“Lucia!” her mother gasped.
“Duly noted,” said Alex, barely audible. “I’m sure no offense was intended, milady.”
The girl fussed with her billowing sleeves. “I do believe a proper butler would know that.”
“Lucia,” her mother growled.
The air erupted with the heated exchange between Lady Lucia and the countess, their bristling Sicilian phrases ricocheting between each other. Alex and the duchess’s gazes met. He raised his eyebrows and received a cool, reassuring look in return. Apparently, his mother wasn’t the slightest bit fazed by the unusual outburst. For Alex, this would take some getting used to.
ELEVEN
AFTER THE INITIAL MEETING WITH LADY LUCIA AND her mother, Alex tried to disappear. Everyone else spent the next several days preparing for the gathering set to announce the engagement. Rooms were aired and readied for guests traveling from afar, the finest French linens placed on the beds. Furniture was arranged to invite intimate circles of conversation. Long tables were brought in to accommodate diners for the evening, and the house seemed to hemorrhage money in the acquisition of food and drink. Even a modest orchestra would play in the courtyard, encouraging guests to venture outside to the serpentine stroll through mazes and gardens.
The guest list had been hastily finalized, and the duke insisted anyone with influence regarding Alex’s future should be invited. The party would balance the subtle dance of calling in favors and marking one’s territory.
“Make sure your teeth are clean, Alex. Chances are your father will want to display them for pedigree purposes,” Hugh had said.
Between his attempts to avoid his mother, and her requests to become more acquainted with Lady Lucia, Alex also managed to steer clear of his father. The necessary conversation remained lodged in his throat like an annoying small bone from a fish.
Unfortunately, he was found in the horse barn, and given a message to join Lady Lucia in the garden for an amble about the roses. The event was tedious, as far as conversations went, and paralyzed his mind after an hour of unreciprocated efforts at making small talk.
He offered his arm to steady her irregular gait, the result of her insistence to show off fashionable footwear, however erratically shaped and dangerously elevated. Soon, he found she had no interest in books, art, music, and certainly not nature. Bees were a nuisance. Grass and mud stained expensive shoes. The sun wreaked havoc with her complexion. And the only time she wanted to see a horse was when it would be standing ready in front of her carriage.
On the afternoon of the party, as Alex dressed in his chambers, a young steward brought a note from his mother.
Dearest Alex,
I am fully aware of your hesitation at this point, but your uncertainty is somewhat premature, in my opinion. I do hope you will endeavor to further educate yourself in the matters of Lady Lucia’s charms and give the young woman an opportunity to become familiar with yours as well. Rest assured they both exist in ample quantity.
Your loving mother,
Charlotte Clifton
He put aside the scripted advice and continued dressing, wondering if his mother was growing delusional in her attempts to see this union come to fruition. Certainly, she’d noticed Lady Lucia’s eccentricities. Would she wish them upon her son and any offspring that might result from the marriage? Was the tenuous lineage of Sicilian royalty crucial to the family, or might there be other, more suitable matches with someone else? Anyone else.
This is a farce!
He could not focus and mismatched the buttons on his waistcoat. His valet held open his topcoat and Alex blindly slipped his arms through, plagued by his thoughts.
“Your wig, sir?” the valet offered, holding out one of several available choices.
“No. I have no desire to fashion myself as a dandy tonight,” Alex said, fastening his dress sword to breeches. “But hand me my pocket watch. I have the distinct feeling that this evening I will look at it with frequency.”
Jenna tugged at the stays that stiffened her midsection, the result of fraying material that allowed its boning to become unsheathed. She had no formal dress to wear to the party, but luckily Mrs. Wigginton had obtained one for her. Alas, the gown, a jeweled green that cast a shimmer of blue in the light, contained more layers of flouncing material, and beaded strings and ties with which to keep them all in place, than most of her clothes combined.
The kindly woman had also procured a corset—the first Jenna had ever worn. Being raised by men since her mother had died meant some of the ordinary ways of women were either unheard of by the bachelors, or forgotten about by her father. For years, her wardrobe had contained nothing more than jumps—serviceable, boneless corsets made of whatever material the family had left from making saddles and linens. The leather jumps were especially comfortable and incredibly adept at keeping her bosom from paining her whilst riding through unforgiving territory at treacherous speeds.
“What in heaven’s name are women thinking wearing these ghastly devices?” She poked at the whalebones and walked stiffly up the hill to the manor house, one arm linked with her father’s.
“I’m told some women have such pressure for breath wearing them they find it difficult to talk.”
“Yes! It’s true. I can barely . . . ,” she began, and then caught the faint smile on her father’s lips. “You jest at my expense. If you’d prefer I remain silent for the evening, you need only ask. In fact, if you’d rather I didn’t accompany you at all, I’d be happy to stay back in the cottage and eat Angus’s meat pies with the rest of the men.”
“I meant no such thing, Jenna, but was only repeating that which I’d heard before. If ye feel the need to pass out, give me a nod just before. I’ll make sure ye willna knock over anything expensive on your way down.”
She laughed, but regretted it; the whalebones would not allow the muscle movement needed.
They crested the hill and the house came into view. Candles glowed in windows opened to the warm mid-September evening. A string orchestra’s music fluttered across the courtyard to them. She wanted to linger there, to enjoy the enticing designs it created in her head. And avoid the potential retribution for a loose tongue.
“It willna be a long evening,” her father began. “Strange that His Grace invited us to his celebration, but I’ve nay doubt we’ve been asked only as a courtesy. A shake of a few hands and we’ll be off. Ye may have your meat pies yet, Jenna,” he chuckled.
They joined the receiving line in the entry hall and waited to be introduced. Jenna continued to quarrel with the more uncomfortable parts of her dress, the slow-moving queue providing ample opportunity. She noticed all the women had extravagant hairdos. Some were speckled with jeweled pins and pressed into complicated buns. Others hid beneath wigs that provided something equally intricate. She was the only one with hair unfastened and falling.
It was easy to identify the faces of the Duke and Duchess of Keswick. They looked as Angus had described them: he, with a long wig, luxurious velvet coat, and breeches—unable to restrain a bloated waistline—and she, pale and elegant, with a sumptuous turquoise gown that balanced her tall frame and upswept hair. It was no great discovery to identify the person to the right of the couple, and the eyes that locked onto hers. That intrusive blue gaze . . . It pulled at her reserves of courage.
She felt the stays of her gown tighten with each step closer to both the head of the line, and to the interrogating eyes that she knew hadn’t moved since the moment they’d recognized her. She couldn’t help but wonder, Is it too late to run?
The usher announced their names as they stepped in front of the duke. “Master Stonemason Malcolm MacDuff and his daughter, Miss Jenna MacDuff, Your Grace.”
Her father made a courtly bow and Jenna tried to remember the men’s instructions in the cottage on the proper way to curtsy without falling over, or looking obsequious.
“Your Grace, thank you for your kind invitation, and congratulations to you and your family o
n the upcoming nuptials,” her father said.
The duke nodded and rolled his milky, vein-streaked eyes toward Jenna. “Thank you, Master MacDuff, and I would imagine the same will be said to you in short time. We feel privileged to have a man of your caliber and skill working among us. Perhaps you’ll indulge me in a peek now and again at your efforts. I’m eager to rid our region of its devilment.”
“As ye wish, Your Grace,” Malcolm said steadily.
“Miss MacDuff.” The duke blinked like a pawky-faced owl and turned as the usher introduced the next guests in line.
Jenna curtsied to the duchess, but did not hear what her father said to the lady. She knew it was only moments before she would face the young man who probably still wanted her punished for her insolence in the stables.
“Jenna?” her father said.
“I beg your pardon?” Her eyes snapped to his.
“Her Grace asked if you’ve had a chance to meet her son yet?” he said lowly.
“I, uh . . .” She swallowed and met his eyes. The young lord’s head cocked to one side and his brows rose with anticipation. She closed her eyes. “We—”
“No,” the young man said, interrupting. “We’ve not been introduced.”
“Lord Pembroke,” the duchess said warmly and turned away.
He laid out his hand.
“Yes,” Jenna said. “Right.” Her eyes darted in panic.
“And you are . . . ?” He raised his brows.
Jenna felt as leaden and stiff as her buckram-lined dress. She couldn’t remember her name, but she could count, with great accuracy, the number of whalebones trying to fuse to her rib cage.
“Miss Jenna MacDuff,” her father answered without ceremony. He took his daughter’s hand, albeit somewhat gruffly, and put it in the young man’s still outstretched and waiting one. He leaned in. “First time with a corset. It’s taken the wind out of her.”
The young man bent to kiss Jenna’s hand as her father said these words. She felt the rush of his breath against her skin and knew he had not been able to stifle a laugh. She flamed crimson and snatched her hand back, rubbing the spot he kissed, and now wishing Mrs. Wigginton had found gloves as well.
Once again, those blue eyes challenged hers.
“I—I’m—” Her tongue was leaden. Unwilling. He was enjoying her humiliation. She swallowed her choler and felt her father tug at her elbow, leading her away. She only hoped before the evening was through, she might have a chance to see Lord Pembroke choke on his pheasant.
Alex’s jaw nearly dropped when he beheld the red-haired girl standing in the queue. Who was she? He stared at her, trying to imagine how his parents knew her, when twice, his mother had to repeat an introduction of someone standing in front of him. He recalled their nerve-jangling meeting in the stables a week or so ago, and having found no one who knew her, had put her out of his mind. Nonetheless, seeing that distinctive head of hair and the line of determination across her forehead brought about an insatiable curiosity.
As she and the tall, dark man she stood with came nearer, he began to question the nature of their relationship. Were they married? She looked young, although it wasn’t unheard-of for a girl to be married off at an early age. And she didn’t look like she was enjoying herself. Her dress was becoming, and framed her figure, but she appeared wholly uncomfortable with how it managed to do so.
Alex studied her, and while he had every right to be upset with the girl for her saucy behavior, he gathered she was becoming more nervous with each step nearer. He was still unsure how to address the situation when at last they approached.
He heard their names announced by the usher and noted with interest that the tall man was her father. So this was the master stonemason who’d come to build the garrison. A special invitation, his mother mentioned. He scrutinized the girl while his mother asked if they’d met, but she seemed to be having difficulty breathing.
He held out his hand and took delight that her discomfort was possibly brought on by a case of remorse. He’d started feeling a bit sorry for her when the Scotsman made a crude remark. Alex could not suppress his amusement. The girl jerked back her hand, unnerved. He watched her fumble a reply and leave, cheeks flushed as red as her hair. He heard his mother’s voice.
“Lord Pembroke,” his mother repeated.
He turned to her, biting back his mirth.
“This is Bishop Drummond.”
Jenna and Malcolm moved through the crowd of people, whose lavish costumes echoed the feel of the opulent hall and its contents. “My goodness,” she said. “Whatever could this man do to earn money enough for all of these possessions?”
“It is an eyeful,” her father said, admiring the handiwork of a French table, “but lest ye forget, this is family money, and these things were passed down by many of their ancestors.”
“But still, he must do something to sustain his family in this manner.”
Malcolm ran his hand across the table and felt the joints. “Aye, he does at that. Politics.”
“Yes, but what exactly does he do?”
“Wavers on principles when necessary.” He walked to the wall to look closer at a painting.
“He was talking about us, wasn’t he? When he said he was keen to root out ‘the wickedness’?”
Her father raised his chin in answer.
“Does it make you nervous he might find out he hired the wickedness?”
Malcolm looked at her sharply. “He’ll nay find out, Jenna. Do ye understand?”
She nodded and stared at the lush artwork. After a moment, she turned to her father. “Where is the girl he’s supposed to marry? Shouldn’t she have been in the receiving line?”
“I couldna say, but aye, one would expect so. Stay put, Jenna. I’ll fetch ye something to drink.”
She leaned closer to the canvas and tried to see the brushstrokes of the artist. It was an oil painting of a stone vase holding a cluster of white roses, each petal detailed by curve and pitch. She raised her hand to touch the ridged surface of its frame.
“Do you like it?” asked a voice behind her.
She leapt back and pulled her hand away as if she touched a spark. She collided with Lord Pembroke’s chest.
“Pardon me,” he said, giving her room to turn around. “Apparently we’re pretty adept at catching each other off guard. I passed by and saw you looking. I thought I’d ask.”
“I was only looking,” she said, clasping her hand to her chest.
“It’s fine if you want to touch it—I won’t tell anyone. I promise,” the young man said, his mouth quirked in a half smile.
Jenna wondered if he was trying to trick her. “I wasn’t going to touch it. Colin says the oil from your fingers can destroy the paint. I was simply trying to see the brushstrokes.”
“Well, you needn’t be careful with this piece of artwork—there’s plenty more where it came from.”
“Benefits of the wealthy?” she asked.
His eyebrows shot up. “No, I meant it’s one of twenty or thirty of the same thing. My mother painted it, and she’s a perfectionist. This is the one she thought best.”
“Oh.” Jenna pressed her lips together. “Forgive me. I’ve been told I’m terribly outspoken.”
“Only when we’re alone. I’ve noticed you’re sparing of words otherwise.” Again, there was a slight smirk.
A bell rang from across the room.
“Excuse me, please,” he said, making a quick bow and leaving.
She turned to see what had caught his attention and noticed the chatter in the hall quieting. The usher appeared at the top of the grand staircase and boomed, “Your Graces, ladies and gentlemen, may I present Lady Lucia of Provenza.”
The young woman stood on the staircase, poised to receive admiring glances. She wore a royal-blue velvet Mantua, its open robe and lengthy train trailing behind. Her raven-colored hair was scraped back tightly and showed off the tiny features of chin and ears. Her engaging black eyes expressed meticu
lous patience as she allowed the people below to admire her entrance.
Jenna watched the duke’s son swiftly mount the steps to escort the young lady down. She listened to the subdued voices gushing admiration for the girl whom he would be marrying. “A grand entrance for a grand girl, I’m sure,” Jenna huffed. A whalebone poked her in the ribs, a reminder not to breathe and speak simultaneously.
She watched the couple greet guests, make introductions, and move nearer to where she stood. She made a path between bulky furniture and excited guests, who swarmed in toward the handsome couple, and scanned the crowd for her father. She spotted him, head bent in conversation. He turned to her when she put a hand on his arm.
“Jenna, would ye wait outside for me? I’ll nay be more than a few minutes.”
She left and took great care traversing the myriad candles scattered about the hall. A set of grand double doors were opened to the glasshouse conservatory, where the musicians pulled sapphire-sweet tones from the wood of their instruments and spilled them onto the garden’s courtyard. She surveyed the area and spied an empty table and chair beside a trellis smothered in ivy. Serving girls made their way through the crowd offering food and drinks. A striking maid with long, fair hair came to Jenna with a tray.
“A drink, milady?”
Jenna looked behind her—milady?—before she realized the maid was addressing her. “Oh no. No thank you,” she mumbled.
“Go on. His Grace has put out his finest for the occasion. Might not ever see it again, if you know what I mean.” She put a glass in front of Jenna and then raised one herself. “He’s a tight-fisted gorbelly—who’s forced me on my back more than once, eh?” The liquid disappeared in one swig. “Ah, you’ll be pleased you did. It helps to erase the memories.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and returned the glass to the tray. It teetered, but she managed to keep it balanced as she walked away. Aghast at the girl’s confession, Jenna guessed this was not the first drink the disgruntled servant had rewarded herself with tonight.
The Freemason's Daughter Page 6