Sofia promptly forgot she didn’t like the way he was going about getting a wife, nor his motives for doing so, because it had been so sweet of him to stick up for her like that. Or at least, his eyebrows had done so.
Could you love a man’s eyebrows even while disapproving of his character?
Not that his intervention would do Sofia much good in the long run. She rather suspected that from now on Aunt Agnes would be keeping an eagle eye on her, to make sure she didn’t create a similar situation.
Which put paid to her rebellion, minor though it was.
‘At least there was no chance of me getting lost,’ she said, hoping to divert the conversation away from her gown and to stop Aunt Agnes and the Duke of Theakstone from standing there glaring at each other all night. ‘You have so many footmen, posted at strategic locations, ready to point the way.’
His gaze swung round to her and softened. ‘It is more efficient to do that than to allow my guests to think they will run my staff ragged by ringing for a personal escort. And also,’ he said, with just the suggestion of a twinkle in his eyes, ‘they can keep watch, to make sure nobody pilfers the valuables.’
‘Has that ever happened?’
‘Not recently,’ he said solemnly.
Was that...his idea of making a jest? Well, when she grinned at him, he dipped his head in acknowledgement, so it must have been.
And then with a half-smile playing about his lips, he beckoned to a plump and bespectacled young man who had been watching the interplay keenly.
‘Allow me to present your dinner partner for tonight, Miss Underwood,’ he said.
There was no reason for her to feel such a piercing sense of disappointment. Of course she wouldn’t be sitting next to him tonight. She was far too unimportant.
‘Perceval,’ the Duke explained, ‘is my personal secretary.’
Well, of course he was. He was the only male in the room, unattached or otherwise, dressed plainly enough to match her, garbed as she was.
There was hardly time to curtsy to Perceval and say what was necessary before a man who could be nothing other than the butler flung open a set of double doors at the far end of the room and announced that dinner was served.
Since this was a ducal household, everyone waited for him to lead the way, which he did, but only after offering his arm to Lady Sarah. It shouldn’t have made her grind her teeth, but it was just that as everyone else followed in strict order of precedence it meant that Sofia and Mr Perceval brought up the rear. And because they were last in line, they were probably the only ones to detect the rather triumphant smile Lady Sarah flashed in the direction of Lady Elizabeth as the Duke sat her at the head of the table, next to him.
‘Do not be disheartened,’ said Mr Perceval as he seated Sofia.
Sofia started and looked up at him in alarm. What had she done to give herself away?
‘His Grace,’ continued Mr Perceval smoothly, ‘will be selecting a different young lady to be his dining companion each night.’
‘In order of precedence?’
‘Naturally,’ he said, taking his seat beside her. ‘It has come to my attention,’ he said as he took his napkin and folded it across his lap, ‘that for various reasons you have not been made known to everyone here. So, during the course of this meal, I am at your disposal to answer any questions you may have about His Grace’s other guests.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. And then thought about the tone of his voice. And the wording he’d just used, which had been, she suspected, deliberately vague about whether he was acting under his own initiative, or under the Duke’s orders.
Not that it mattered. Whoever had thought of it, she was grateful.
‘I met all the young ladies at tea in Lady Sarah’s rooms,’ she said, ‘but I don’t know anything about anyone else at this table, apart from my own aunt and uncle.’
‘And His Grace, of course.’
She supposed a man had to be a bit, well, pedantic, to rise to the position of personal secretary to a duke. So, keeping her polite smile in place, she simply said, ‘That still leaves an awful lot of people for you to tell me about.’
‘Not really,’ he said repressively. ‘This is rather an intimate gathering, in comparison with what we are used to at Theakstone Court.’
Intimate? She looked at the twenty or so people sitting round a table on which you could have held a ball, if it wasn’t for the profusion of epergnes spilling flowers and fruit and such, creating obstacles at regular intervals.
‘Really?’
‘Oh, yes. Apart from the parents, or in your case, the guardians, of His Grace’s potential brides, there are only a handful of single gentlemen, carefully selected from His Grace’s friends and neighbours, to act as escorts to the young ladies when His Grace is otherwise engaged.’
‘Otherwise engaged...?’
‘His Grace is a very busy man. He cannot possibly dance attendance on young females,’ he said with a hint of a sneer, ‘all day long.’
‘Absolutely not.’
From that point on, she found she had to do very little besides agree with whatever Mr Perceval said, every now and again. He was very, very fond of the sound of his own voice. However, since he was explaining who everyone was, and in what relation they stood to His Grace, she didn’t see the point in trying to stop him.
So, while she consumed the most sumptuous meal she’d ever eaten, she learned that Lady Elizabeth’s father had also been a marquess, but that the title and estates had all gone to a distant cousin, since he’d had no sons. Which must have been horrid for Lady Elizabeth and her mother. It was hardly surprising she was a bit touchy, particularly since it looked to her as if Lady Sarah was taking every opportunity to goad her into losing her temper.
The man who’d accompanied Lady Elizabeth’s mother in to dine was actually His Grace’s personal physician, Mr Perceval explained. He also informed her that the Ladies Margaret and Beatrice had earls for fathers; that the young man with the fair curls, who’d been posing by the window, was a viscount, as well as being a poet. Which explained a lot.
Another young man she hadn’t noticed earlier, who was now sitting virtually opposite her, had such a thick, black moustache that it looked as though a small animal was perched on his upper lip. He was a captain in the guards.
And finally, the rather intense and very quiet young man seated on her other side was a most promising student of the sciences, a plain Mr Septimus Brown.
She did wonder why the young man who’d been with His Grace—as she was now starting to think of him, in capitals—at the fireworks was not here tonight, but swiftly thought better of asking. Although Mr Perceval had said she could ask any questions she liked, she could tell that he much preferred doling out information in his own way. He was probably married already, she guessed, trailing her spoon through a frothy syllabub and wondering if she could risk eating any more.
The answer was taken out of her hands when Lady Sarah’s mother got to her feet.
‘Ladies,’ she said. Regally. Which was the signal for all the ladies present to withdraw and leave the men to their port, whether they wanted any more syllabub or not.
From the look Lady Elizabeth shot at Lady Sarah’s back as she linked arms with her mother and preceded everyone from the room, it was a good job the dinner knives hadn’t been sharpened.
Or there would be one less contender for the position of Duchess of Theakstone.
Chapter Thirteen
Since all the other girls were pairing up with their mothers, Sofia made for her aunt’s side. They walked, in strained silence, at the end of the trail of ladies heading for the drawing room.
By the time they arrived, Lady Sarah was already standing by the pianoforte, shuffling through the sheets of music. Lady Margaret joined her and they put their heads together. The other girls and their respective mother
s were selecting sofas upon which to sit. And there were plenty of them, dotted about one of the smallest, and least overpowering, rooms Sofia had seen so far.
Aunt Agnes had chosen a sofa which had a view over a terrace leading to some formal gardens, which also happened to be the furthest away from Lady Sale. They had just sat down when Lady Margaret came over.
‘Lady Sarah says that we ought all to take a turn tonight, showing His Grace what we can do,’ she said, gesturing towards the piano. ‘And that in the interests of fairness, we should help each other show to the best advantage. So, would you prefer to sing or play?’
‘Oh...er...’
‘Sofia sings far better than she plays,’ said Aunt Agnes before she had a chance to say something more truthful. ‘Perhaps, if someone were to play for her...’
‘She should definitely perform with Lady Bea, then,’ said Lady Margaret, smiling in a way that made Sofia feel rather wary. ‘She would be the first to admit that she has a voice like a bullfrog.’ She tittered and then went over to the sofa upon which Lady Beatrice was sitting, to inform that damsel, in a rather carrying voice for one so wispy-looking, that she would not have to sing tonight, since Miss Underwood apparently had a voice like a veritable angel, but lacked the skill to accompany herself.
‘What a cat,’ muttered Aunt Agnes as Lady Beatrice’s shoulders slumped.
Lady Elizabeth picked up her fan and began to wave it before her face rather swiftly, shooting dagger glances between Lady Sarah and Lady Margaret. But neither lady was foolish enough to attempt to tell her what, or with whom, she ought to perform that evening.
Lady Beatrice’s mother dug an elbow into her side and flicked her fan in Sofia’s direction. The girl heaved herself to her feet and crossed the expanse of carpet to Sofia’s side.
‘I hear you need me to play for you,’ she said gloomily.
‘You don’t have to if you don’t wish to,’ said Sofia.
Lady Beatrice shrugged. ‘Might as well. At least then nobody will expect me to sing. Come on, let’s go and look at what music there is.’
After receiving a nod of permission from Aunt Agnes, Sofia followed Lady Beatrice to the piano, where Lady Sarah was still standing.
‘I have found just the thing for you two,’ she said, holding out some sheet music. ‘A lovely little ballad, which I am sure even you will be able to cope with.’ She gave Lady Beatrice a patronising smile and handed it over. ‘I am only sorry that I do not know your range, Miss Underwood. I do hope you do not find this too taxing,’ she finished on a syrupy smile, before sitting down on the piano stool into which she’d thrust all the remaining sheet music and beginning to caress the keys.
Sofia was beginning to see exactly what Lady Elizabeth meant about her queening it over everyone else. She found herself wishing she could somehow flout her.
She glanced over Lady Beatrice’s shoulder at the music. ‘Where the Bee Sucks’... Oh, dear. How on earth was she going to manage the tricky arpeggio section? She would need a ladder to reach the upper end of it.
‘I suppose,’ Lady Beatrice said miserably, ‘it could have been worse.’
‘At least it suits my taste,’ Sofia said, trying to find something pleasant to say, rather than giving in to the urge to say what she really thought about Lady Sarah’s domineering ways and Lady Margaret’s spite, since that would be sinking to their level. ‘In that I’d much rather be outside on a bank amidst the cowslips than in a drawing room singing about it.’
Lady Beatrice started and raised her brows. ‘Me, too,’ she said. ‘On horseback, that is.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I know that Lady Sarah thinks she’s helping us...awkward ones, in the drawing room, but truly, I am not going to show to advantage anywhere but on horseback. Do you ride?’
‘I used to have a pony,’ Sofia said wistfully, recalling the lively little beast on which she’d gone everywhere when her papa had been alive. ‘But when I...’ she’d been about to say, When I went to live with my uncle and aunt, only she didn’t know Lady Beatrice well enough to know if it would be safe to confide in her. And so she altered it to, ‘When I got older, there never seemed to be a suitable mount for me.’
‘That’s a shame. I wish I’d brought more than just my Forked Lightning with me. I have a lovely old mare...well, she used to be lovely, she’s a bit worn down now, but just the sort of thing for an inexperienced rider, like you. Only, Papa said I wasn’t to fill His Grace’s stables up with my cattle. Not the thing.’
‘No, quite.’
She then went on to describe the various rides she hoped to take while she was staying at Theakstone Court, because there were some lovely gallops, she’d heard, once you got away from the formal bit of parkland. Sofia was sure that Lady Beatrice could have gone on talking about her horses indefinitely had she not been interrupted mid-flow by the arrival of the gentlemen. They gathered in a knot at the door, respectfully lowering their voices so as not to detract from the rather lovely lilting air Lady Sarah was currently playing.
When she finished the tune and the gentlemen broke into a round of polite applause, Lady Sarah lifted her head. ‘Oh, the gentlemen are here,’ she said with apparent surprise. As though she’d been lost in the music. ‘Now, dear Lady Margaret, you must take your turn,’ she said, ceding the piano graciously, ‘so that His Grace may see what a talented performer you are.’
And then, instead of returning to her mother’s sofa, the brazen creature went straight across to the Duke, placed her hand on his arm, and said something in a voice too low for anyone else to catch, since the married men were now making their way to the seats on which their wives were sitting and the single ones were sort of fanning out, leaving him alone by the door.
But whatever she’d said hadn’t pleased him. For his scowl darkened to positively thunderous proportions.
Which was a terrible shame.
* * *
‘I do hope you enjoy the programme tonight.’ Lady Sarah simpered up at Oliver. ‘Not that we have had much time to prepare, but I did just make sure that all of us have something to contribute.’
It was a fortunate thing that his expression, according to those who were close enough to him to speak frankly, so very often resolved into a scowl, since he rather thought he must be scowling at this very minute. Only this time it was with genuine annoyance.
For one thing, what kind of girl approached her host, a man she knew was casting his eye over her with a view to making her an offer, rather than returning, modestly, to her own mother’s side? What kind of girl puffed herself up by claiming she had organised his other guests into some kind of order, come to that?
A girl who wanted the title and didn’t care what she had to do to get it, he answered himself. But then, he’d known Lady Sarah was ambitious before he’d invited her here. So he had no business criticising her for running true to form.
‘Thank you,’ he therefore managed to bite out. And then, because he could not let her think she could manipulate him so easily as she had done the young ladies in this room, he added, ‘And now, perhaps we should stay quiet, so that we might better appreciate Lady Margaret’s performance.’ It was as near as he could come to telling her to hold her tongue, without appearing rude.
The trouble was, once he’d decreed they should pay attention to Lady Margaret’s rendition of a ballad about a shepherdess mourning her lost love, he could not very well escort her to her mother’s sofa, with the result that she remained standing at his side throughout the entire dismal dirge.
When it ended, everyone else burst into spontaneous applause. One or two of the gentlemen were even dabbing at their eyes with their handkerchiefs.
‘Dear Lady Margaret is so talented, is she not?’ Lady Sarah cooed. ‘So talented, she could perform on a stage.’
Well, well. Even though, on the surface, Lady Sarah had been paying Lady Margaret a compliment, in hinting that she
could turn professional she was bringing to his attention the fact that her performance had been a touch...
And it wasn’t the first time he’d heard her bring another female down under the guise of pretending to be kind. She’d made Sofia damned uncomfortable the moment she’d set foot in his home by drawing attention to the fact that she didn’t know anyone, had never been presented in society and was clearly out of her depth.
He’d invited her here because in London she’d always seemed so capable that he’d been sure she would easily cope with his demanding schedule. And take the management of his daughter in her stride.
But he couldn’t expose Livvy to this sort of management. While pretending to be kind to his daughter, she might well inject similarly subtle barbs into her speech.
‘Indeed,’ said Oliver. ‘Lady Margaret, do, please, play for us again. If the other young ladies do not mind?’ He looked round the room at the other bridal hopefuls. And for some reason his gaze snagged on Sofia, who was standing next to Lady Beatrice.
‘No, absolutely not, Your Grace,’ said Lady Beatrice on behalf of them both. ‘For my part, I could listen to Lady Margaret play all night.’
Lady Beatrice was a nice girl. He’d always thought so. It was just a pity she was so lacking in social graces. And that, given the chance, she’d spend her whole life on horseback. She didn’t seem all that bright either and, though that would definitely prove a stumbling block to her ever becoming a duchess of whom he could be proud, at least she didn’t have the brains to carry out the kind of subtle warfare in which Lady Sarah was currently engaged. Anyway, he wasn’t taking the plunge into matrimonial waters primarily to get himself a duchess. First and foremost he was seeking a mother for Livvy.
‘Oh, no, no, that will not do,’ put in Lady Sarah, just as he was taking a breath to express his own opinion about having Lady Margaret play all evening. Which sealed her fate. She might think she was demonstrating how capable she would be as his hostess, but how could she possibly think he’d tolerate a woman speaking for him?
A Duke in Need of a Wife Page 11