by Mary Balogh
She sat now in the Duchess of Bridgwater’s drawing room as if she had never learned any of the social niceties at her mother’s knee. She could seem to volunteer nothing to the conversation. When questions were asked her in an attempt to draw her into the conversation, she could seem to make only monosyllabic answers. Her mind was blank and paralyzed with dismay—something that had never happened to her before.
She was horrifyingly aware of the ghastly impression they were making, she and Cousin Bertha. Cousin Bertha was embarrassingly loud and vulgar, but Stephanie could not censure her—at least she was making an attempt to converse. Stephanie, on the other hand, was saying almost nothing. She was painfully aware of her appearance in contrast with that of the other ladies, and of her muteness.
They were all being exceedingly polite. But what must they really think of her? And of the Duke of Bridgwater’s betrothal to her?
She half raised her eyes to look at him, but found at the last moment that she did not have the courage to meet his eyes. Suddenly, she wished fervently that she was back at the Burnabys’.
He had actually kissed her once. His lips had touched hers.
And she was to marry him within a month. They were to live together in the intimacies of marriage.
And then Cousin Bertha was on her feet and signaling Stephanie with significantly raised eyebrows that it was time to take their leave. Stephanie half stumbled to her feet.
The Duke of Bridgwater spoke at the same moment. “Miss Gray,” he said, “perhaps you would do me the honor of driving in the park with me later this afternoon?”
“She would be delighted, Your Grace,” Cousin Bertha said. “Would you not, my love? It is Hyde Park you speak of? It is only fitting that the future Duchess of Bridgwater be seen in London’s most fashionable spot as soon as possible. You must wear your pink muslin, my love. You will have more frills than any other lady there, I do declare. But then the dress cost a fortune.”
“Not today, Alistair,” the duchess said, stepping forward with a smile and linking her arm through Stephanie’s. “One can see that Miss Gray is still fatigued from her journey. And tomorrow will be a busy one for her. You will be moving here tomorrow, Miss Gray. It will be the best arrangement. It will give us an opportunity to get to know each other at our leisure before your wedding. I am sure Mrs. Cavendish will be delighted to be able to return to her husband far sooner than expected. You will, of course, return for the wedding one month from now, ma’am?”
Stephanie felt too numb to feel fully the dismay she knew she would feel soon. She could not do this. She just could not. Cousin Bertha exclaimed and protested and finally—because she really had no choice in the matter—muttered something about Her Grace being too kind.
“I will walk you downstairs, Miss Gray,” the duchess said, retaining her hold on Stephanie’s arm. “Alistair will escort you, Mrs. Cavendish.”
Stephanie wished desperately to redeem herself before leaving. She had never felt more like an utter dolt in her life. But the duchess spoke again before she could think of anything to say.
“I was the daughter of an earl,” she said quietly. “But I had lived all my life in the country—a very secure but very sheltered existence. I can remember the bewilderment with which I faced my first Season in town and the courtship of Alistair’s father. I thought I would never be able to measure up to the demands of being a duchess. But it is amazing what can be accomplished with a little courage and a little determination.”
“I suspect that more than a little is needed, Your Grace,” Stephanie said, beginning at last to find her tongue.
The duchess patted her hand. “You are quite right,” she said. “Sometimes with the passage of time we belittle the efforts we once had to make. With a great deal of courage and determination, then.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Stephanie said. When she tried to smile, she found her facial muscles obeying her will for the first time in what seemed to be hours.
The Duke of Bridgwater took her hand in his again as she was leaving and raised it to his lips once more. “Good afternoon, Miss Gray,” he said.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace.”
She wondered if it would be possible to write that letter to him after all this evening. Or was it too late? She had the feeling that she was being swept along by events quite beyond her control.
7
ORD FRANCIS KNELLER WAS INDEED IN TOWN. THE Duke of Bridgewater met him at White’s the following morning. He was looking healthy and sun-browned, just like a country squire, the duke noticed, though he had not lost his taste for brightly colored and exquisitely tailored coats. This morning’s was lime green.
Lord Francis appeared quite happy to set aside his paper in order to converse with his longtime friend. “Bridge,” he said, getting to his feet and shaking the duke heartily by the hand, “how are you, old chap? Er, do I congratulate you or commiserate with you?” He grinned a little uncertainly.
Bridgwater raised his eyebrows and fingered the handle of his quizzing glass. “I would hope for congratulations,” he said. “Thank you.”
They both sat down. “I can remember your saying,” Lord Francis said, “that you were going to become a recluse. That you would never again so much as make eye contact with a single young lady for fear that somehow you would be trapped into a match not of your own choosing. It was just before I married Cora—and you were blaming yourself. But apparently it, ah, happened to you anyway.”
His Grace paused to take snuff and ignored the last comment. “And how is Lady Francis?” he asked. “And the children? Well, I hope, after the stay in Yorkshire and the long journey home?”
“Blooming,” Lord Francis said with a grin. “We were fortunate that the last one was a girl. Cora was beginning to wonder aloud if it was my ambition to produce a cricket team. And I must admit that one feels remarkably clever to have begotten a daughter. I will have to be very careful not to spoil her quite atrociously.”
It was a marriage that had turned out remarkably well, considering its very inauspicious beginning, the duke thought somewhat gloomily. Lord Francis Kneller, son and brother to a duke, had been forced to offer for the daughter of a Bristol merchant after twice publicly compromising her—both times quite inadvertently. And Bridgwater had blamed himself. Cora Downes had been his mother’s protégée at the time, and it was the duke himself who had presented Kneller to her and asked him to dance with her and bring her into fashion.
During the six years since then, His Grace had met them on a number of occasions, most recently in Yorkshire at the Earl of Thornhill’s. There was no doubt that there was a fondness between the two of them and a contentment—and probably even that elusive something called love.
“We had been home at Sidley for only two weeks,” Lord Francis said with a sigh, “when Cora began her annual rumblings. It was not right for her to force me to rusticate just because she is most contented in the country and the country is the best environment for the children. I must come to town for a month—and she must come too because she cannot bear to be a whole month without my company, and the children must come too because she could not possibly live through a whole month without them. I have learned from experience, Bridge, that one does not argue with Cora when her mind is bent on selflessness and sacrifice. It is pointless for me to argue that I am most happy when pottering about my own estate and partaking of my wife’s companionship and romping with my sons—Annabelle is too young to be romped with yet.” He sighed again and then chuckled.
“A month,” the duke said. “You must come to my wedding then, Kneller. At St. George’s, of course.”
Lord Francis sobered. “Of course,” he said. “Thank you. Cora will be pleased. Your betrothed is in London, Bridge? Miss Gray, is it? Yes, of course Miss Gray. I read the announcement in the paper just before you arrived.”
“She arrived two days ago,” the duke said. “She put up at the Pulteney, but she is moving to my mother’s house this morning.” His m
other had been going to fetch her. And no, it would be best if he did not accompany her, she had told him when he had suggested it.
“We will see her this afternoon, then?” Lord Francis asked. “In the park? I will be sure to be there with Cora. We are both eager to meet her—dying of curiosity is how Cora puts it. You will escort her to the Burchell ball this evening?”
“No,” His Grace said. “Neither, in fact. She is, ah, still tired after her journey. And this morning’s move will fatigue her further.” It was not a convincing excuse to give, he realized even as he gave it. What sort of a delicate blossom would still be tired after a journey made two days ago—from Hampshire? And how fatiguing would it be to drive in his mother’s carriage from the Pulteney to his mother’s house? Servants would look after her luggage, after all.
Lord Francis looked uncomfortable. It would be general knowledge throughout the polite world of London by now, of course, that he was marrying in haste a woman he had met and compromised only two weeks ago, a woman who was a considerable heiress, but one who had been a governess for the past six years and a mere country clergyman’s daughter before that. Curiosity about her and about their relationship must be rife. He wondered if it was also general knowledge that they had spent three days and two nights together on the road. He did not doubt that it was.
“As soon as she is receiving,” Lord Francis said, “Cora will call on her at your mother’s house. She will probably go with the Countess of Greenwald, her particular friend. Have you been to Tattersall’s this week, Bridge? I wandered about there for an hour or two and was almost tempted to bid on a pair of cattle I have no need of whatsoever. That is what the tedium of town life does to a man.”
The conversation moved into comfortable channels, until they were joined by a group of other gentlemen, all intent on congratulating the Duke of Bridgwater on his betrothal.
He walked home alone a couple of hours later. He would change and call on his mother—and on Stephanie Gray, of course. He drew a steadying breath. His female relatives had been swift in their judgments the afternoon before as soon as he and his mother had returned to the drawing room.
“Alistair,” his sister Elizabeth had said, blunt and severe as always, “she is quite impossible. That dreadfully unstylish dress. And her hair! I have known governesses who are more elegant. And she has no conversation whatsoever.”
“Oh, Lizzie,” Jane had said reproachfully, “she was shy. And she really is rather pretty. I am sure she will acquit herself better next time.”
“It must have been somewhat daunting,” Louise had said, “paying her first call on Mother and finding all of us here too. But that dreadfully vulgar creature who came here with her! I was waiting for her to ask the cost of the tea service.”
“You are talking,” the duke had said, standing very still just inside the door, feeling fury clutch with cold claws at his insides, “about my betrothed. And about her relative. I will have nothing said against her. I will have her spoken to and about only with the respect due my future duchess. Is that clearly understood?”
Their faces had told him that it was. But his mother had come into the room behind him. She had proceeded unhurriedly to her chair and sat down. She had invited him to do likewise.
“It is not well-bred to criticize people behind their backs,” she had said, “especially when they are people who are to have close ties with this family. On the other hand, Alistair, there are certain truths that cannot be swept under the carpet, so to speak. Miss Gray is not at the moment anywhere near fit to be your duchess. And Mrs. Cavendish is in no way fit to be her chaperon during the coming month. Do sit down, dear.”
He had leapt to his feet at her words, ready to vent his spleen once more. She had waited for him to overcome his fit of fury and seat himself once more before resuming.
“Miss Gray is Alistair’s betrothed,” she had said. “However rashly done it was, the fact is that he offered for her and was accepted. The announcement has already been delivered to the papers and will appear in tomorrow morning’s editions. We cannot alter the facts, even if we wished to do so. Miss Gray is to be Alistair’s wife, my daughter-in-law, and everyone else’s sister-in-law.”
“But Mama—” Elizabeth had said.
His mother had held up a staying hand. “The only thing we can do to alter the situation and make it more to everyone’s liking,” she had said, “is to make sure that by the time of the wedding in one month’s time Miss Gray is fit to be Alistair’s bride. She will move here tomorrow, and I shall take her under my wing. The task is not hopeless. She does have some beauty, as Jane pointed out. And I would also agree that she is shy, that perhaps it was a mistake to invite her to tea with all of us when she had never met even me and had not seen Alistair for a week and a half. I will see what can be accomplished during the coming month. I am confident that a great deal can.”
“I will not have her changed, Mama,” the duke had said stiffly. “I like her well enough as she is.”
“Alistair!” Elizabeth had said in disbelief.
“For her own good there must be some changes,” his mother had replied. “Even if you are too stubborn and too loyal to admit in public that she will just not do as she is, Alistair, you must surely see that she will be miserably unhappy if someone does not take her in hand. I will do that. You may trust me not to be harsh or contemptuous with her. She is to be my daughter-in-law, my son’s wife, the mother of some of my grandchildren. I hope to have a relationship of affection and respect with her for many years to come. Go home, dear, and go about your daily activities as usual. I shall summon you when she is ready for you.”
“I shall come with you to the Pulteney to fetch her here tomorrow, Mama,” he had said.
“No, dear,” she had told him quite firmly. “She will be bewildered. She is in a strange city and will be leaving a cousin who is still strange to her in order to take up residence with another stranger. She will not need the discomfort of your taciturn presence.”
“I was not taciturn,” he had protested, realizing even as he spoke that it should have been beneath his dignity to argue with his mother. “It seems to me that only I made an effort to converse with Mrs. Cavendish.”
“And you virtually ignored your betrothed,” his mother had replied.
Because he had felt horribly as if he had been on public display. How must she have felt, then?
“I will take her driving in the park tomorrow, then,” he had said. “She will need to be introduced to the ton. That will be a fairly informal setting for her first appearance. Less intimidating than a soirée or a ball would be.”
His mother had clucked her tongue. “Alistair,” she had said, “how would the ton treat her if she appeared in the park dressed as she was this afternoon? Or in what I would guess to be the monstrosity of pink frills Mrs. Cavendish made mention of? We must be fair to her, dear. When she appears for the first time, she must look presentable. I look forward to seeing her lovely hair dressed properly—what a glorious color it is. Did you not admire it, Louise? No, Miss Gray will not appear in the park or anywhere else for at least a week. I would suggest that you stay away from her for that time too, Alistair, until she feels more the thing and can greet you with more confidence.”
“No,” he had said. “Absolutely not, Mama. She is my betrothed. I will call on her here tomorrow afternoon. You will wish to chaperon her, of course. But I would be obliged if you will contrive to leave us alone for a short while.”
He had refused to allow her to shift him from that decision. And so now, walking home from White’s, he planned his visit and wondered how awkward it would be to sit in his mother’s drawing room and try to make conversation with Miss Gray while his mother listened. Would she leave them alone?
He had been quite as dismayed as the ladies during yesterday afternoon’s visit. She had appeared quite unlovely and quite without character, sitting mute and expressionless in her unstylish blue dress, her hair scraped back into an unbeco
ming bun. She had not eaten a bite or even sipped her tea. She had spoken only when questioned directly, and then had answered in monosyllables. She had not once looked into his eyes. She had given him no chance to converse with her, even if he had wanted to.
He had felt panic. This was the woman with whom he had committed himself to spend the rest of his life?
But neither the dismay nor the panic had lasted. He had been saved partly by the unfavorable reactions of his relatives. How dared they stand in judgment on her when he was the one who had trapped her into this and when she had so clearly been desperately uncomfortable? And he had been saved partly by memory.
He thought of her now as she had been during those three days—garish and vulgar in appearance, but refined in speech and manner. Oh, yes, he could see that clearly now that he knew the truth. The vulgarity had never extended beyond those unspeakable outer garments. He thought of her smiles, which he had interpreted as coquettish at the time, but which he now realized had been merely smiles. He thought of the stories she had told him, talking with warmth and animation about a very ordinary childhood and girlhood, talking with intelligence about books and about children and teaching.
How could he ever have made the mistake he had made? It seemed unbelievable now that he had based his whole opinion of her on a fuchsia cloak and on a brightly plumed pink bonnet. Was he to base his new opinion of her on an unstylish blue dress and a mute social manner—and on the vulgarity of her companion?
He owed her better than that.
And he remembered too—of course—the ravishing woman he had glimpsed that first night, leaning back on her arms on the bed, her face lifted in ecstasy, her wavy auburn hair swaying from side to side against her back.