A Duchess to Remember

by Christina Brooke

  Laughter and love surrounded her like a warm embrace. She was glad that she’d insisted on a small, private dinner this evening.

  The Duke of Montford came in, accompanied by Norland, and their party was complete.

  A small hand found Cecily’s and tugged. Obedient to Luke’s wordless command, Cecily bent down to give him her ear.

  “Is that him?” he whispered.

  “Yes, darling,” she whispered back. “That’s the man I’m going to marry.” Why did she feel a trifle reluctant to admit that to Luke? She was not ashamed of Norland, was she?

  “I know that,” breathed Luke with a touch of scorn for her slow-wittedness. “But that’s him, isn’t it? That’s Sir Ninian Finian.” He snorted and his shoulder shook beneath her hand. “Oh, Lord! How f-funny.”

  Cecily’s heart sank. She recalled now that Jane had read those silly stories to Luke. Dear God, if a mere child could recognize her caricature of Norland in all that nonsense …

  Before she could answer him, her attention was claimed by the butler’s announcing dinner. All she could do was throw Luke a minatory look. In response, he sobered and ostentatiously pressed his lips together. She hoped to goodness that meant he knew not to breathe a word about that dratted book.

  On tenterhooks, she caught Luke observing her betrothed keenly throughout the evening, like a dog watching for scraps its master might throw from the table. A small smirk of private enjoyment appeared on Luke’s face whenever Norland said or did something Sir Ninian–like. Cecily died a thousand deaths, anticipating some indiscretion that would expose her.

  Thankfully, none came. Indeed, she could not blame Luke for his enjoyment of the situation. Norland looked sadly out of place in this gathering. Cecily winced several times as he failed to understand her cousins’ jokes or recounted an incident to do with one of his experiments that could not be of interest to anyone but him.

  Norland looked completely discomfited by the casual way the family talked across the table to one another. She rather feared he was shocked by some of her exploits that her cousins couldn’t resist recounting over dinner.

  It wasn’t poor Norland’s fault that he was so awkward. He’d had a formal upbringing with no siblings close to him in age. He couldn’t understand the exuberance and eccentricity of the Westruthers. She doubted if he’d ever be absorbed into their circle the way Constantine and Griffin had.

  But then, that made it easier for her to keep him at a distance, didn’t it?

  A clutch of apprehension made Cecily’s smile waver for an instant.

  She dismissed it. At the ball this evening, Montford would announce her betrothal to Norland. After tonight there would be no going back.

  * * *

  “My compliments,” said Lady Arden, glancing around the ballroom. “I could not have done better myself.”

  “High praise, indeed,” murmured the Duke of Montford. The ball he’d thrown for Cecily’s debut was as spectacular as befitted a lady who was not only a Westruther heiress but also his ward.

  It was nearing the supper hour, when he’d undertaken to announce Cecily’s engagement to the Duke of Norland.

  The truth was, he approached that task with something akin to dread. Once the betrothal was public, it was to all intents and purposes irrevocable.

  “Something troubles you, Your Grace?” Lady Arden’s voice was gentle.

  Montford produced his blandest expression. “Troubled? I? Perish the thought.”

  Her low laughter sounded in his ear. “I know you quite well by now, my friend. Do not seek to deceive me.” She tapped her chin. “Let me guess. You are having second thoughts about allowing the spirited Cecily to marry that dreadful bore.”

  He was silent, which was all the confirmation she needed.

  “Don’t do it, Julian.” Her hand touched his arm. “Dance with me and we shall discuss the matter.”

  But he never danced; she knew that. Montford did not answer that part of her command.

  Instead, he said, “You will not alter my decision. This match was made long before I had guardianship of Lady Cecily. I cannot, in conscience, put a stop to it. Particularly when Lady Cecily is content to have it so.”

  Though every fiber of his being urged him to forbid the betrothal, his hands were tied by his own principles. Hoist with his own petard, in fact. Wouldn’t his adversaries at the Ministry of Marriage laugh themselves sick if they knew it?

  “What does a chit that age know about marriage?” scoffed Lady Arden. “Oh, I grant you, Lady Cecily is not your average simpering debutante. She has character, that one. But at a mere twenty, she is ill equipped to determine her own path.”

  Her words were like a shower of darts in his flesh. A line from Shakespeare ran through his head: If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well / It were done quickly. He’d delayed Cecily’s debut for two years, waiting for her to come to her senses, but she held fast to the understanding her parents had forged with Norland’s years before.

  It was an effort to reiterate, “I shall announce the engagement at supper.”

  He felt, rather than saw, Lady Arden shake her head at him. “Then I shall be very sorry indeed,” she said softly, and drifted away.

  * * *

  Rand never bemoaned his exalted position nor the responsibilities that went with it, but tonight he’d happily consign them all to the Devil.

  His aunt had come to him in a rare taking that afternoon with the news that Freddy had not returned to his lodgings at all after the masquerade and in fact had not been seen by anyone since.

  If it weren’t for the affair with Louise, Rand might well have dismissed his aunt’s hysteria as overreaction.

  Young men tended to be erratic. They went on drinking sprees that lasted days; they jaunted off to the countryside without warning if a friend suddenly decided that it was a jolly idea.

  Ten to one, Freddy was sleeping off his excesses in the arms of a luscious woman or, indeed, on the couch at a crony’s lodgings. He might have taken it into his head to drive down to his property in Kent or made a bet that he’d walk backwards to Brighton, for all Rand knew.

  Then why was Rand trawling Freddy’s usual haunts, looking for the boy? He tried to shake off the nasty, uneasy feeling that wrapped around his chest like armor.

  His inquiries finally led him to a gin shop in a disreputable part of town, and there the trail went cold. If the boy had imbibed much of the rotgut they served in this place, he could not have gone far without assistance.

  Yes, the young gentleman had a companion. No, they couldn’t rightly say what he looked like. Only that he was older and a toff, too, by the way he was dressed. But no one had any idea where the two men had gone when they stumbled out some time after dawn that morning.

  Rand took out his watch. Hell! It was past eleven, and he’d need to return home to wash and change before he attended Lady Cecily’s ball.

  In one last effort, he retraced his steps and returned to Freddy’s lodgings on Half Moon Street.

  “Freddy?” Rand pounded on the door. If Freddy had gone home to sleep off his libations, perhaps he hadn’t heard Rand’s knock earlier.

  He pounded again and heard a crash within, followed by mumbling and a shuffling of feet. Relief broke over Rand, mingled with a good dose of annoyance. While he’d been out combing the hells and sluiceries of London, Freddy had been tucked up snugly in his own bed.

  The door opened a crack and Freddy’s face appeared, white and owlish. “Wha—? Oh! ’S you, Ashburn. Come in. Wanted to—” He swallowed with difficulty, winced, and put a hand to his head. “—’pologize.”

  But Rand already had his pocketbook in hand. He took out the draft for a thousand pounds, picked up Freddy’s hand, and slapped the draft into his palm. “Here. Pay your damned debt.”

  Incomprehension and wonder broke over Freddy’s haggard features.

  “This is the last time, Freddy. If it happens again, I’ll personally put those nags of yours on the
auction block.”

  Freddy still stood there, staring at the bank draft in disbelief. With the strong, discomfiting feeling he’d failed the boy once again, Rand turned on his heel and left.

  But his concerns over his heir soon faded, overtaken by elation and the sharp pounding of excitement in his blood. The prospect of seeing Lady Cecily again made him pick up his pace.

  Damn that boy for making him miss half the ball! She must have given him up by now. A fine prelude to a proposal of marriage.

  Ought he to reconsider his plan to pay his addresses tonight? But no. Now that he’d fixed on Lady Cecily as his future bride, he didn’t want to wait.

  Anticipation burned in his chest. If he played his cards right, by the end of this evening, Lady Cecily Westruther would be his.

  Chapter Eight

  Butterflies waged war in Cecily’s stomach as she moved through the steps of a country dance with her cousin Bertram. She could not seem to rid herself of the most absurd sense of impending doom. Which was utterly ridiculous, considering how steadfastly she’d refused to draw back from a formal betrothal to Norland.

  Tonight, the betrothal would be announced. Tomorrow the best legal minds in England would negotiate marriage settlements.

  Cecily had made a point of being present at the preliminary discussions between Montford and his advisers. It was the duty of every woman to understand her finances and the duty of every heiress to ensure that the fortunes of all her children were secured, not just the firstborn son. She didn’t intend to have children, of course, but one never knew. It was as well to be prepared for eventualities.

  All was in train to make her the Duchess of Norland. The announcement tonight would seal her fate.

  She ought to be jubilant. Yet, she couldn’t help an absurd tendency to glance over her shoulder.

  But no, the Duke of Ashburn wasn’t here, after all. That sinking realization ought not to affect her so keenly.

  What did she expect? That he’d ride in on a white charger and rescue her? She didn’t wish to be rescued. If she’d wanted to escape this engagement, she could have done it without Ashburn’s help. Montford had given her every opportunity to withdraw.

  She turned her attention to her partner. Her cousin Bertram was a handsome man—or at least that was what many ladies claimed. Cecily couldn’t see it herself. He had all the dark good looks of her branch of the Westruther family, but his mouth was too red and too fleshy for her taste and his complexion a shade too florid. But then his character completely spoiled any charm his looks might have held in any case.

  Had he been a thoroughly pleasant fellow, Cecily might still have resented him for stepping into her brother’s shoes. Bertram was not a pleasant fellow, however. He was a pompous prig and an avaricious one, besides, and Cecily did not hide her dislike as well as she ought.

  “So, little cousin, your duke has launched you into Society in rare style,” said Bertram in his sneering way as they wound through the set. “I daresay this evening cost him a pretty penny. It hardly seems worth it when you are already spoken for. He would have done better to invest his funds.”

  “How like you to express concern for my guardian’s purse, Bertram,” said Cecily. “His Grace would be most gratified to hear it.”

  “Never understood why the duke should take a parcel of brats under his wing in the first place,” said Bertram, as they circled each other and separated again.

  “No, I suppose you wouldn’t,” muttered Cecily.

  She was not at all certain of the reason either, but she did not question Montford’s integrity as Bertram seemed to do. She’d long suspected the duke of a hidden streak of altruism, though of course she’d never dared to question him about it. Even her precocity had limits.

  She wondered if His Grace knew the reason himself.

  Oh, it was usual for the head of a family to be made guardian of its children in the event of their parents’ death. But Montford could have easily placed them all with other relations rather than undertake their upbringing personally. He’d rescued Jane from virtual slavery and taken Xavier and Rosamund from a vicious mother. He’d saved Cecily from being obliged to live with Bertram and Lavinia until her marriage—a fate that didn’t bear thinking of.

  Something seemed to catch Bertram’s eye at the end of the ballroom. He so far forgot himself as to mutter an oath under his breath.

  From the corner of her eye, Cecily saw Lavinia lay her hand on Lord Percy’s arm and disappear with him onto the terrace. Perhaps Lavinia was trying to persuade Percy to return the pearls. Cecily did not hold out much hope in that direction.

  Bertram seemed to recollect where he was and put on an air of unconcern. He made conversation with Cecily throughout the rest of the dance, but his attention kept flicking back to the terrace.

  When the dance ended, she caught his elbow, effectively preventing him from going after his wife. “Will you escort me to the refreshment parlor, cousin? I’d give my eyes for some claret cup.”

  * * *

  Rand arrived at Montford House to see Lady Cecily with the Duke of Norland, whirling sedately about the floor to the final strains of the supper waltz.

  She looked every inch the aristocratic virgin, decked out in white, with her hair piled high and a pearl choker clasped about her slender neck. Tiny pearls dotted her coiffure, nestling among those luxuriant curls. The gems were no more lustrous than her skin, which seemed so fine as to be translucent, a dramatic contrast to her dark features and rosy lips.

  Watching her closely, Rand cocked his head. Was it his imagination, or did she seem a trifle pale? Composed, yes, with that queenly tilt to her chin that spoke of a self-confidence he found immensely attractive. But he couldn’t rid himself of the notion she was unhappy about something.

  Norland was not a close acquaintance, but Rand knew him well enough through their mutual involvement in the Promethean Club. A dull dog, certainly, but as inoffensive and bland as whey. What could the fellow have done to make her look like that?

  The music stopped; Lady Cecily and her partner joined in the applause. Resting her hand on his proffered arm, Cecily made as if to accompany him to the dining room.

  Suddenly, as if someone had called her name, she turned her head and her eyes locked with unerring precision on Rand’s. A strange force pulled him, like a magnet attracting a piece of metal. He resisted it, testing its power.

  A blush warmed the pallor of Lady Cecily’s neck and cheeks, and he knew without a shadow of doubt she relived their kiss.

  He started toward her.

  With a tiny shake of her head, she turned her back on Rand and moved with Norland to join the flow of guests leaving the ballroom.

  He couldn’t allow that. Without seeming to hurry, Rand let his long legs eat up the space between them.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  The couple stopped and looked around. Norland’s eyebrows were raised in surprise; Lady Cecily’s dark brows lowered in the beginnings of a scowl.

  Rand kept his own eyebrows where they were and attempted to look benign. It was not an expression he had ever cultivated, so he wasn’t sure if it was successful.

  “I have arrived late, I’m afraid,” he said, bowing to them both. “Too late to form a party for supper. Might I join yours?”

  Lady Cecily opened her mouth, but Norland’s answer forestalled her. “Yes, of course, Ashburn. In fact, it’s a good thing you’re here. I want to talk to you about funding for my latest project.”

  “Certainly.” Rand gestured toward the dining room. “Shall we?”

  The last thing he wished to do was listen to Norland drone on about infectious diseases all night. What a slow-top, to think of science when he had Lady Cecily Westruther on his arm!

  Rand slanted a glance down at her. Clearly the girl wasn’t as up to snuff as she seemed to think if she allowed herself to be saddled with Norland as a supper partner. Instead of sending Rand those dagger looks from her remarkable eyes, she ought to thank hi
m on bended knee for saving her from a period of unalleviated boredom.

  When they’d found somewhere to sit, Norland said to Cecily, “I’ll fetch you a plate, my lady. Is there anything you’d prefer?”

  Lady Cecily said, “Whatever you choose will be perfect, Your Grace.”

  Rand cut in. “A couple of lobster patties will do for me, thank you, Norland.”

  The duke looked a little startled but said, “Oh. Yes. Yes, right. I’ll, ah, attend to that now.”

  As Rand watched him go, he felt the heat of reproach in Lady Cecily’s regard.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded in a low, impassioned tone.

  Rand lifted a finger to a passing footman and procured them champagne. “Anticipating my supper, as a matter of fact. I missed dinner and I am quite hungry.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” she hissed. “What is your object in seeking me out like this? We are not supposed to know each other.”

  “But Norland introduced us.”

  “No, he didn’t!”

  He smiled. “Oh, I think you’ll find that he did. Never fear. He’s so absentminded, he will believe us if we assure him it’s true.”

  Lady Cecily bit back a hasty response. She swept a furtive look around, as if she were calculating how frank she could be, based on their proximity to the other guests.

  “You’ve placed me in a most awkward position,” she said quietly. “I—I deeply regret what happened last night—”

  “My only regret is about what didn’t happen last night,” he murmured.

  Her dark eyes flashed at his effrontery. He was enjoying himself immensely.

  “In fact,” he murmured, “I regret that I cannot do it again, here and now. You look—” He paused, considering her. “—quite delicious, you know.”

  Her face turned bright pink. “If you came here to tease me with such nonsense, I can only say that I am disappointed in your character, Your Grace. I’d thought you were a gentleman.”