by Amelia Grey
But Blake would have to make sure the fellow was decent enough. He wouldn’t want her to marry a man who couldn’t hold his ale. And with the passion he sensed smoldering inside her, she surely didn’t need one too old to keep her happy in bed.
Blake put his glass down, picked up the letter from Mr. Milton, and glanced at the pages behind the letter. She could not be treated like a poor relation. Her inheritance was considerable. Obviously her previous guardians hadn’t robbed her, and he couldn’t let her husband do it, either. He couldn’t let Miss Tweed marry a heavy gambler or wastrel.
Blake picked up his brandy and settled himself into his chair. Lord Chesterfield had said, “Women, in truth, have but two passions, vanity and love; these are their universal characteristics.”
According to Blake’s grandmother, Lord Chesterfield was seldom wrong about anything—and never wrong about women.
A slow, confident smile eased across Blake’s face. He had a feeling Miss Tweed would take exception to that particular comment from his grandmother’s friend.
Blake chuckled to himself. Perhaps he’d mention the quote to her one day.
Yes, and he would look forward to her reaction.
Five
My Dearest Grandson Lucien,
Here are more wise words from Lord Chesterfield: “A man of sense sees, hears, and retains everything that passes where he is.”
Your loving Grandmother,
Lady Elder
BRIGHT LIGHT ROUSED HENRIETTA FROM A DEEP SLEEP. Reluctantly, her eyelids fluttered up and she turned toward the glare. She saw the back of a lady who was opening the draperies on a wall of windows, causing streaks of sunshine to spill into the darkened room.
The slender woman was expensively dressed in a dark rose-colored gown of lightweight velvet. Her dark auburn hair was arranged in a neat chignon at the back of her neck and held there with elegant, beaded combs that twinkled and sparkled when they caught the sunlight.
Henrietta rose to her elbows and rubbed her eyes with the backs of her hands as memories of the past two days flooded her mind: the long, bumpy coach ride, the formidable duke, and the uncertainty of what lay before her now that she was in the home of the last guardian on her father’s list, a man who had made it quite clear that he didn’t want her there.
She quietly watched the lady secure the drapery panels away from the windows on large brass hooks attached to the wall. The woman was too well dressed for a servant. She might be another guest in the duke’s house. But what would she be doing in Henrietta’s room?
No, that couldn’t be, Henrietta thought as her mind cleared from sleep. She had been at the duke’s home two days, and she would know if there was another guest in the house.
Perhaps the woman hadn’t seen her lying in bed. Henrietta cleared her throat and said, “Excuse me, Miss, but who are you?”
The lady seemed to take a deep, steadying breath before slowly turning to look at her, which she did a little too thoroughly for Henrietta’s liking. She stared at Henrietta’s face as if she were trying to decide whether she approved or disapproved of her before she spoke. But at the same time, Henrietta took the opportunity to look over the stranger.
Her delicate skin and face were lovely. She had expressive, green eyes that were set off by thin, flared eyebrows and a flawless complexion. She didn’t appear to be as tall as Henrietta, but beneath the high-waist dress she wore, her frame looked a little fuller. One thing Henrietta couldn’t miss, in the tilt of her head and the set of her shoulders, was that she bore all the outward traits of a very self-confident woman.
Without smiling, the lady inclined her head slightly to the side and said, “First, I’m not a miss. I’m Mrs. Constance Pepperfield.”
Henrietta would have felt more comfortable in front of this lovely, self-possessed lady had she not been in bed and wearing her night rail.
“Very well, Mrs. Pepperfield, would you please tell me what you are doing in my room?”
“I’m here to help you.”
“That’s very kind of you, but I already have a maid.”
Mrs. Pepperfield looked stunned for a second, but then her lips relaxed into a knowing smile. “Though I might have been doing a servant’s duties in pulling back your draperies, I assure you, Miss Tweed, that I am not a servant.”
“My apologies. No offense was intended.”
She nodded once. “None taken. There can’t be much more than a dozen years of difference in our ages, Miss Tweed, so I suggest we start our relationship with you calling me Constance, and I should like to call you Henrietta.”
That seemed a rather presumptuous request, considering there was no one to make proper introductions for them, and Henrietta still had no idea who this lady was or what she was doing in her room.
“All right, Constance,” she answered reluctantly. “What can I do for you?”
“Nothing, my dear. It is I who will be doing something for you. I had assumed Blakewell or someone on his staff would have informed you by now that he asked me to be your chaperone for the rest of the Season.”
Chaperone? For the Season?
Henrietta knew what the Season was for—finding suitable husbands for young ladies. That thought sent a chill through her. Obviously, the duke had been serious a couple of nights ago when he told her he wanted to find her a husband. Apparently, he’d wasted no time putting his plan into action after reading Mr. Milton’s letter.
What was she going to do?
After living all her life in small towns and villages, attending the balls and parties of London’s Social Season had appeal. She had always wondered what it would be like to drink champagne and dance until dawn. But… there seemed to always be a “but.” She knew nothing about men and had no desire to be married. She didn’t know why, as that was the dream of most young ladies. But then most young ladies hadn’t grown up the way Henrietta had. She had no knowledge of courting or flirting with a gentleman. And the last thing she wanted was to be cast off to yet another man as ward or wife.
She hadn’t spent the last few years thinking about love, a husband, and a family. She had dreamt only of having a home of her own that no one could force her to leave.
She would love nothing better than to be in charge of her own destiny and to stop the curse that had followed her for the past twelve years.
Feeling at a complete disadvantage, Henrietta threw back the covers, and as gracefully as possible, scooted off the bed and grabbed her wrap.
While slipping her arms into the garment, she said, “It was extremely nice of His Grace to think of such a lovely idea, but I feel compelled to say that, at my advanced age, I don’t really need a chaperone.”
Constance folded her arms across her chest in disbelief. “Advanced age? Surely you jest.”
“I shall be twenty soon.”
“That is not old, Henrietta.”
“I’m old enough to be a chaperone, governess, or companion to others. I wish the duke had spoken to me before hiring anyone.”
Constance uncrossed her arms and took several steps toward Henrietta, but not in a threatening way. Her dark eyes zeroed in on Henrietta’s, and her voice was pointed as she said, “First, my dear, it is not a lovely idea; it is necessary. If you don’t know that, I have more to teach you about London Society than I thought. Secondly, I am not employed by anyone, and I have never been for hire. I am doing this for you as a favor to Blakewell and only because of our close, long-standing friendship. Do I make myself clear, Henrietta?”
Her straight shoulders and tilt of her chin spoke volumes about what she thought of her station in life. And just by the way she said the duke’s name, Henrietta was certain the two did indeed have a close relationship.
“Yes, of course, Mrs. Pepperfield—Constance. I’m sorry to have implied otherwise.”
“I’m sure you don’t know, as I understand you are new to Town, but it is best you remember that whatever Blakewell wants, he gets.”
The duke wanted Henrietta
out of his house, and obviously the easiest way to accomplish that was to marry her off to the first man who offered for her hand.
Henrietta bristled. How could the duke find her a suitable husband? He couldn’t even keep his desk straight.
To Constance, she simply said, “I suppose that is true of most dukes. I’m told they are all very powerful.”
“Indeed, that would be the logical train of thought, but I assure you that it is not true. Blakewell is different from most dukes, which I’m sure, given time, you will see for yourself.”
Without waiting for a response, Constance turned, walked over to Henrietta’s wardrobe, and flung the doors wide.
The first thing she pulled out was a pale blue traveling dress with a matching pelisse. She held it up and looked at it as she said, “I took the liberty of asking your maid to bring up warm chocolate and toast for you. She informed me that you don’t usually rise before noon, but I knew we had a lot to accomplish today. She should be here shortly.”
Henrietta didn’t like to wake early because she usually read a book until the wee hours of the morning. She had taken The Forbidden Path to bed with her the past two nights, but she had spent more time thinking about the formidable duke and his idea of finding her a husband than she had reading the book.
“This won’t do,” Constance said and dropped the gown to the floor.
She reached inside the wardrobe for another dress. It was quickly discarded in the same manner. Not clear on exactly what was going on, Henrietta stood stunned for a moment and watched as Constance took out one garment after another, barely giving them a passing glance before tossing them on top of each other, creating a heap of clothing on the floor.
Peggy had pressed and put everything away properly over the past couple of days, and now this woman was making a complete disaster of her clothing and the room.
Coming out of her shock, Henrietta said, “Please stop! You have no reason to empty my wardrobe.”
But Constance continued to pull capes, chemises, bonnets, gloves—everything—out of the wardrobe, giving them only a fleeting glance and then tossing them to the floor with the rest.
Henrietta rushed over to the pile of clothing and started picking them up as fast as Constance threw them down at her feet. She filled her arms until she couldn’t hold any more.
“Stop this madness. This is ridiculous. Constance, please, I must insist that you leave my personal belongings alone at once.”
Constance threw a glimpse over her shoulder toward Henrietta and said, “I wish that I could, my dear, but I’m afraid that none of these dresses or gowns—,” she stopped and held up a pair of worn, but still serviceable gloves, before tossing them to the floor, too. “None of this clothing will do for London’s High Society, and it’s certainly not suitably grand enough for the ward of Blakewell to be wearing in public.”
The clump of clothing in Henrietta’s arms was so big she could hardly see over it. “What do you mean? These dresses and gowns were just made last year. They are lovely and perfectly good,” Henrietta argued as she watched two black wraps and her only gold-colored velvet reticule hit the floor.
“And I’m sure that, dressed in these quaint gowns, you looked quite—fetching in whatever small village you came from, Henrietta, but let me assure you they will not do for the life you will be living in London. And you must think of Blakewell’s reputation as well.”
“What?”
“It will not reflect favorably on His Grace if his ward looks like a poor relation who is not well thought of. With clothing like this, you would not be allowed in any of the homes, balls, or parties to which you will be invited, and you would most certainly be laughed out of Town, if anyone ever saw you wearing these out-of-date and out-of-fashion clothes.”
Constance pointed to the mass of clothing hanging out of Henrietta’s embrace. “Besides all that…”
There was more?
“Most of the shades are either too pale or too drab for your coloring. And the styles are much too old-looking for someone as young and as beautiful you.”
Henrietta looked at the pink dress Constance wore. The lightweight velvet looked as soft and as expensive as any of the finest silks Henrietta had seen. The lace trim on the neckline and sleeves was delicate, exquisite, and beautifully sewn onto the fabric. Suddenly, Henrietta knew what Constance was talking about. While she had new clothing made each year, none of the pieces were made from the finest of fabrics and lace or had the rich detail and fashionable styling of the dress Constance wore.
Henrietta had always thought she had more dresses and gowns than she needed, with gloves, wraps, and bonnets to match them all. Each one of her previous guardians had insisted she be properly dressed, but obviously not expensively or fashionably enough for Constance.
The weight of the clothing pulled on Henrietta’s arms, and they began to ache. She threw the heavy bundle onto her bed and said, “These are in excellent condition. I can’t just throw them out.”
Constance closed the door to the tall wardrobe and casually leaned against it. “Of course not. I wouldn’t dream of suggesting you should. I know of a little shop in town that takes out-of-date clothing and remakes it for the less fortunate. Plenty of women can use your unwanted garments, and we’ll see that they get them—but after you have new ones made, you can no longer wear any of these.”
Knowing that the clothing wouldn’t be thrown out with the rubbish was some consolation.
Constance kept talking, giving Henrietta little time to respond to anything.
“I see I’m going to have to dress you from the skin out. I hope Blakewell knows how much this effort is going to cost him.”
Henrietta flinched. “There’s no need for the duke to spend his money on me. I can pay for my own clothing. My inheritance is quite sufficient.”
“I’m sure it is, and it will do nicely for your dowry. But that’s not how things will work for you now. You are the duke’s responsibility, and in case I haven’t made it clear before, I’ll remind you that whatever Blakewell wants, he will get. Besides,” she smiled almost wickedly, “I shall have an enormously good time putting everything on his account.”
With that, Henrietta knew further argument with Constance was futile.
“As soon as you’ve had breakfast and dressed, we are going to my modiste. I sent over a note telling her to expect us. I believe she should be able to start immediately on gowns for you. She’ll want to please the duke. You need so many things so soon that I’ll tell her to solicit all the help she needs from other dressmakers and milliners—as long as she has something for you to wear before the end of next week. We are already into the Season, and we don’t have much time to get you out to the parties.
“I’m sure you will get a flurry of invitations once I let it be known you are Blakewell’s charge. Of course, I’ll select only the choicest of dinner parties and balls for you to attend and, at first, perhaps we’ll only go to one party each night to keep the mystery surrounding you for as long as we can. I’ll be very careful whom I ask to get you vouchers for Almack’s where, as you probably know, only the most worthy of Society are admitted. Well, the list goes on, but enough of that for now.”
Yes, please no more, Henrietta wanted to whimper.
Her head was spinning. This lady wasn’t like any chaperone Henrietta had ever met. Constance was like a general in the Prince Regent’s army. She could have single-handedly defeated Napoleon’s army, had he not already met his fate at Waterloo.
“We will get along very well, Henrietta, if you follow my instructions. It is my job to see that you make the best impression possible at all our engagements. You will meet some of the most handsome and wealthiest gentlemen in London. You might even catch the eye of a titled man. By now, some will have made a match as the Season is under way, but I’m sure we’ll find you one that suits.”
Henrietta tuned Constance out. Hearing once again that the Season was under way and some gentlemen already betrothed g
ave Henrietta a glimmer of hope. If Blakewell kept to his promise that she had to approve any gentleman who showed her interest, she could rebuff them all and hopefully have until next Season to get used to the idea of a husband.
Since Lord Palmer’s death a few weeks ago, only one thing had been on her mind: talking her new guardian into signing over her inheritance.
Constance was still chatting when Peggy walked into the room carrying a tray with Henrietta’s toast and warm chocolate. Peggy’s eyes grew wide with shock as she looked at the clothes scattered across the floor and bed.
“At last, your breakfast has finally arrived,” Constance said. “Good. It’s half past noon. I’m going to leave you to eat and get dressed. I don’t mean to rush you, Henrietta, but we don’t have time to waste. I’ll be downstairs in the drawing room waiting for you.”
Constance walked over to the pile of clothing on the bed and picked through it, finally pulling a light gray morning dress trimmed with silvery-blue lace from the heap and laying it aside.
“Wear this. It’s not your best color, but it should do for today,” she said to Henrietta, turning to walk out with a flourish of rose-colored skirts swishing.
Peggy put the tray on a chest and her hands on her hips as she surveyed the scattered clothing.
“Who is that lady, Miss Henri, and what have you done to your clothes?”
“That was Mrs. Constance Pepperfield, my newly acquired chaperone.”
“Harrumph,” Peggy said. “What do you need her for? You have me.”
“I’m afraid she’s His Grace’s addition for me. Don’t pout, Peggy. She will not take your place, I assure you; your employment is secure.”
“She came into the kitchen this morning and ordered me around like I worked for her instead of you. I told her you didn’t like to be disturbed this early in the day, but she insisted I bring up your tray.”
“It’s all right, Peggy. I don’t think anyone can stop Mrs. Pepperfield once she’s made her mind up.”
“Why did you take out all your clothes? Didn’t you like the way I put them away for you?”