An Unsuitable Duchess

by Laurie Benson

She had done everything possible to marry a marquess or a duke. And all her efforts had exploded in her face.

  Lord Blackwood had even had the nerve to laugh at her when she’d reminded him that he’d promised to wed her if she helped him remove Lady Caroline Shaw from his son’s life. She’d never understood why he had wanted to separate her from Lord Hartwick, but if Helena had gained the title of marchioness and the wealth she deserved she really wouldn’t have cared. And now Lyonsdale had left her. She was running out of available wealthy men with prominent titles.

  Miss Vandenberg strolled past them, deep in conversation with her friend. As they entered the maze Helena wondered for the hundredth time what it was about her that Lyonsdale found attractive.

  ‘I assume there is no opportunity to reconcile with Lyonsdale now that he is pursuing the American?’

  Helena snapped her head towards Lizzy. ‘What are you talking about? That caricature was merely a political satire. Everyone has heard how involved he has become in the details of the relations between our two countries. There is nothing between them.’

  ‘That is not what Blackwood said when I spoke with him at Carlton House last night.’

  If Lizzy mentioned dining at Carlton House one more time, Helena would be shoving her down a flight of stairs the next time the opportunity presented itself.

  ‘And what did he say?’

  Lizzy’s mouth curved into a satisfied smile. ‘He said he found it vastly entertaining that after spending time in your bed Lyonsdale preferred an American. He said that if there was any truth to the notion that Lyonsdale would make her his duchess, then every member of the ton would finally say what he has always known to be true...that, as pretty as you are, you do not have the character of a real lady.’

  Helena’s grip strangled her parasol handle. Lord Blackwood should die a slow and painful death!

  She would not be made into a mockery by Lyonsdale’s perverse interest in Vandenberg’s daughter. She would rather die than be the subject of the derision of the ton. Who would want her then? As it was, she was much older than the girls most men sought for a bride. And Wentworth had left her with no children. To any titled gentleman needing an heir that made her a questionable choice.

  She’d thought she had seduced Lyonsdale sufficiently that he would be willing to take the risk. She had been wrong.

  Lyonsdale couldn’t possibly choose an American over her. It would mean disaster for her marriage prospects. She knew Boreham valued his opinion more than any man should. If he thought Lyonsdale preferred an American over her, he never would consider her a suitable choice for his marchioness. She was running out of money. If she didn’t marry soon, she didn’t know what she would do. She couldn’t appeal to her brother for help. The insolent nob would rather see her live in the streets than offer her assistance.

  As fate would have it, at that very moment Lyonsdale appeared from the path that ran along the hedgerow and strolled into the maze with Hartwick. The very same maze Miss Vandenberg had entered a short time ago. Helena clenched her jaw to prevent herself from screaming. It couldn’t possibly be true. He couldn’t have left her for an American!

  ‘Was that Lyonsdale who just walked into the maze? What an odd coincidence. I thought I saw Miss Vandenberg enter it earlier,’ Lizzy said with a bemused expression.

  It was taking all Helena’s effort not to beat Lizzy with her parasol. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’

  This was not to be her fate. She would not be taken to debtors’ prison. She would find a way to end this association between Lyonsdale and the American for good—before it was too late.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  As Katrina and Sarah strolled further into the maze the sound of rhythmic splashing grew louder. After making yet another right turn, they were rewarded with the sight of a marble fountain situated in the middle of a large gravel-covered square. The statue at the centre of the fountain was of a Greek or Roman woman, with water pouring from the urn in her hand and splashing into the pool below her. If Katrina had saved all the tears she’d cried over Julian they would have filled numerous urns.

  She took off one of her white silk gloves embroidered with forget-me-nots and skimmed her fingers through the cold water in the fountain’s base. ‘It is lovely here.’

  ‘I told you we would reach the centre. Now let’s find a way out.’ Sarah marched across the clearing towards another break in the hedgerow.

  Katrina watched the water droplets slide from her fingers. ‘There is no reason to leave. We are fortunate no one else is here. Can we not simply enjoy the solitude for a bit longer?’

  Sarah took her time walking over to her, and sat next to Katrina on the rim of the fountain. ‘You cannot hide here forever.’

  ‘I have no intention of remaining here for the rest of the day. Just a few more minutes. Please?’

  The noise of the garden party seemed far removed from where they were. Katrina closed her eyes and concentrated on the sound of the water splashing and the birds chirping. For a few minutes, at least, she could pretend she was far away, sitting on a rock alongside the babbling brook that meandered through her home in Tarrytown.

  Only now she would be returning to a very different home. Her great-aunt would no longer be there. Her home would never be the same.

  She took a deep, steadying breath. Miraculously, Sarah appeared content with the silence between them as well.

  Then the sound of crunching gravel ruined everything. Their solitude would soon be interrupted. They agreed that it was time to leave and walked towards another opening in the hedgerow. Hopefully they would get lost for hours, trying to find their way out, and Katrina wouldn’t have to pretend her heart wasn’t shattered into countless pieces as they spoke to the other guests.

  As they entered the hedgerow Katrina bumped into the large form of Lord Boreham. Sarah caught her by the elbow before she tumbled to the ground.

  ‘Forgive me, Miss Vandenberg,’ he mumbled, looking flustered after their accident. ‘I was not aware you ladies were in here.’

  Katrina rubbed the back of her neck. ‘And we were not aware you were walking this pathway. I fear we are all to blame.’

  He appeared to be grasping for something to say. She had no interest in prolonging an encounter with the man and thought it best to spare him the misery.

  ‘Well, do enjoy your time here, my lord. The fountain is lovely.’ She curtsied and edged around him, pulling Sarah with her.

  He mumbled his goodbye just after they had turned the first corner on their journey out of the maze.

  * * *

  Julian stepped into what he assumed was the centre of the maze and was surprised to see Lord Boreham on the opposite side of a Grecian fountain, bent over with his bottom raised to the sky.

  ‘You present an interesting sight, Boreham,’ Hart called out over the splashing water.

  Lord Boreham jerked his body into a standing position, his face flushed bright red. In his hand he held something white. As they strolled around the fountain and stepped closer to him Julian could see that the slip of white was a delicate silk glove with a line of blue flowers trailing down its length. Where had he seen it before?

  His heart flipped over when he realised why it looked familiar, and he snatched it out of Lord Boreham’s hand. ‘Where did you get this?’ he demanded.

  Lord Boreham went to take it back. ‘Miss Vandenberg must have dropped it.’

  Her name felt like a kick to the chest. ‘And how would you know this is Miss Vandenberg’s?’ he asked, holding the glove out of Lord Boreham’s reach.

  ‘Because she was just here.’ He reached for it again.

  ‘I shall return it to her.’ Julian knew Hart was watching him. He didn’t care. This was all he would have left of Katrina, and he was not letting anyone take it from him.

  * * *

  The next night when Julian arrived home from Parliament he took off his tail coat, grabbed a bottle of brandy, and entered the portrait gallery to find some rea
ssurance from the men who had come before him. He walked from painting to painting, studying the men staring down at him, as he drank from the bottle. They were all very good at appearing to be intimidating and grand, but they did look like a miserable lot. Had any of them been happy?

  If anyone had ever understood the heavy weight of being the Duke of Lyonsdale it had been these men. They had known that life entailed sacrifice. They had known that their wants and desires did not matter. Every decision they had made had been made with the consideration of how it would impact their legacy. His father had understood this.

  Julian took a long drink. The brandy burned all the way down.

  He knew nothing of the women these men had married. Portraits of the duchesses hung in his various estates. He had never had any interest in looking at them before. Now he wondered about the women who had spent their lives alongside these men. Had any of them had the fire and charm of Katrina?

  He pulled the flimsy white glove from his waistcoat pocket and touched the raised stitching of the forget-me-nots. He laughed to himself over the irony. He would never forget her, but he wondered if she thought about him at all—even for a fleeting moment each day. Did she feel the heavy weight of their parting? Did she long to hear his voice as much as he longed to hear hers?

  The glove held faint traces of her lemon scent. Some day soon he would no longer have even that small reminder of the woman who had come to mean so much to him. He raised the glove to his nose and took a deep breath—holding her scent in for as long as he could.

  ‘I’m surprised to find you here at such a late hour,’ his grandmother called from the doorway.

  Julian shoved the glove back into its hiding place. Couldn’t a man find a bit of solitude in his own home!

  ‘I wasn’t aware there were restrictions upon when one might visit a room in one’s own home.’ He took another drink.

  She walked slowly towards him, adjusting her shawl and glancing at the six candelabras that lined the room. ‘I don’t recall ever seeing this room lit with so many candles.’

  ‘The better to see my illustrious ancestors,’ he said, waving the bottle towards the portraits. ‘I didn’t think they would approve of me skulking around in the dark.’

  She eyed the bottle in his hand. ‘I see. And what have you noticed about them at one in the morning that you hadn’t noticed before?’

  ‘The Dukes of Lyonsdale are a bloody surly lot.’

  ‘I can’t speak for all of them, however, your grandfather was known to smile on occasion.’ She gestured towards the bottle. ‘What are you drinking?’

  ‘Brandy.’ He handed her the bottle.

  She took a small sip.

  Had any of the other duchesses drank brandy from a bottle?

  Looking at these men, he doubted it. He walked over to the portrait of his grandfather and tilted his head. ‘What was he like?’

  She followed him and looked fondly upon the man she had married. ‘He was a fine, just man who cared for the people who depended on him. He enjoyed country life more than coming to Town. And he loved his family deeply.’

  ‘Did he love you when he married you?’ He motioned for the bottle and she handed it to him.

  ‘No. We came to love each other in time.’

  That was what he would do. He would fall in love with Lady Mary. Why hadn’t he thought of that before?

  He took a long drink and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

  ‘I hear you have been here for quite some time.’

  He had almost forgotten his grandmother was standing next to him. She had been unusually quiet. Perhaps she was feeling poorly.

  ‘I’ve been here since I returned from session.’

  ‘Have you eaten anything at all? I’ve noticed you seem to have little appetite of late.’

  Had he eaten? He must have, although he couldn’t recall. ‘I suppose I have.’

  She threaded her arm through his. ‘Why don’t we call and have something brought up to my sitting room?’

  They walked towards the doorway, past the blank wooden panel that should have housed the portrait of the Fifth Duke. Julian dragged his grandmother back to stop in front of it. He cocked his head and stared at the grains in the wood.

  ‘He wasn’t fit to hang with the others,’ he mused out loud.

  ‘That is what we have been told.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  He looked down at her and squinted till her image came into view. ‘But haven’t you ever wondered?’

  He took another swig from the bottle. This brandy was exceptional!

  ‘I’d wager it was something dreadful,’ he said. ‘Or, worse yet...scandalous! That was it, wasn’t it? He did something scandalous.’

  The floor dipped. He should mention that to Reynolds in the morning. They might need to fetch a carpenter.

  He looked back at the empty panel. ‘Poor cove. I’d wager he fell in love with an unsuitable woman and married her. Worst thing you could ever do, you know. There is no redeeming yourself from that.’ He tilted his head to his grandmother and pointed the bottle at himself. ‘No one will take my portrait and shove it in some dusty attic. I will not be marrying the woman I love. Some American lob will get that privilege. I will have the honour of marrying a seventeen-year-old chit who, as far as I can tell, has never had an opinion of her own.’

  The floor dipped again, and Julian stamped with his booted foot to get it to stop.

  His grandmother reached up and patted his cheek. ‘You look very tired, my boy. Perhaps we should walk to your bedchamber.’

  ‘That is very far. I think I’ll just sleep here.’ He went to sit down on the floor, but the annoying woman wouldn’t let him.

  ‘Your rooms are not that far, and on the way you can tell me about the new curricle you have purchased.’

  ‘It’s beautiful...very shiny. But I’ll not drive Lady Mary around in it. She can have her own carriage.’

  He trudged down the hall and went to take another swig of brandy, but the bottle was empty. They should make these bottles bigger.

  ‘I’m marrying her, don’t you know? Plan to ask Morley soon. Maybe tomorrow. Best to do it quickly. No need to wait. It’s inevitable.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Where was he?

  Katrina worried at her lip as she stood in the ballroom of Finchley House, studying the guests who meandered around the elaborately decorated room in various costumes. The columns had been dressed to resemble trees and there was greenery tied with flowers that hung from the crystal chandeliers. Even though each guest wore a mask, she was certain she would be able to recognise Mr Armstrong in this imitation woodland forest. At least she hoped she would. Perhaps she should have asked which costume he would be wearing when they had spoken briefly at the Hipswitch garden party.

  ‘May I help you find someone, my dear?’

  Katrina jumped at the sound of the Dowager Duchess of Lyonsdale’s voice. ‘Your Grace, you startled me.’ She turned to find the sweet, diminutive woman dressed like a man, with a ruffled collar, jacket, doublet and hose. For the first time in days Katrina had the urge to smile.

  The Dowager turned in a circle and bowed. ‘What do you say, Miss Vandenberg? Don’t I cut a dashing figure?’

  A soft laugh bubbled up in Katrina’s throat. It sounded scratchy from lack of use. ‘That you do, indeed. Are you a particular gentleman?’

  ‘Why, Shakespeare, of course.’ The Dowager stood a bit taller—or at least as tall as a woman of her height could. ‘That is a beautiful costume,’ she said, admiring Katrina’s gold armbands.

  The warmth of the Dowager’s smile tugged at the scattered pieces of Katrina’s heart. She missed this woman who had kindly offered her friendship and had taken her under her wing. How she wished she could reach out and hug her.

  ‘Thank you. I must confess I wasn’t certain what I wanted to be.’

  ‘I’d say a Greek goddess was the perfect choice.’


  It definitely was an improvement over the three hundred shepherdesses she had seen milling about the house since her arrival with the Forresters.

  The Dowager scanned the area around them. ‘You appeared to be searching for someone. May I offer some assistance?’ She raised herself up on her booted toes to improve her view.

  Katrina crossed her arms and fingered her armband, fighting the urge to be honest with the Dowager. ‘I was just admiring the dancers.’

  The Dowager lowered her heels and turned an assessing eye on Katrina. ‘From over here?’ She leaned closer and lowered her voice. ‘You cannot fool me. Now, tell me, am I acquainted with this person?’ Her eyes sparkled with anticipation.

  Katrina bit her lip again. ‘I’m trying to determine what Mr Armstrong is wearing this evening. Do you know the gentleman?’

  The smile on the Dowager’s face dropped to a frown. ‘Yes. I know the man. I was not aware you were well acquainted.’

  There was no sense in holding back her sigh from the Dowager. ‘We have been brought together on a number of occasions. I only wish this not to be another.’

  ‘You are trying to avoid him.’ The smile was back, brightening the Dowager’s face.

  ‘I am. However, if you share that with anyone I will deny it.’

  The Dowager placed her finger to her lips. ‘I am the soul of discretion.’

  As Katrina scanned the room once more she finally spotted him. He was dressed as an ancient emperor with a crown of gold. It was no coincidence. How had Madame de Lieven found out what Katrina was going to wear?

  ‘I have found him,’ she said, and groaned.

  The Dowager was back on her toes, scanning the crowd. Then she turned sharply and covered her smile with a gloved hand. ‘Oh, heavens. He does look very pleased with himself.’

  ‘I’ve yet to observe him not looking pleased with himself.’ Katrina stepped behind the Dowager. Unfortunately the woman’s height would do nothing to block Armstrong’s view of her. ‘He is bound to find me. I’m certain he knows what I am wearing. There aren’t many women draped in gold gowns walking around this evening.’