Merry Widows 02: Just One Of Those Flings

by Candice Hern

  Beatrice would not have been surprised to discover that her sister had deliberately fallen from her horse just so that Emily could take advantage of Beatrice's connections. The girl had no notion of the state of her family's circumstances and simply believed Ophelia's ambitions for her were the natural dreams of a fond parent, and Beatrice would never disabuse her of that notion. Besides, Emily had more than her own share of ambition and did not need her mother to tell her where to toss her cap.

  Even so, Beatrice hoped the young marquess would make an appearance today. He would satisfy everyone's ambitions. He had arrived in London only recently and was already a major topic of conversation and gossip among the other dowagers and chaperones and guardians who were firing off young girls into the marriage mart. The marquess promised to be the catch of the Season. It was not clear to Beatrice where he had been that his return was so heralded, but there were whispers of diplomatic missions abroad. An air of mystery added to the appeal of his rank and title.

  "I know you will behave very prettily, my dear," she said. "You must forgive me for being such a fusspot, but I barely know the duchess and want this meeting to go well."

  "I know, Aunt Beatrice. Don't worry."

  "And if you aspire to be a duchess yourself one day," Beatrice said, "assuming you bring the young marquess up to scratch, then I recommend that you pay close attention today. A grand ducal mansion is much larger than what you are accustomed to, and the running of it requires a very large staff. The mistress of such a house will have a great deal of responsibility, so take note of how the duchess behaves."

  "Yes, ma'am, I will."

  They were met at the grand gateway to the house by a porter, to whom the coachman gave Beatrice's name. After checking his list of expected visitors, the porter opened the ornate entry gates to allow the carriage to drive through to the large courtyard. By the time they reached the main entrance, the doors were already opened, and a stately butler and a liveried footman stood ready to receive them.

  Beatrice and Emily were handed down from the carriage by the footman, and led inside by the butler. They walked into a large, elegant entry hall with a painted ceiling and a marble floor laid out in a geometric pattern. Two housemaids stepped forward and bobbed curtsies. Emily was helped out of her pelisse. Beatrice, however, did not relinquish her short spencer jacket, for the jaconet muslin dress she wore, with the double frill of Vandyke lace at the throat, did not look half as well without it. Both ladies removed their bonnets. Emily's bright curls framed her face charmingly, though she fluffed them a bit to make sure. Beatrice wore a cap beneath her bonnet, as all women of a certain age did, but it was a cunning little quartered foundling cap of lace with a silk flower pinned to one side. Just because she was long past her youth there was no excuse to be unfashionable. She smiled at Emily. They both looked fine enough to meet a duchess.

  The butler led them through an arched colonnade of white veined marble, and up the grand staircase. Enormous portraits of the current duke and duchess met them at the landing; then twin staircases, equally grand, completed the ascent to the first floor.

  Beatrice had been inside most of the important ducal mansions in London, but never this one. Its reputation as the grandest of them all was not unwarranted. It was a magnificent, palatial building that almost took one's breath away.

  She looked at Emily and smiled. If things went well, this might all be hers one day. Mistress of all this grandeur. Her niece, a duchess! Beatrice's heart gave a little flutter of excitement at the possibility. What a coup that would be. Ophelia would probably drive Sir Albert into tossing her out just so she could move in here.

  A footman stood guard at a pair of paneled mahogany doors polished to a high gleam. At a nod from the butler, he opened them to reveal a large saloon or sitting room. A tray-shaped coffered ceiling rose up at least forty feet above them, each coffer set apart with richly gilded molding and painted with classical figures. Gilt also decorated the ornate moldings around the windows and doors and fireplace.

  The draperies and the furniture—which was elegant, expensive, and very much in the French taste—were done in shades of crimson. Sunlight poured into the room from windows that reached the ceiling, and enormous mirrors were placed between the windows. The room was filled with light, and though impressively grand in scale, it was also warm and inviting.

  "Lady Somerfield, Your Grace," the butler announced. "And Miss Emily Thirkill."

  The duchess rose from a small writing desk and smiled. Beatrice guessed that she was in her late sixties, based on the ages of her children, but she looked at least a decade younger. She was slender and elegant, with a crown of thick hair that was more silver than brown. Her face was not unlined, but the fine bones of cheek and jaw gave it a timeless beauty.

  Beatrice made a deep curtsy and was pleased to note that Emily's was even deeper.

  "Good afternoon, Lady Somerfield. How nice to see you again. And Miss Thirkill?"

  "My niece, Your Grace. I am chaperoning her this Season for my sister and her husband, Sir Albert and Lady Thirkill. I hope you do not mind that I brought her along."

  The duchess smiled at Emily, who, for once, actually did look demure. "Of course I do not mind. I am pleased to meet you, my dear. Charming," she said as she surveyed Emily from head to toe. "Quite charming." She gave a signal to the butler, who nodded and departed with a crisp bow. "Please sit down." She gestured toward two crimson-upholstered armchairs.

  Beatrice and Emily took their seats and straightened their skirts. The duchess, quite obviously struck by Emily's exceptional looks, could not seem to take her eyes off the girl, who was quite aware of Her Grace's scrutiny and sat up straight and tall.

  "I trust you are making the best of the warm weather," the duchess said. And several minutes of polite, inconsequential conversation about the weather and their good health followed.

  A pair of housemaids was soon ushered into the room by a footman. One was carrying a tea service, the other a tray of dishes piled with a variety of sweetmeats and biscuits. The footman brought a tea table from a corner of the room and placed it in front of the duchess. The service was arranged with precision on the table, and another footman came in with a large silver urn on a stand and set it beside the duchess so she could easily refill the teapot with hot water.

  She poured out cups of tea for each of them. One of the maids delivered their cups while the other passed around the dishes of sweets and biscuits. The duchess spoke a soft word to one of the footmen, who nodded and followed the rest of the staff out of the room.

  "Now, then," the duchess said, "you wish to make use of our ballroom, I understand?"

  "If it would please Your Grace," Beatrice said. "The Benevolent Widows Fund trustees have asked me to inquire if you would allow us to hold our last ball of the Season here. We understand you have a rather large ballroom."

  "It was the Great Drawing Room at one time," the duchess said, "but the furniture was removed so often for balls that we decided to convert it permanently into a ballroom. There are several other drawing rooms, so it was no sacrifice to transform the largest of them. We have four daughters, you know, and when they were younger, one of them was always wanting us to host a ball for her."

  Beatrice took a sip of tea and smiled. "I have two young daughters myself," she said, "and already they talk about the balls they will be wanting in a few years. They are certain to keep me busy."

  The duchess nodded. "If they are anything like my girls, they will. But it is a great pleasure to fire off one's daughters into Society. And you are getting early practice this Season with your charming niece." She turned to Emily. "Are you enjoying your Season, my dear?"

  "Yes, Your Grace," Emily said, "very much so. Thanks to my aunt, who takes me to all the best parties and balls."

  The duchess smiled. "And a pretty girl like you never sits out a dance, I'll wager."

  Emily lowered her eyes in a look so demure, so meek and modest, that Beatrice had to bite b
ack a smile. If she didn't find a proper match for the girl, there was always the stage.

  "Thank you, Your Grace," Emily said. "I have been very fortunate to dance so often. I enjoy dancing. Especially at my aunt's charity balls, which are the best of them all."

  Well, bless her little thespian heart. It truly was difficult not to be charmed by the girl.

  "Yes, the Widows Fund balls are quite popular," the duchess said, "and support a very good cause."

  "The response to our balls has been most gratifying," Beatrice said. "We raise enough money to support a large facility where war widows and their children may stay while the staff helps them find respectable employment and permanent housing. We have been privileged to assist a great many women in getting back on their feet again. But this war makes more widows every day, and many of them are left with little or nothing. And so we continue to raise money for their support. We trustees are all widows ourselves, you see, but more fortunate in our circumstances. It seems only right that we should reach out to help women who don't have our advantages to recover from such a loss."

  "You are to be commended for stepping up and doing what the government ought to be doing," the duchess said. "But the country is run by men, and they really have no idea how their wars affect the lives of women, do they? Your balls do a great service, Lady Somerfield. Of course you may use our ballroom. I am honored that you thought of it."

  Beatrice gave a quiet sigh of relief. She had hoped the duchess would agree, but one could never be certain about such things. "Thank you so much, Your Grace. You are most kind. You cannot imagine how much this means to us. If your ballroom is large enough, we may be able to increase our number of invitations and therefore raise even more money."

  "It is my pleasure," the duchess said. "When we finish our tea, I will take you to see the room, and you may judge for yourself how many invitations to send."

  "The last charity ball of the Season has typically been a masquerade ball," Beatrice said. "Do you have any objections to a costume ball?"

  The duchess smiled and her eyes twinkled with pleasure. "None at all. I haven't attended a masquerade in years. I look forward to it. I will even try to talk Doncaster into wearing his infamous Cardinal Wolsey costume. If he does, I shall dress as a nun." She threw her head back and laughed.

  "What has you so amused, Your Grace?"

  Beatrice looked toward the door to see three gentlemen enter. The speaker was the duke himself, a stately, still-handsome gentleman with a thick shock of bright silver hair. The other two men were much younger. One was tall and thin with light brown hair and twinkling gray eyes that found Emily and stared.

  The broader, dark-haired gentleman had something of the duke's look about him as well as the noble bearing. Surely he was the marquess.

  "Really, Doncaster. Must you barge in on our tea?" the duchess said, trying to look stern, though amusement lit her eyes.

  "You must forgive me, Your Grace," the duke said as he approached his wife. "We could not resist the sound of your laughter. If you will share your amusement, we shall pay our respects to your guests and be off." He bent down to kiss his wife's outstretched hand.

  The duchess wrinkled her nose. "Ack. You've been smoking with Thayne again. That horrid hubble-bubble thing."

  "Yes, we've all three had a nice smoke," the duke said, and grinned at his wife. "Perfectly marvelous thing, the hookah."

  "Perfectly horrid, if you ask me."

  "I'm sorry, Mother." The dark-haired gentleman spoke. He stood ramrod straight, his shoulders thrown back in an almost military stance. Unlike the duke's, his countenance was dour, as rigid as his posture. "Perhaps we should leave you to your guests."

  So he was the marquess, as she'd guessed. He was extremely good-looking, with dark hair and dark eyes. Why did it seem that every gentleman Beatrice met these days had that same coloring? She studied him for a moment, searching for signs of a certain maharaja. There were similarities in build and coloring, but the marquess was certainly not her unknown lover. There was too much cool reserve about him to have been her warm, seductive maharaja. And thank goodness. She could only imagine the awkwardness of pushing her niece into the arms of her secret lover. The very idea made her shudder.

  "No," the duchess said, "as long as you are here you must all stay a while and give us your company. Come, let me make my guests known to you."

  "I am already acquainted with Lady Somerfield, of course," the duke said. "It is good to see you again, madam."

  Beatrice exchanged a few pleasantries with the duke. They'd met only once before, but he was one of those men steeped in social graces, who made a point of remembering personal details about every acquaintance. He asked about her charity work and about her daughters.

  "But you have not met Lady Somerfield's niece," the duchess said, steering her husband toward Emily. "This is Miss Emily Thirkill."

  Emily curtsied prettily and offered a fetching smile. Beatrice had to give the girl credit for not cowering or stammering in the face of so formidable a peer. The confidence born of extreme beauty served her well in such situations. She stood straight and proud, and looked the duke squarely in the eye as she responded in a clear voice to his questions about her Season.

  Emily was no fool. She knew she had to win the approval of the duke and duchess if there was ever to be any hope of winning their son. Within minutes, she had the duke smitten. He never dropped his regal demeanor, but the tiniest gleam in his eye signaled his appreciation.

  Well done, Emily.

  "And this is my son," the duchess said, drawing that gentleman forward. "Lord Thayne, and his friend Mr. Burnett."

  The Marquess of Thayne wore patrician detachment like a cloak, never cracking a smile as the duchess made introductions. He kept his hands behind his back and made a crisp bow to Beatrice. His dark eyes studied her for a moment, then moved on to Emily. Beatrice experienced a sharp twinge of heat, as his eyes had looked into hers so intently. But it had been the same with other dark-eyed, dark-haired men lately. Damn that maharaja for making her so aware of—what? Male potency? Was she doomed to imagine secret couplings with every dark-haired man she met, even one as cool and distant as the marquess? Once again, she cursed herself for bringing on this confusion through one irrational moment in an unlit garden on a moonless night. Despite the encouragement of her friends, she regretted that encounter more with each passing day, and was now determined to put it behind her and concentrate on the delicate business of securing a rich husband for her niece.

  She watched as the marquess made his bow to Emily, who tilted her head at a flattering angle and gave him her most dazzling smile, the same smile that had captured the heart of almost every man in London, or so it seemed. But so far, she had not allowed her own heart to be captured. She was holding out for the perfect match, which meant rank, fortune, and good looks, in that order.

  Who better to meet Emily's ambitions than this handsome marquess?

  But the gentleman seemed unaffected by Emily's charms. He acknowledged her with the cool arrogance of the true aristocrat. Emily would have to work hard to crack his shell. Beatrice hoped he wasn't the priggish sort who looked down his noble nose at the rest of the world. Did she really want Emily to align herself with such a cold fish? When she thought of how warm certain men could be—a certain man in particular—Beatrice wondered why anyone would give a second thought to a man like the Marquess of Thayne.

  The long-limbed Mr. Burnett was quite the opposite of his friend. Boyishly charming with an open and friendly countenance, he quite won over Beatrice with his lopsided smile. She liked him at once. He tried to keep from staring at Emily, but his gaze was drawn to her like a lodestone.

  "And will you finally tell us, my dear," the duke said, "what Lady Somerfield or Miss Thirkill has said to make you laugh so?"

  "Lady Somerfield's charity is going to use Doncaster House for a ball," the duchess said. "It is to be a masquerade ball, and I was just musing over what we should wear.
I believe we should unearth your Cardinal Wolsey costume."

  The duke gave a bark of laughter. "A splendid idea!" He turned to Beatrice. "Her Grace knows how much I enjoy parading about as the old scoundrel, with a red cap on my head and a ridiculously heavy gold chain across my chest." Returning his twinkling gaze to his duchess, he asked, "And who shall you be, my dear?"

  "I won't tell you," she said. "But I promise it will be an appropriate complement to your cardinal. Oh, this will be great fun, Lady Somerfield. Will it not, Thayne?"

  "A masquerade?" His brow furrowed and an odd expression crossed his face for an instant, and then was gone. "Yes, of course. How delightful." His tone and stony aspect, however, did not evidence delight.