Duchess by Design: The Gilded Age Girls Club

by Maya Rodale

  To say nothing of the roofs and tenants and acres of verdant green hills that he’d rather not spoil with a mining operation and a train station.

  “A very interesting proposal, Duke.”

  “One that serves to benefit us both. And my sisters.”

  She pressed her lips together.

  “Just a night at the opera.”

  “It’s just a little free advertising, isn’t it?” she mused, and he could tell she was on the verge of acquiescence.

  “The last time we were seen together, it was written about in three different papers, and if memory serves, your dress was described in great detail by Jennie Jones.”

  Kingston badly wanted her to accept. It would give him the pleasure of her company, which he truly wanted even more than the information she might share.

  Furthermore, this seemed like an opportunity to use the power and influence of his station to encourage her success. It was more valuable than the pity money he had offered her previously or a loan he’d never call in. He would simply redirect the attention that he normally attracted to her, where it might do some good.

  Kingston didn’t know how to change the world, but he could see now how he might use his position to change hers.

  “This old title has to be good for something.”

  “You know it’s not just your title,” she replied. “You will be the perfect accessory to show off my creations.” Her gaze traveled slowly from his head to his toes and he felt his flesh warm under her obviously approving gaze. How intrusive. How possessive. How arousing.

  After the exquisite agonies of being measured by her, and now this smoldering appraisal that had him hard again, Kingston thought he would probably die if he ever actually made love to her.

  And she was probably only thinking of how he would show off her gowns.

  Who knew dress fittings were so sensual and emotionally devastating?

  “And all you wish for is to know who pays their bills, or who might cause a scandal?”

  “That’s all.”

  That, and the pleasure of her company. That, and the nearness of her body, the chance to touch her, however chastely, properly, and politely. Even if his heart was pounding, his blood pulsing, and his nerves thrumming in anticipation just from this unusual interview.

  “Just one night at the opera?”

  “Just one night.” He wanted a thousand nights but he would settle for one.

  Finally her eyes had that glimmer and her lips tipped up into a smile. “You have a deal, Duke.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  No pocketless people has ever been great since pockets were invented, and the female sex cannot rival us while it is pocketless.

  —The New York Times*

  The Metropolitan Opera House

  Thirty-Ninth Street and Broadway

  A night at the opera in the company of a duke might have been the most glamorous thing to ever happen to Adeline. Very well: it absolutely was.

  She had never experienced such refined entertainment in such a glamorous establishment, with such impressive company. It went without saying that she was nervous about what to expect, how to act, how not to make a fool of herself before the best of Manhattan society and that damnably dashing duke.

  She disguised her anxieties with fashion.

  She obsessed over her dress.

  The dress.

  The one that would declare her as the dressmaker of the moment.

  It was made with a pale pink blush satin, in a shade one would describe as a woman’s cheeks after a delicious first kiss. Over the skirts she had layered tufts and swathes of white chiffon upon which she’d spent many, many midnight hours sewing tiny faceted beads. She wanted to sparkle.

  The bodice was fitted and cut to reveal a generous hint of her breasts; enough to tease and tempt but not so much as to be indecent. The delicate cap sleeves were composed of more chiffon and satin and designed to rest at the far edges of her bare shoulders, only appearing as if they might slide down, taking the rest of her gown with it. She wanted to entice.

  Her hair was upswept. Her lips ever so slightly reddened.

  Gloves, she had decided after an embarrassing amount of consideration. Black satin elbow-length gloves.

  “Don’t look now, but everyone is staring,” Kingston murmured privately to her as hundreds upon hundreds of faces turned to stare as they arrived in their box. They stood and paused for effect, both aware of their purpose this evening.

  “Oh really? I hadn’t noticed.”

  “It’s simply a fact of my position. People tend to stare.”

  “Don’t be silly. They’re looking at my dress.”

  The truth was that the two of them together had captivated everyone’s attention. The duke, even without the title, would turn female heads. The dress, on its own, would have men and women lusting, though for different reasons—women to wear it, men to remove it.

  That Adeline was unknown to society only inflamed their curiosity. Who was this dark-haired, doe-eyed beauty on the arm of the season’s most eligible bachelor? Was she the mystery woman with whom the duke had previously been sighted? If so, this would be their third known outing, which suggested something serious.

  To the marriage-minded mamas and their daughters, it suggested competition.

  Adeline was keenly aware of more than a few opera glasses trained upon her. Would it be wrong if she, say, turned slightly so that she might show off the back of the dress? She was rather proud of how the fabric was gathered at the bustle, from which tumbled a cascade of tufts and ruffles and silk and tulle.

  As if he were trying to make tongues wag even more, Kingston leaned over and murmured into her ear: “It is a very fetching dress.”

  She smiled. Because he hadn’t seen anything yet.

  “It has pockets.”

  Adeline slipped her hand—clad in a black satin glove—into the small pocket she had sewn into the pale blush pink skirt. All around the room, women leaned forward, some even gasped. And some of the stodgier frowned in outright disproval at the sight of a lady’s hand disappearing into the volumes of her skirt. How mysterious. How suggestive. Exactly how a proper woman should not be.

  The style of gowns included layers and layers of fabric; it was easy enough to create a small enclosure where a woman might keep things, yet most dressmakers overlooked this opportunity.

  Having sufficiently made a scandalous and notable entrance, Adeline took a seat, arranging her skirts around her, and pretended not to notice everyone staring at her. The duke sat beside her. Close. Very close.

  “What does a woman need pockets for?”

  “The same things a man uses his pockets for, of course. For instance, to carry money.”

  “A woman needn’t carry money. She has accounts at the various shops. Or, if she is traveling with a gentleman, he would carry it.”

  Adeline had a vision of women followed around by men whose purpose was merely to hold things for them—human pockets, essentially. Like horses, they would require feeding, watering, and long pauses to rest their legs. A woman already had enough people in her life to care for. Sewing pockets into a gown seemed like a much easier solution.

  “And what if she hasn’t accounts at the shops? What if there is no man to count the change for her?”

  “She should stay home.”

  “That is absurd. What if she is home alone and needs bread?”

  “Send a—” She could tell that he was about to say send a servant and caught himself. The duke, it seemed, could be taught about how the rest of the world lived. Unfortunately, this only made him more appealing to her. She wanted to think of him as merely an accessory. But as he continued to prove himself to be a man who listened, who considered, who enjoyed the challenges she presented to him, she found it harder and harder to harbor a grudge.

  “Love letters,” she said. “Don’t tell me a woman needn’t carry love letters.”

  “Love letters,” he scoffed. “I suppose in the c
ontext of a proper courtship one might pen some romantic lines. I can’t imagine otherwise.”

  So the duke was not the love-letter-writing type. Noted.

  “What of a husband and wife?”

  “Love letters assumes a love match, does it not? Which we both know not all marriages are, even in this day and age.”

  “In case you are too obtuse—and I worry that you are—this expression on my face is one of shock, horror, and pity. Your lack of romance is a crushing disappointment and I hope for your sake that none of your heiresses can hear you.”

  “A man of my position does not often have the liberty of marrying for love. They know it as well as I. It is simply the way things are.”

  She gave him a patronizing smile and drawled, “Tell me more about all the things a man of your powerful position cannot do.”

  “It is the truth. There are things my station compels me to consider: the management of the estates and the tenants whom they support, my family, particularly sisters and mother. I must ensure they are provided for. I must consider my family’s legacy. It is my duty. My honor. It is impossible to consider matters of the heart as well.”

  Adeline studied him; he was absolutely serious. She could not fault him for taking his responsibilities seriously. If anything, it was very admirable and attractive that he should place everyone else’s concerns above his own. Yet it seemed grievously wrong that one should be required to sacrifice love and happiness. The only logical solution was to fall in love with an heiress.

  Or—Adeline thought of the Ladies of Liberty, of the suffragists’ rally cry that had struck a nerve—to change the world.

  “But it is still a choice to do your duty and to uphold tradition.”

  “It is a choice I have made.” The duke spoke in a calm, firm tone that conveyed that his decision had been made and it would not be revisited.

  “Lip paint,” she said. “A woman might also carry lip paint.”

  “Only certain kinds of women would do so, and I can’t imagine they’re the sort you want seen wearing your gowns.”

  “At the moment, perhaps. But fashions change.”

  “Love letters. Lip paint. Cash and coin. It seems to me that pockets in a dress lead to all sorts of scandalous female behaviors.”

  “That is precisely the plan.” She gave him a winning smile. “Women shall subvert the order of things with pockets in our dresses. Perhaps one day we shall even wear trousers, drink brandy, and rule the world.”

  Kingston laughed, a low rumble. “I wouldn’t know heads or tails in such a world.”

  “Actually, if a woman were wearing pants, I think it’d be much clearer what was heads or tails.”

  “Stop. You’re making me blush,” he deadpanned.

  “Am I offending your modesty or sense of masculine superiority?”

  “I do have some notion of trying to be a gentleman,” he said. “Between your scandalous ideas and that tempting dress, you’re making it rather difficult.”

  Their eyes met again. A smile played on her lips. She was playing with fire now but having so much fun. “I would apologize, Duke, except I’m not very sorry at all.”

  The lights dimmed, the opera began, and Kingston’s torture intensified. Freddie and Marian still hadn’t arrived—it was their usual box at the opera—and so Kingston and Adeline were sitting alone together in the box, chaperoned by the watchful eyes of hundreds of rabidly curious audience members.

  Adeline was beautiful, softly scented of lavender, and right there. She was saying things about pockets, love matches, and women in trousers. He was shocked at how resistant he was to the image she painted of the world: women roaming freely with their pockets full of money, love letters, and lip paint, marrying only for love, if at all.

  It was radically different from the world in which he’d been raised, indeed anything he had personally witnessed. It was so very different from the expectations he had internalized for himself. It was damned unnerving to discover that at the ripe old age of thirty-one, he was old-fashioned and unromantic.

  “Now about this business of finding you a wife,” Adeline began, and he was glad to get down to business. The matter was becoming increasingly urgent and he felt as if he’d already met every eligible woman in Manhattan. “Tell me: other than a fortune, what makes a woman duchess material?”

  “I shall need my duchess to bear my children.”

  Adeline nodded. “The all-important heir and spare.”

  “She should also be an accomplished hostess,” he said, thinking of what he had seen his mother and other peeresses do. “A man of my position must often entertain—everything from intimate dinner parties to balls. She shall also need to manage my various households.”

  Whatever that entailed.

  “This sounds more like a job than a marriage,” Adeline replied. “Here I thought duchesses just dressed and undressed and drank champagne.”

  “Many do.”

  “Can you just imagine?” Adeline sighed. “I would last about a week. Then I’d be bored out of my mind.”

  “When duchesses get bored, they go shopping. They ride all around town in the carriage, leaving their calling cards and sipping tea. They plan parties. They gossip. They redecorate. They run up enormous bills with the milliners and dressmakers and whatever other fripperies are foisted upon women as essential.”

  He had seen this repeatedly.

  “I’m certain you’ll find many women here tonight, any of whom will make an excellent duchess. You have come to the right place.”

  He watched as her gaze skimmed over the inhabitants of the various boxes indicating the families were subscribers to the opera. Many faces were familiar to him, but still more were not. Finally her gaze settled on a particular woman.

  “Miss Edith LaRoche, two boxes to the right in the green taffeta dress. I recognize her from Madame Chalfont’s. Her father made a fortune in steel production and she is known to organize many charitable luncheons to benefit municipal hygiene efforts. The family has newly arrived in the city as well.”

  Kingston looked and saw a perfectly fine-looking woman who was actually paying attention to the opera, suggesting a level of refinement and maturity that many in attendance (namely, those gawking at him) were lacking. At this distance, without making her acquaintance, he could see nothing wrong with her, and yet he could muster no interest, mainly because she was not the scandalous, shocking, tempting woman beside him.

  “Perhaps someone a little more . . . young,” he said, grasping for a reason. Any reason.

  “Of course,” Adeline said dryly. “A broodmare ought to be young.”

  After a moment, she pointed out another potential candidate. “Miss Cooper—three boxes to the left in the lilac gown—is young. Just twenty, I believe.”

  “I have already made her acquaintance. She speaks every sentence as if it were a question, which I imagine might become trying after a time.”

  “What about Miss Elena Howe, in the pale blue watered-silk dress?” Adeline subtly inclined her head to the left. Kingston nodded and pretended he understood what watered silk meant and instead looked for a woman in a blue dress. His attentions settled on a young, pleasant-looking woman whispering to her friend.

  Adeline continued: “I have dressed her at Madame Chalfont’s as well. Her family is not the wealthiest, but they are one of the oldest and most respected families in Manhattan. In fact, they trace their arrival to the seventeen hundreds and are one of the original families to settle here. Her mother is always harping on it.”

  “The seventeen hundreds are considered old? How quaint. I have barns on my properties that are older.”

  “Don’t you find it remarkable that Miss LaRoche’s advanced age is considered a detriment but the older a family is, the most prestigious it is? It’s almost as if when a woman does something, it loses its prestige.”

  “It is just the way of things.”

  Adeline pursed her lips. He knew what she was thinking: Old-fashi
oned. Unromantic. He had only one thought immediately: no. He did not like this vision of himself that he saw in her eyes. He did not want to be old-fashioned and unromantic. Not yet. He had been raised to see the world in starkly drawn lines in black and white, with clearly proscribed roles and duties. He had simply accepted this lack of any alternative vision. This is how things are.

  And then there was Adeline, sashaying into his life, painting in color, and blurring the lines he’d always existed within. She actually made him think about writing love letters that she might carry around in her pockets.

  And so, when Adeline suggested one heiress after another, he easily found fault with each one. Some he had already met at parties and discounted due to quirks of personality—a cackling laugh, a tendency to fidget, a heavy hand with perfume. Others didn’t have the right connections, the right fortune, the right “look” of a duchess.

  Which was to say, perhaps he didn’t want to find a woman who was duchess material. Perhaps he wanted to be with a woman who sparked some excitement within his heart and head and elsewhere. Kingston did not have the words to admit to these radical thoughts raising a rebellion in his heart. And so he just said, “I don’t think she’ll do,” again and again.

  Finally Adeline gave a huff of exasperation with him.

  “This is ridiculous. You are ridiculous.” He was momentarily taken aback. No one ever told him he was ridiculous. “I have suggested more than a few good potential duchesses and you have dismissed them all.”

  Because they’re not you, Adeline.

  If he could marry without concern for money, he’d propose to Adeline as soon as he could find the right ring. He suspected he would never be bored by this woman who fearlessly called him ridiculous and challenged him at every turn. To say nothing of the temptation of kissing her, the tantalizing promise of her breasts swelling from her bodice, the burning desire to remove this marvelous gown and make love to the woman beneath.

  But he lived in the world, with rules and expectations and debts; how selfish would he have to be to marry purely for his pleasure?