The Perfect Duchess

by Erica Taylor

  They sat in silence for another ten minutes or so as the carriage rolled through London to their mystery destination, before coming to a stop. Andrew had the carriage door open and was gone before she could look to see where they were. She stepped out from the carriage with Andrew’s assistance, gasping when she saw where he had brought her.

  “Andrew,” she said breathlessly, breathing in the deep floral aroma wafting in the air. She had heard of Vauxhall Gardens before, but had never had a chance to see them for herself. The gardens had been on Susanna’s list of sightseeing locations, but they never made it.

  “I thought you might like to tour the gardens,” Andrew said gently.

  The damn irritating man! She wanted to gather him into her arms and kiss him senseless!

  “Thank you,” she said, her eagerness nearly busting from her as he led her to the entrance, dropping a few coins in the collector bin for their entrance fee. She nabbed a map and program as they walked by the entrance booth and scanned the basic layout.

  “I am told they have a spectacular collection of roses,” he said, his shoulders relaxing, energy returning to his eyes.

  Clara nodded eagerly. “They are said to be the very best.”

  The gardens were magnificent. Row upon row of greenery and shrubbery stretched out as far as she could see in every direction save for the one from which she had just come. Statuary and mason work accented the many alleés throughout the carefully manicured lanes.

  “Vauxhall Gardens really comes to life at dusk,” Andrew explained. “They have fireworks and music and performers. But during the day it sits in its simplicity to be viewed at one’s leisure.”

  “It is wonderful,” Clara said, her smile soft across her lips. She was truly touched by his gesture. “At night you wouldn’t be able to appreciate the beauty in its manicured rows and floral accents. It is perfect just as it is during the light of day, it does not need gunpowder and music to give it more magic.”

  She walked along the paths, smelling each blooming flower, basking in the minimalism applied to such a large space. Rows of trees matched with bushes and shrubs and flowering plants, it was cultivated and civilized, but it was still wild in its own way.

  “See, look,” Clara said to Andrew as she pointed to flowering bush. “See how all the others are white and this one decided to be red? It is as if it is rebelling against nature, against all the attempts to control it. But it is nature in itself—it cannot be controlled, not completely. It will act as it pleases and dare someone to cut it down.”

  “Someone will probably come cut it down,” Andrew answered. “Some gardener who thinks he knows how things should be will come and snip it out. It might have been better for that red flower to be white than for it to be plucked and discarded.”

  Clara looked up at Andrew curiously. With each moment she spent with him, she understood him more and more, the reasons for the change in him, from the carefree Andrew Macalister she knew as a child to the Stone Duke before her.

  “But then it wouldn’t be who it truly is,” she answered softly. “A red flower cannot be white, no matter how hard it tries. It was born red, it should stay red. There is nothing wrong with it being red. It can be red and still be as beautiful.”

  They walked on, finally coming into the rose garden. It was separated from the rest of the walks but still a part of the larger cultivated elegance. Here, the roses were not planted in rows but allowed to grow more wild and untamed, much as wild roses.

  Clara bent to smell a bright white flower, full of petals. She inhaled its sweet scent and offered the flower to Andrew who dutifully bent and smelled the flower, as he had done for every other flower that day. They had not spoken much, just walked in silent companionship down the rows of trees and shrubs. Clara did not mind the lack of conversation. It was not uncomfortable; she was content to just be beside him.

  Andrew leaned away from the flower and nodded just as he had with the others. She wanted to ask him what had prompted him to bring her here, to want to spend a few hours with her, why he was such a conundrum after the warmth of beauty in their intimacies last week followed by his cold shoulder. Sometimes she felt so close to him, like a covert companion in their own clandestine world. When he smiled, he was sharing something special with her and only her, as if she was in on his private joke, his personal secret. When he kissed her, she felt cherished, beloved, and desired, like he would never get enough of her. And then there were times he was miles away, his eyes concealed and face masked over by the Stone Duke. He turned cold and autocratic and entirely frustrating. His attentions to her were confusing, and she refused to hope what he could possibly feel for her. Her own emotions were frightening on their own, to think he might feel the same things, and to have that proved false, Clara did not want to consider it.

  He turned them down a partly secluded avenue. The trees formed a canopy overhead blocking out the brilliant summer sun. The thickness of the trees also restricted their view of the remainder of the gardens. They were, as Clara realized suddenly, quite alone. Even Molly, who had been following at a discreet distance the entire afternoon, stood with her back to them at the entrance to the avenue.

  Her gaze fluttered to his, and she realized he’d been watching her, heat dancing through his eyes.

  “We’ve seen all that Vauxhall has to offer,” Clara said, cross at herself for becoming aroused by his heated stare. “Have you an idea of what to do with the rest of our time?”

  Gently and without words, he tugged the ends of the ribbons tied prettily under her jaw, slipping the bonnet from her head. Placing his hands on either side of her face, the pads of his thumbs rubbing across her cheekbones, he leaned into her, whispering, “Something I’ve been longing to do all day.”

  Clara closed her eyes as his soft lips descended upon hers and reveled in the feeling of his kiss. It was a soft and sweet kiss, not lacking in passion, just intensity. His mouth moved over hers, tempting and teasing her lips apart and she complied because she wanted to kiss him again, wanted to feel the magic of his touch swirl through her. She felt loved when he touched her, craved it when he was away. She was not convinced she could walk away from this man, clear and free. A part of her heart would always belong to him, as it always had.

  Eventually he pulled away, leaving her thoroughly aroused, smiling softly down to her, his touch gentle as he brushed his thumb over her bottom lip. His face was open and bright, and Clara refused to believe what she saw in his eyes, not daring to trust her own assumptions on things that had not been said aloud. She knew how she felt, and she was far past falling in love with this man, though she truly had no choice, no ounce of resistance towards him. She’d loved him since she could remember, and now it sat in a hard, painful knot at the base of her heart, terrified he would not love her in return. She could not expect him to, could barely even allow herself to hope.

  He fit her bonnet back on her head, tying the ribbon. Smiling at her, he linked his arms with hers again, and they continued down the secluded avenue, Molly strolling along discreetly behind them.

  Gentle reader, this author can only conclude the Duke of B—’s behavior towards Lady C— is not what a marriage is founded on, but rather a testing of the marriage waters. From a reliable source, it is known that the Duke of B— intends to choose a proper society wife to be his duchess, by the end of this season! His arrangement with Lady C— is only to boost his image to the marriage minded ladies keen on becoming a duchess, as Lady C—’s past indiscretions in Italy made her unsuitable for such a role. Who will be the one to snare this prime catch after all?

  Chapter Fifteen

  A little bit later that evening, as Andrew stood just outside the doorway to his theater box, he began to notice something different about the evening compared to those past.

  People were paying attention to him.

  Normally he was able to fade into the background at such eve
nts. People expected him to be there and noted when he was not, but his icy demeanor kept people at bay. No one sought him out, no one stopped to speak with him.

  That was, until tonight.

  Andrew was not eager to go to the theater, as his sisters and Clara were. He wanted to stay home with Clara, secluded in some corner of the house where no one would find him, and her smiles would be for him only.

  Instead, he was at Covent Garden, enduring another torturous performance and intermission promenade. Very few people were actually concerned or even remotely interested in the actual theatrical performance they saw tonight. Andrew did not even know what it was called. Most people wanted to be seen and see who would be seeing them. It was an endless charade of splendor and pageantry, and sometimes he wished he could be rid of it all. Especially since the ladies of the ton were braving his foul glares for the first time in a very long time.

  Miss Petunia Barfield stood before him, flanked by her sisters, Marianne, Rosemary, and Annabelle. They each smiled sweetly at him, batting their eyelashes, flashing flirtatious grins, completely ignoring Bexley, who stood beside him. Susanna had been joined by Lady Monica and had gone off to stroll through the hall during intermission; Sarah had left with Clara to see to the ladies refreshing rooms. Norah had disappeared off with her friends as well.

  “Yes, of course,” Andrew said absently to whatever Miss Barfield had said, hoping that the Barfield sisters would take his bored voice as a hint to leave him alone. He was not really paying attention to what they were saying anyway. He knew he shouldn’t scowl, but it was very impolite to continue to talk to someone when it was clear they were not interested. Their inane chatter only increased his irritation.

  “And of course Lady Norah said we must come and say hello,” Miss Barfield was saying, dropping his sister’s name as if she hoped to impress him with her connections. Miss Rosemary, Miss Marianne, and Miss Annabelle agreed, their dark red curls bouncing as they nodded enthusiastically.

  “Speaking of sisters, have you seen which way mine went, Bexley?” Andrew asked, turning toward his friend.

  “Which one, your grace?” Miss Barfield asked looking at the masses surrounding them.

  “I believe I saw Lady Radcliff in that direction,” Miss Rosemary said, pointing towards the opposite direction of the refreshing room.

  “Lady Susanna was that direction, I believe,” Miss Marianne added, pointing in the opposite direction.

  “Shall I fetch her for you?” Miss Annabelle asked.

  Losing his patience, Andrew turned his scowl onto the eldest, and poor Petunia seemed to wither on the spot.

  “Of course, your grace,” she said and took an unconscious step back. “I did not intend to chatter as long as I did. It is a great fault of mine, Mother always says. Please enjoy the remainder of your evening.”

  He simply nodded and they quickly left, practically scurrying away. Individually, the Barfield sisters were tolerable at best; as a group, they were overwhelming. He turned away from the crowd to avoid another matchmaking mother and glared at Bexley.

  “This is not my fault, Andrew, no matter how much you may wish to blame me,” Bexley laughed.

  “You and your tricks and games, you are certain you know nothing about this?”

  “About the reaffirmed interest the ladies of the ton suddenly have in you?” Bexley laughed again. “Believe me, I wish I knew something about this!”

  “This is exasperating,” Andrew muttered. He needed a drink, something stronger than the lemonade and watered down wine Covenant Garden was willing to offer.

  “It is quite comical,” Bexley replied. “Lady Clara’s absence has made it all the more obvious.”

  Two more minutes and he was going in after her, Andrew decided, scowling in the direction of the refreshing rooms.

  He was thankfully spared the embarrassment of storming into the ladies refreshing rooms by the appearance of Clara a mere thirty seconds later. She smiled at him, an odd but attractive glint to her brown eyes. They seemed to sparkle more than usual.

  “Is something amiss?” he asked, thinking his cravat pin was out of place.

  “I will tell you later,” she said, her lips twitching up in amusement. “It is too enjoyable to share it with you just yet.”

  “What—” but he was cut off by the arrival of two young and fashionably dressed young ladies and a crusty old earl.

  “Bradstone, have you met my daughter?” the old Earl of Mackingdale asked, indicating the blushing blonde beside him. “Lady Ava, this is the young duke I was telling you about. Quite a strong arm in Parliament. Going to do this country some good in the years to come.”

  “How splendid,” Lady Ava purred.

  “And this is my niece, Lady Josephine,” Mackingdale said, indicating the second lady, a pretty girl with more of a reddish tint to her blonde than her cousin bore. Andrew recognized the two ladies, but he could not pin down where he had seen them recently.

  “A pleasure, your grace,” Lady Josephine said and curtsied. Andrew bowed and introduced Clara and Bexley, who were both doing their best not to burst out in laughter at Andrew’s expense. Really, the amount of interest and attention he was receiving this evening was ridiculous. Andrew, for his part, tried not to growl.

  What sort of manic ghoul had possessed the ladies of the ton this evening? He glanced around the hallway, taking in the interested stares from many of the female population in attendance. More than five women openly stared back, one winked, and he looked quickly away. First the Barfield sisters, and now this?

  “Ah, I think I see an acquaintance of mine,” Lord Mackingdale said, coughing into his handkerchief. “Excuse me.”

  “Your grace, we had such a wonderful evening at your birthday ball last month,” Lady Ava said, smiling up at him, a saucy glint to her eyes. He nodded in response and realized that was where he had seen them recently. These two were the gossiping chits he had eavesdropped on during the birthday ball.

  “It was so delightful to have a private dishing of Gunter’s ices that evening,” Lady Josephine added, her tone holding a double meaning. “One can only imagine what other treats you have to offer.” Andrew was thankful he did not let on to his shock, though the same could not be said for Bexley.

  “It was a wonderful evening, was it not?” Clara asked, stepping into the conversation to cover for the coughing fit that Bexley was trying to recover from.

  Lady Ava turned her gaze onto Clara and narrowed a fraction. “It was. I must admit I was most surprised to see you there. I did not think it was something Lord Morton would allow you to frequent.”

  “He was most gracious to allow me to attend with my aunt and uncle,” Clara fibbed. “It was a wonderful time, wouldn’t you say, your grace?” Clara turned her sparking eyes onto him.

  “Most certainly,” he replied. Clara held his gaze for a moment longer before looking back at Lady Ava.

  “His grace was even generous enough to dance the dinner waltz with me,” Clara continued, to the annoyed expressions on the ladies’ faces. Lady Ava looked at her cousin and smiled, a malicious look in her eye.

  “Wherever did you get such a beautiful gown, Lady Clara?” Lady Josephine inquired, glancing down at Clara’s gown, a soft golden satin with intricately embroidered vines across the bodice and hemline.

  “Thank you, Lady Josephine,” Clara replied. “I simply fell in love with the fabric when my aunt, the Dowager Countess of Desborough, suggested it to me.”

  “Your aunt is the Dowager Countess of Desborough?” Lady Josephine asked, gulping in surprise. The Dowager Countess of Desborough was a finicky old lady who was not to be trifled with, and was a good friend of Andrew’s grandmother. A young lady could be ruined with just a bad word from the countess. Andrew suppressed a laugh as the two ladies fluttered with this new information. He was a little surprised to be reminded that the Dowager C
ountess was Clara’s great aunt. She had mentioned her great aunt before; he had just forgotten exactly who that said aunt was.

  Clara nodded. “Great aunt, if we are being technical. She was quite generous to see to a season for me. Who knew I would end up engaged to a duke?”

  “Yes, who indeed,” Lady Ava replied, apparently regaining some of her composure. “I thought maybe you acquired such a garment in your travels on the continent? I say, how is Italy?”

  “Goodness, I’ve never been that far away from home,” Clara replied with a laugh. “Everyone has been asking about my journeys outside of England, but I’ve never left the country. Where has everyone been getting such ridiculous information? I’ve been in the Lake District for the past five years.”

  “Visiting your sister?” Lady Josephine asked.

  “Sadly, no,” Clara replied without missing a beat. “My sister passed a number of years ago. I was quite saddened by her death. We were twins, after all.”

  “Yes, but you must have had some communication with her after she, erm, disappeared,” Lady Ava said, glancing not so discreetly at Andrew. “She was, as you said, your twin.”

  “I am afraid to disappoint you again, but I have no idea where my sister ran off to when she disappeared,” Clara replied, and Andrew could hear the slight hurt in her tone. He stared at the two young ladies, hoping his displeasure was quite obvious. He wanted them to leave. Now.

  “If my sister left in such a scandalous fashion, I don’t know what I would do with myself,” Lady Josephine said with a laugh in her voice. “It would certainly be quite a while before I showed my face in proper company again.”

  “Well, it has been five years,” Clara acknowledged. “I daresay that would qualify as quite a while.”

  There was a soft knock, and Andrew looked to the doorway to see a young lord looking very uncomfortable. Salvation at last, Andrew thought, recognizing Lady Ava’s older brother. He smiled apologetically.