St. John intrigued her. What had happened to the slightly bored sophisticate he had been until a moment before? This man had a dangerous edge to him, and she was fascinated. “You want me? Do you mean you want to make love to me, St. John? What a naughty suggestion to make to a respectable maiden such as myself,” she answered him, her tone slightly mocking.
He laughed softly. “You do not fool me, Miss Spencer-Kimberly. Beneath that elegant and respectable missishness lies a fierce passion that has never been stoked, but when it is, it will threaten to consume us both. I want to make love to you, Aurora, and you want me to make love to you.” His arms tightened about her. “Don’t you?”
Her heart was suddenly racing, and her knees were threatening to give way beneath her. His words. The intensity in his voice. It was very exciting. She had always been careful of her reputation, never allowing a gentleman to kiss her or hold her hand, and now she wondered why not. Were not women supposed to have feelings of sensuality? She certainly did. Raising her aquamarine eyes to his, she answered breathlessly, “Yes! I do want you to make to love to me, St. John. Are you shocked?”
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