Araminta (Regency Belles Series Book 2)

by Caroline Ashton

  ‘Stop, sir.’ Araminta glared at the slight figure of the Duke. ‘You shall not insult Frederick in my hearing. He is a good and noble person. And very clever.’ She drew a deep breath and rushed on. ‘If you had taken time to know him, you would see that.’

  An expression that was hard to define informed the Duke’s features. The one on Wilhelmina’s was easy to identify. Sheer horror. The Duke directed his attention to her.

  ‘Permit me to observe, ma’am, your charge is a most decided young woman.’

  Wilhelmina hovered on the brink of social disaster. She chose her side. ‘You may say so, Your Grace, but I had rather have her spirited than some feeble fainting creature. At least she has some fire and strength in her.’

  The Duke now observed the lady in question. The silence deepened. ‘Indeed she has,’ he remarked at last. A quizzing stare drifted towards the door. ‘And your opinion, Mr Blythburgh?’

  Everett blushed and stammered. ‘Really Your Grace, this is a family matter. I should have no opinion at all.’

  ‘Mr Blythburgh, you have been Lord Frederick’s closest friend for most of his life. I, apparently, am barely acquainted with him. If anyone will know what will ensure his happiness, it is you.’

  ‘Happiness, sir?’ Everett croaked.

  The Duke glanced at the pretty Duchess at his side. ‘Happiness,’ he repeated.

  Everett bowed. ‘Then, sir, I must say marriage to Miss Neave will ensure that. They are ideally suited.’ He shuffled his feet. ‘In my opinion,’ he added lamely, conscious of His Grace’s speculative stare.

  Frederick took Araminta’s hand and raised it to his lips, their faces wreathed in smiles.

  The Duke rose. His eyes rested tenderly for a moment on his Duchess. ‘Very well then. Frederick, this union has my blessing. You may have your spirited filly. I think she will suit you very well.’

  Chapter Thirty Three

  The Ladies’ Emporium in Bond Street was a-flutter. No-one had seen anything like it before. Not even when His Royal Highness had graced the shop with moments of his presence. The massive double doors to the street had been closed and locked. No customers were allowed to enter. Assistants muttered and stared and nerved themselves. Not because the sharp-eyed owner was there but because the young Miss was choosing her trousseau. Word had spread not so much in the blink of an eye as in the twitch of a lip. While some – mainly the older and pompous – had decried the decision of a House as noble as the Ellonby’s to align itself with a daughter of Trade, every young woman behind her counter dreamt of catching a handsome young lord for herself.

  For her expedition, Araminta was accompanied by Wilhelmina. To her surprise – and Wilhelmina’s delight – the Duchess of Ellonby had decided to grace the occasion. The three made an odd trio. The Duchess, naturally, led the way from counter to counter. Her petite figure, clothed in the latest fashion, barely reached the shoulders of her future daughter-in-law and her elderly companion. They could both see quite easily over the top of the Duchess’s bonnet that bore a magnificent spray of rosebuds. The curls peeping from under it were the colour of ripened summer corn. Araminta’s were the russet of autumn and Wilhelmina’s the grey of bleak winter.

  The Duchess drifted to a counter displaying drapes of the finest woven silk. She lifted the corner of a lustrous Habutai. ‘My dear,’ she announced. ‘This will suit you much better than plain white. It drapes beautifully and the ivory compliments your hair. Perhaps if we can find an embroidered gauze . . .’ She allowed her gaze to wander.

  The senior assistant for the drapery department bowed over his clutched hands. ‘We have the very thing, Your Grace. Allow me to show it.’

  His idea of showing it was to direct an underling to the task. He whispered three words to the pretty young girl hovering behind him. She hurried to the far end of the counter and lifted a bolt of cloth from a shelf barely in arm’s reach above her head. The weight caused her to stagger. The man made no effort to go to her aid. She hefted the bolt close to her chest like a two-year-old child before dumping it onto the counter. The man unwrapped the length of cotton covering it.

  ‘Oh, it’s so pretty.’ Araminta lifted it over her fingers. The garlands of exotic flowers embroidered in gilt thread along one edge glittered in the light. Single flowerheads of decreasing size dotted the gauze to the further side.

  ‘Excellent,’ the Duchess said. ‘Please reserve it for Miss Neave.’

  The man bowed. The girl beside him looked from the silk to Araminta, her eyes wide and blinking back a sudden brightness. The slightest quiver touched her mouth.

  Araminta tilted her head. ‘Are you spoken for, miss?’

  The young head nodded. ‘Yes, ma’am. Thank you ma’am,’ she croaked.

  ‘Then you shall have the remnants that are left for yourself.’

  ‘Oh, miss.’ The girl bit her lip and blinked harder. ‘Oh, miss.’

  The male assistant dug his elbow into her upper arm. ‘Mind your manners, girl. Thank Miss Neave properly.’

  The girl curtsied. ‘Thank you, ma’am. I’m most grateful.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ Turning to follow the Duchess and Wilhelmina, Araminta winked.

  The girl spluttered and did her very best to swallow a giggle.

  At dinner in the rented house in St James Square, Archibald Neave was not interested in the comparative merits of silk.

  ‘Don’t trouble me with your flimflams. I want to know why you can’t be wed at Westminster Abbey.’

  ‘First, sir,’ Wilhelmina pursed her mouth. ‘It is entirely inappropriate for such an occasion and second, Lord Frederick has asked for a quiet ceremony. At Lidgate Hall.’

  ‘I don’t see why we must have such a hole-in-the-corner event.’ He frowned heavily. ‘I want my girl to be seen.’

  ‘That, sir, is entirely the wrong approach. The Ellonby’s are rightly concerned about Lord Levington. He has sailed for Portugal to assist Sir Arthur against the dreadful French. An overt show in the circumstances can only indicate the most unnatural lack of concern for him.’

  ‘What about the Chapel Royal then?’

  The knife in Wilhelmina’s hand was gripped tighter. ‘Sir, Royalty is married in the Chapel Royal. There can be no expectation of Araminta’s marriage being celebrated in St James’ Palace like that.’

  ‘But-’

  ‘Pa,’ Araminta said firmly. ‘I am quite happy to be married at Lidgate. It’s where Freddie was christened and where he grew up.’

  Her father regarded her from under troubled brows. ‘I only want the best for you, girl. A small country church isn’t much for your do.’

  Laughter peeled round the dining room. ‘Pa, if you’d only seen it you would know Lidgate church is not at all small. And anyway,’ she reached out to pat his hand affectionately, ‘I don’t want there to be lots of people I don’t know there. The Countess of Conniston has asked if she might come. She is lovely. And Miss Pencombe, of course.’

  ‘She’s hardly worthy of note. I’d rather have –’

  ‘No, Pa.’ Araminta put her cutlery down with a decided clatter. ‘It’s settled. It’s Lidgate Hall that Freddie and I want and that is it.’

  Archibald Neave was not entirely satisfied. He completed his meal with the expression of a disappointed baby on his features.

  The Neaves, Miss Orksville and all of their associated household, plus Archibald’s head clerk Mr Wixhill and his good lady removed to Lidgate Hall at the beginning of October. Sallis had never welcomed such a society before.

  ‘Trade,’ he commented to Mrs Witchingham, the housekeeper, taking a dish of reviving tea in her sitting room after they had settled the guests. ‘Under our roof. Whoever would have thought it?’ He wagged his head slowly from side to side.

  ‘Never mind that,’ she told him. ‘Just be thankful we’ve got one o’ them wed. What with Mr George go
ne off to fight them heathen Frogs. Lord knows if we’ll ever see him again.’

  ‘But he ain’t fighting, is he? He’s only clerking for Sir Arthur.’

  ‘He’s no clerk. He’s a secretary and that’s an important post.

  ‘Even so, if he’d been more interested in doing his duty here, we’d have a Marchioness now, set up with her nursery and no need for Trade.’

  ‘Oh, hush. Be pleased to see Mr Freddie so happy. They do say . . .’ She lowered her voice, ‘that they’re to settle at Frampton Manor over at Great Chishill. That’s barely a day’s ride from here. We’ll see the babies. They’re bound to pop across.’

  ‘What babies? I haven’t heard of . . . you don’t mean ..?’ Horror drenched his words into silence.

  ‘No of course not. Watch your mind Mr Sallis. I only mean that . . . well, you’ve just to see how happy they are with each other to know she’ll soon be increasing.’

  Sallis shook his head. ‘I don’t know what the world’s coming to, what with Trade in the house and talk of increasing.’

  The evening before the wedding, Frederick and Everett Blythburgh returned from the vicarage where they were lodged to have dinner with the family and guests. Sallis had overcome his reservations and ensured the event was as glittering and impressive as possible. Poor Mrs Wixhill was on the brink of the vapours, so anxious was she of doing the wrong thing. It wasn’t until the Duchess herself greeted her warmly upon her entry into the drawing room that she relaxed inside the stays holding her upright in her new, and only evening gown. Even so, her curtsey to the Earl and Countess of Conniston was decidedly wobbly. She accepted a soupçon of sherry wine and clutched the crystal stem so tightly it warmed the whole glass. When Sallis announced to Her Grace that dinner was served, she allowed Archibald to place her hand on his arm and lead her to her place in the stupendous dining hall.

  Only George was absent. The Duke much regretted it and said so to Araminta, seated on his left.

  ‘But I’ve had the most charming letter from him,’ she said. ‘He welcomed me to the family and wished me very happy.’

  ‘How amiable of him.’ Rowena, the newest Countess of Conniston, sat in her place at the Duke’s other hand. ‘And how unfortunate that he cannot tell you in person.’

  ‘Indeed, but it is a pretty letter.’

  ‘George always did excel with words,’ His Grace announced. ‘Presumably that is how he hopes to impress Sir Arthur.’

  ‘I’m sure he will,’ Rowena said. ‘And we may be sure he will be quite safe from combat. It must be a comfort to you and Her Grace.’

  ‘I do hope so.’ Araminta shuddered, visions of living permanently in Lidgate’s magnificence reared in her mind.

  ‘Levington will be fine,’ His Grace said. ‘If he’s not penning Sir Arthur’s instructions, he’ll have his nose in some sort of book. Aristotle is his favourite I believe. In the Greek.’

  Araminta and the Countess shared a look. It said quite plainly that neither had read Aristotle in the English, let alone in the Greek.

  The evening drew to a close when the Earl and Countess of Conniston somehow managed to shepherd everyone but the family out of the drawing room. Frederick drew Araminta to a settee at the far end of the room, leaving his parents, his future father-in-law and Wilhelmina conversing in the warmth of the logs spitting in the enormous fireplace.

  ‘Happy,’ he asked.

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Though I’ll be pleased when your brother returns home.’ She looked down at Frederick’s hand holding hers. ‘I could have shivered when the Countess mentioned him being safe.’ She lifted an anxious face to Freddie’s. ‘I hope he is. I fear I could never be a duchess.’

  Freddie slipped an arm round her waist while keeping an eye on the group by the fire. ‘You won’t have to. George will bounce out of any trouble. He’s not a fool.’

  One of the double doors opened. Sallis entered bearing a silver salver on the raised fingertips of one hand. Araminta’s heart lurched. For a moment a dreadful vision of her happiness being snatched from her welled up.

  Rising, the Duke took a letter from the salver. Drawing away from the group he broke the seal. No-one spoke while he read it. At last he smiled. ‘Marvellous news, Your Grace.’ He bowed to his wife. ‘George has secured leave of absence. He landed at Dover yesterday and expects to arrive early on Tuesday morning.’

  The Duchess clapped her hands. ‘Oh, wonderful. Freddie, did you hear? George is coming home.’

  Frederick rose. He led Araminta forward. ‘Indeed, ma’am. It is good news.’ Araminta slid her hand into his. He squeezed it, looking into her eyes.

  ‘I think,’ Wilhelmina said, ‘it is time we retired, Araminta. You must be well rested for tomorrow.’

  The following day dawned bright and clear. After much chattering, panicking, fluffing of gowns and repeated tying of cravats, Miss Araminta Primrose Neave and Lord Frederick Danver were married in the Romanesque splendour of Lidgate’s church under the eyes of his parents, her father and companion and a mixed collection of friends and employees.

  As they left the church in the Duke’s best carriage with the hood open and a liveried footman on the step at the back, Frederick put his arm around Araminta. ‘Do you think,’ he said, ‘that Athena and Pegasus will be as happy as we are.’

  Araminta dug her finger into his ribs. ‘If they’re not, then they are very unlucky. I think no-one is as lucky as we are.’

  Frederick pulled her close and, ignoring the covert gaze of the footmen gripping onto the back of the carriage, planted a first kiss upon Araminta’s lips.

  THE END