The Perfect Duchess

by Erica Taylor

  “Your grace, Lord Bexley,” the young lord said, nodding to each of them.

  “Ah, Lord Hemsworth,” Andrew said, hoping the relief he felt was not apparent in his voice.

  “I am terribly sorry to interrupt, your grace, but Father is asking for my sister and cousin to return for the second half of the program,” the young viscount replied.

  Lady Ava glared murderously at her brother, while Lady Josephine looked thankful for Hemsworth’s arrival.

  “Of course, if Father wishes it,” Lady Ava said, smiling at the gentlemen. “It was so wonderful to have a chance to speak with you, your grace. I certainly hope we see more of each other in the future.” She winked at him.

  Andrew nodded, mainly because he was at a loss for what to say. Lady Ava sauntered out of the box, swaying her hips just a tad too much with Lady Josephine quickly in her wake.

  “I apologize, your grace,” Lord Hemsworth said, blushing. “Sometimes a sister can be quite a handful.”

  “Quite right,” Andrew replied. It seemed all he could manage to say this evening. The viscount nodded again before hurrying after his sister.

  Clara glanced at Andrew, one curved brow raised in either question or humor, he was not sure which.

  “That was interesting,” Bexley said chuckling. “I say, Andrew, what has come over the ladies of the ton as of late? Such a shame all your brooding and glares and haughty stares are for naught.” Clara snickered and reclaimed her seat along the front row.

  “Oh, shut it,” Andrew grumbled and Bexley clapped him on his back.

  “I think this is partly my fault,” Clara replied.

  Andrew turned to regard her. “In what capacity?” he asked.

  “As I heard it in the refreshing room,” Clara began, “the marriageable ladies have taken your behavior towards me as a sign you are amiable to a marriage prospect.”

  “How does that even make sense?” he asked. “I am going to marry you. Shouldn’t that indicate I am removed from the marriage mart?”

  “You would think so,” Clara agreed and continued. “But since I am deemed so far beneath you, despite the fact that I am the daughter and sister of an earl, but apparently my supposed misdeeds on the Continent have cancelled out that fact. Everyone seems to think our engagement a grand scheme you have concocted as revenge against my family. There are bets on how soon you break off the engagement.” She turned to regard him, her mouth twitching in laughter. “The most popular wager is you will jilt me at the altar as my sister did to you.”

  Bexley burst out laughing, and Andrew glared at his friend.

  Clara laughed lightly, as if the whole thing had been created solely for her enjoyment. “Lady Ava has been declared to have the best chance to win your affections after you are done with me.”

  Andrew scowled as Clara and Bexley laughed at his expense. “Oh, will you two cease?”

  “Come now, your grace,” Clara said, turning her laughing eyes up at him. “There is only one solution.”

  Andrew held his breath, hoping she was going to say what he wanted her to say. That he should just marry her, that there was no other respectable option.

  “You should marry Lady Ava,” Clara concluded, giggling. “She apparently has set her cap for you, your grace. If I bet against myself, I will split the winnings with you.”

  Andrew scowled at the empty space in front of him.

  “That will certainly not happen,” he grumbled, trying not to be annoyed or cross, but finding it very difficult to be anything but.

  “And why is that?” Clara asked.

  Andrew turned his blue eyes onto her, eyes he knew were betraying what he was truly thinking. “Because, Lady Clara,” he replied, his voice low and thick with emotion. “With you beside me, I barely noticed she was here.”

  Clara’s expression faltered for a moment, but she recovered and shrugged, laughing off his comment. The music started, signaling the beginning of the second act and Susanna returned with Sarah and Norah at her heels.

  Clara glanced at Andrew as they both turned back towards the stage. “But, I don’t think you actually want me for your wife,” she said to him in a low tone that no one else would hear.

  “Why would you think that?” he asked.

  Her brow rose over her eye and she leveled an incredulous look at him. “Your actions sometimes say otherwise.”

  “Clara,” he said, leaning towards her. “If I hadn’t wanted to marry you, I would never have asked.”

  Clara watched the remainder of the opera, not understanding the words of the female lead’s song, but understanding the want and the sadness behind it. The melody filled her with sorrow and longing, but she was adamant about not letting Andrew see it.

  The chatter she’d overheard was not surprising. No one seemed to believe he would actually lower himself to marry her. Her rank and pedigree seemed to not matter. Clara knew she was worthy for him as a person, but as a society wife? No one would take her seriously as the Duchess of Bradstone. Would she spend her days having her husband jumping in to fight her battles? Would everyone whisper about her for the rest of her life, wondering how the duke could have made such a colossal mistake? She would never be accepted, not after what her brother had spread about her. She wanted things to be different, she wanted to be a proper ton miss who Andrew could take as a wife and make his duchess, and she could smite all those who dared say anything negative about her. But it was a fairytale, and she was too old to believe in happy endings. Her parents hadn’t gotten one. Her sister certainly hadn’t gotten hers. It was time she grew up and faced the world with her head held high. Two more years ,and she could take her funds, all of them, and leave without a backwards glance.

  Perhaps she could find work as a paid companion to some elderly lady. Or work as a governess. Though, finding such work without references to support her credibility would be difficult, especially in light of the scandal that would occur when she broke the engagement with Andrew.

  Maybe she should just stow away to Italy and tour the continent under an assumed name, and then when someone asked her how the weather in Italy was at a particular time of the year, she could boldly answer them with a response gained from firsthand experience.

  Once back in Bradstone House, she dressed for bed, but sleep eluded her. Again she braved the dark hallways in search of something to read, something to put her spinning mind to sleep.

  The front foyer was pitch dark as she tiptoed across, her bare feet soundless on the grand marble floor. She turned down the dark hallway, pausing outside the library door. Three doors down, the door to Andrew’s study, was ajar, light pooling in the darkened hallway, a thin strip of amber shooting up into the darkness. She heard voices and at once turned to leave, it was quite improper to eavesdrop, but the sound of her name made her pause.

  “Clara’s social suicide, Andrew,” Bexley’s voice said and Clara’s breath caught in her throat. “Sure she is a true gem and a joy to be with, but you have to know what this will do to you.”

  “I know,” Andrew said. “She’s not the most popular person.”

  “Morton certainly made her damaged goods,” Bexley said. “You survived him once; can you image what he would do to the both of you?”

  “Bex, everything I have is wrapped up in this dukedom,” Andrew replied. “You know I would never do anything to jeopardize that.”

  “I know,” Bexley replied. Clara could not bear to hear any more. Braving the darkness and the fact she might be heard tearing up the stairs, she ran away from the library door, away from Andrew and his laughing friend who could seem so nice in one instant, but it was truly refreshing to know what he really thought. What they both truly thought of her.

  She tumbled onto her bed, wrapping the soft down comforter around her and up over her head, wanting to block everything out. Was there no one who was not gossiping about her? She w
anted to un-hear their words, she wanted to go back in time and prevent herself from ever attending the Macalister Birthday Ball.

  That was not entirely true, Clara realized, even as tears ran down her face. If she had never gone to the ball, she would never have danced with Andrew, and the magical evening would have never happened. She wouldn’t know her brother wanted her dead for her money and had probably had her sister abducted for the same reason. She knew more and had experienced more in her short time here than she had in her five years stuffed up in her brother’s property. She could not go back to that, not now or ever.

  But to hear Andrew say such things about her, it completely tore her heart apart. It had been stupid, foolish, and childish to think he could feel the same things towards her, that their time together as children had meant something to him.

  Who was she fooling? Their time together as children? It was perhaps two summers over which she formed an embarrassing attachment, thinking him her one true love. As a teenager he had tolerated her because she was his friend’s sister, but as an adult had made it perfectly clear how he felt about her. He’d almost married her sister!

  Clara squeezed her eyes tighter, blocking out the night and wishing his words did not sting like needles to her heart. She’d tried to remain impassive, tried to keep him out of her heart, and she’d been a fool to allow even the faintest glimmer of hope take root.

  Her tears carried her into a restless sleep, where coherent dreams eluded her, only echoes of her fears and Andrew’s hurtful words trailing through a dark abstract mist she was tumbling down.

  Clara awoke with a start, her breath catching as she came fully to consciousness. Blinking away her dream, she rolled over to see the thin sliver of moon shining in her window. The moon was not interested in the plebian comings and goings of the citizens of the city, any more so than Andrew was interested in her. He was here as a comfort, as a friend, and would leave her all too soon, just as this moon would slowly move through its phases. He would laugh and smile at her first, and then take his beautiful face and fade into darkness.

  Part of her wanted to believe he was falling in love with her. He was gentle and kind to her, but after hearing his words tonight, she could not trust what was said to her face. How could she trust his affection for her when he said the opposite when she was not around? She would stay here where she was safe, but the moment the danger was over, the moment her brother was no longer a threat to her or anyone she cared about, she would leave. She could not marry Andrew knowing he would end up resenting her in the end. She would manage without Andrew and his teasing, boyish smiles or the way he could make her feel like the most beautiful, most important person in the room with one look. She would learn to live without him, again, and in time he would fade from her memory.

  Clara closed her eyes to the sight and willed the pain to go away, though she was certain it never would.

  Andrew glared into the fire. He wanted to hurl the half empty decanter of brandy into the flames, just to watch the fire flare up and then die away. He wanted to make Lady Ava pay for her arrogance. Attempting to insult Clara all the while trying to win him for herself? It was laughable.

  “It was rather humorous to watch you deflect the attentions of Lady Ava,” Bexley said to him. Andrew glanced at his friend, knowing that all jokes aside, Bexley was only here for support. Andrew was in a very dangerous mood tonight, and Bexley seemed to sense that. He was not sure if Bexley wanted to make sure Andrew did not pummel some unsuspecting victim or take off to Mackingdale’s London residence and string Lady Ava up by her expensive stockings.

  “It is tiresome,” Andrew stated, taking a sip of his drink. He knew he would do no such thing to Lady Ava. He would not want to give her the slightest bit of attention, even negative, or she would be singing their engagement to whoever would listen.

  “Oh, come now,” Bexley said. “Laugh a little, Andrew. It was quite humorous from where I sat.”

  “Did you see how they treated Clara?” Andrew asked.

  “I saw,” Bexley replied. “I could also tell how well she handled them.”

  Andrew ran his hand through his hair, pride rippling through him at the thought of Clara’s set-down to the incorrigible ladies. “Not once did she cower,” he said. “Not once did she let on to how she was actually feeling. She was brilliant.”

  “And you could tell?” Bexley asked. “How she really was truly feeling?”

  “She was mortified,” Andrew explained. “And she was hurt, but she set those girls down without missing a beat. Her continued strength, despite her almost ruined reputation, amazes me. I think she could manage it.”

  “Manage what?”

  “Being my wife.”

  “Clara’s social suicide, Andrew,” Bexley said. “Sure, she is a true gem and a joy to be with, but you have to know what this will do to you.”

  “I know,” Andrew said. “She’s not the most popular person.”

  “Morton certainly made her damaged goods,” Bexley said, shaking his head. “You survived him once; can you image what he would do to the both of you?”

  Andrew sighed, knowing his friend had a point. “Bex, everything I have is wrapped up in this dukedom. You know I would never do anything to jeopardize that.”

  “I know,” Bexley replied.

  “But—” Andrew began, but a sound in the hall caught his attention. Bexley looked at the almost closed door. They listened for another moment before deciding it was nothing.

  “But I need Clara in my life,” he continued. “I need her to thrive. I was not living before, I was going through the motions. I was merely surviving. Clara somehow breathed life back into me. I feel like anything is possible. I cannot let that go.”

  “I have noticed a change in you over the past couple of weeks,” Bexley admitted. “The gents and I all have, actually. We just worry about you, Andrew. We know what you have been through, and while you will not ever lose our support, society is a fickle creature. Lose their favor and it is hard to gain it back. Society rules our world, as disheartening as the thought is, it is true. Parliament, the Crown, the blasted Patronesses of Almack’s, everything is connected. Don’t jeopardize all that you could accomplish by falling in society’s eyes.”

  “I have considered this,” Andrew replied. “Maybe not all the way through, maybe I am blinded by my need for her. I cannot expect you to understand, but someday you will.”

  “Are you in love with her?”

  Andrew laughed. “I don’t know,” he replied. “Sometimes it is so much more than that. I feel an undying urge to be near her, and hear her laugh, to know what she thinks about something. But I’m overly worried about her, about protecting her. I cannot get her out of my mind, and the only thing I can think of is to marry her. I cannot lose her, that is for sure.”

  “Sounds like you are in love with her,” Bexley replied.

  “Maybe I am,” Andrew replied with a shrug. “It does not matter. She will be my wife, and everything will be fine.” Andrew sighed and took another sip of his drink. “Thank you for listening, Bex.”

  “Not a problem, old chap,” Bexley replied. “Whatever you choose, we will support you, regardless of whether or not we understand. Just remember to return the favor when I come crying to you, heartsick and love-struck for some inappropriate chit.”

  “Lord help us when that day arrives,” Andrew teased.

  Bexley tossed back the remaining contents of his glass and shook his head. “I fear for the world when I decide to find a wife.”

  “Be careful,” Andrew advised. “I’ve heard that a wife will find you whether you are looking for one or not.”

  Bexley laughed. “Then it is I who should be afraid!” He stood and looked back at Andrew. “Is it safe for me to leave? You aren’t going to go traipsing into Old Mack’s house and demand satisfaction on Lady Clara’s behalf?”

 
With a laugh, Andrew shook his head. “No, I am quite sane. Go and enjoy your evening. I will not be good company tonight.”

  Bexley nodded and left, patting Andrew’s shoulder in a comfortable, brother-in-arms sort of way as he passed.

  It was late; Andrew could see the clock ticking away towards the early hours of the morning. He had no desire to move, even if the thought of his bed was inviting. He wanted to make certain Clara was asleep, that there would be no light coming from beneath her door as he passed, though he was not certain he would be able to stay away if he knew she was awake.

  Andrew watched the amber liquid swirl around in his snifter, the light from the crackling fire illuminating the color of the alcohol, casting faint shadows across the empty study. Slowly he took a sip, letting the spiciness of the brandy wash over his mouth and burn his throat on the way down. The sensation was a welcome distraction from his brooding thoughts, but did not erase them.

  Andrew shivered despite the warmth of the room. Above all, he wanted Clara safe. Morton was last seen at a known gambling hell, but as far as they could determine, he was not staying anywhere in the vicinity. He was proving very competent at covering his tracks. Morton had caused enough problems in their lives, both his and Clara’s, and he just wanted to be rid of the man. Andrew did not appreciate feeling helpless against Morton.

  Andrew shivered again, thinking about the way Clara made him feel. Damnation, he was in love with her. He had never been in love before, so he was not expecting to immediately recognize the signs, but a silly grin spread across his face as the full impact of the realization hit him. He was in love with Clara. He was mad with worry for her safety, and he desired her immensely, his self-control had nearly failed him once. The way she handled herself and those twits they had encountered at the theater made him radiate with pride. He was in awe of her strength and courage and amused with her feisty wit, especially when it was directed at someone other than himself. And her smile made him melt like a green schoolboy. The way Clara’s eyes had laughed tonight at the opera had challenged his self-control. She had looked like a drop of sunshine in her golden dress, and that was truly what she had come to be to him—happiness and light, warming his mundane existence, reminding him what it felt like to be alive.