Duchesses in Disguise

by Grace Burrowes

  A stormy surge of wind blew his hat brim off his face, and she realized that severe though his expression might be, he was very handsome. The lines of his cheekbones and hard jaw ran in perfect complement to each other. His well-formed brows arched in graceful if harsh angles over dark eyes surrounded by crowded black lashes.

  But those eyes. They were as devoid of life as one of her father’s near-death patients.

  Several fat raindrops pelted her bonnet. “We shall be away momentarily,” she said briskly, turning away from him to consider the plight of the coach and assuming he would leave now that he’d delivered his warning.

  The rain began to fall faster, soaking through the thin fabric of her worn-out frock. She called out to the coachman, who was doing something with the harness straps. “Better take off the young lady’s trunk before you try to advance.”

  “No. That’s a waste of time,” said the stranger from atop his horse behind her.

  She turned around, deeply annoyed. “Your opinion is not wanted.”

  The ill-mannered man watched her, a muscle ticking in his stubbled jaw. A cold rivulet trickled through her bonnet to her scalp and continued down her neck, and his empty gaze seemed to follow the little stream’s journey to the collar of her dampening frock. His eyes flicked lower, and she thought they lingered at her breasts.

  She crossed her arms in front of her and tipped her chin higher. Not for nothing had she sparred with her older brother all those years in a home that had been more than anything else a man’s domain. Her father had been a doctor and had valued reason and scientific process and frowned on softness, and she’d been raised to speak her mind. Life as a servant at Rosewood School was already testing her ability to hold her tongue, but this man deserved no such consideration.

  “Is not your presence required elsewhere?”

  “Where are you going?” he demanded, ignoring her.

  “I couldn’t be more delighted that such things do not concern you.”

  The stranger’s lips thinned. “Who comes to this neighborhood concerns me.”

  “If you would move along,” she said exasperatedly, blinking droplets from her lashes, “we might focus on freeing the coach.”

  His gaze flicked away from her. “Drive on,” he called to the coachman.

  John, apparently responding to the note of command in the stranger’s voice, disregarded Anna’s sound of outrage and addressed himself to the horses. With a creaking of harness straps, they struggled forward. The wheels squelched as they found purchase amid the mud, and the carriage miraculously righted itself.

  She sucked her teeth in irritation.

  “See that you do not linger here,” the man said.

  “We are on our way to Stillwell Hall,” she replied, thinking to make him regret his poor conduct. He might even work for the viscount.

  He looked down at her, his face shadowed so that his rain-beaded whiskers and hard mouth were all she could see. “That’s not possible. No one is welcomed there.”

  From inside the carriage, Miss Tarryton called, “Can we not proceed, Miss Whatever?”

  Anna ignored her. “It certainly is possible.”

  “The viscount might not be in residence.”

  His words would have given her pause, except that when Miss Brickle had sent Anna off with her charge and a note for the viscount, she’d said that he was certain to be at Stillwell, because according to gossip among the mothers of Rosewood’s students, he’d been in residence there constantly over the last year. Though why this man should be so set on discouraging them from seeing the viscount, she couldn’t imagine.

  “I have it on good authority that he is. Evidently, sir,” she said, “you have been raised by wild animals and so one must overlook your lack of interest in people, but I assure you Lord Grandville will wish to welcome us.”

  Something flickered in his eyes for the barest moment at her tart words, but his hard expression didn’t change. “No,” he rasped. “He won’t. Do not go there.”

  He turned his horse away and spurred it into a gallop across the field next to the road.

  Order your copy of The Beautiful One!

  THE LOVE OF HIS LIFE

  * * *

  SUSANNA IVES

  Chapter One

  * * *

  Hyde Park—one month before the notorious carriage mishap

  “How delicious,” Colonel Nathaniel Stratton’s sister, Deirdre, Countess of Fentleigh remarked. “I understand Sir Harry has had yet another of his embarrassing marriage proposals rejected.”

  Her throaty laughter brimmed with malice. The sound rankled her brother’s frayed nerves. He scanned the manicured grounds of Hyde Park while taking several deep breaths to keep an impolite set-down from escaping his lips.

  Deirdre prattled on, “I think it should be noted in Creighton’s London Guide that young ladies possessing some degree of wealth should expect a proposal from Sir Harry when traveling to the metropolis.”

  Her gaggle of townish friends howled with laughter as they strolled lazily along the crowded footpath. Deirdre’s lips trembled as she tried not to chuckle at her own witticism. She was famous for her waspish, but amusing, tongue. Her utterances delighted the exclusive circle of Society that buzzed about her, drinking in her droll vitriol.

  She had begged Stratton to join their old friends for the fashionable hour at the park, claiming he wasn’t himself anymore. She had been saying as much since he’d returned from the war. She refused to believe that her once dashing, roguish brother had turned into a reticent man who preferred attending a dry lecture on the freezing points of various liquids to going to a gaming hell, and would rather finance an inventor than a scandalous mistress. He spurned London Society’s adoration, choosing to spend his time in the country with his daughter and dull scientist guests.

  “You’re becoming a regular bumpkin,” Deirdre had complained not two hours after he arrived in London. “Do indulge in one delicious scandal with a married woman while you are here, for old time’s sake—and my amusement.”

  Amusement.

  Stratton had once ambled about London thinking its inhabitants existed for his amusement—beautiful women to pleasure his body and everyone else to envy him and desire to bask in his bright, youthful light. Witnessing five thousand dead men on a field in Spain had destroyed that haughty arrogance, as well as most of his faith.

  Not getting the rise from her brother that she desired, Deirdre returned to mocking Sir Harry. “The on-dit is that Sir Harry actually wept when the homely miss rejected his proposal. I’m sure his display of sentiment had less to do with a broken heart and more to do with the knowledge that he has run out of young ladies to propose to. Now he must wait another Season for a new crop of unsuspecting ladies to arrive from the country.”

  Her clever cruelty elicited more laughter.

  Weeping Sir Harry must be this Season’s object of ridicule. Every Season, Deirdre had different prey. This was not a conscious selection on her part, but rather someone who made himself or herself a ready object of ridicule—a foppish effeminate gentleman, a country-mannered boorish baron, a garish matron, or a chubby chit with too many freckles. Stratton had happily played along in the vicious game until the Season his heart got tangled up in it.

  “We really must tell Sir Harry that no one wants his awkward, loose-lipped courting,” his sister continued, puffed up on the attention she garnered. “It’s the kindest thing to do, is it not, Nathaniel?” She was throwing Stratton a line, like an actor in a play. She waited for his response, her eyes glittering, hoping the sardonic Stratton of old would make an appearance.

  “The kindest thing you could do is give the poor man respect,” Stratton answered flatly, refusing the bait.

  Deirdre laughed. “Listen to you! You might as well be a Methodist. Your newfound respectability ill fits your roguish frame. It pulls at the seams and hangs poorly across your broad shoulders. I know your cynical heart still beats beneath the surface. A tiger c
an’t change his stripes.”

  Stratton couldn’t hold back the tide of his anger. “I don’t—”

  A child’s terrified shriek pierced the air, arresting Stratton mid-sentence. The frightening sound cut straight to his heart. He knew it wasn’t his daughter’s wail—she remained in the country—but he instinctively broke into a sprint in the direction of the child’s cries. He had recently learned that he was a parent and had taken his illegitimate daughter into his home. He hadn’t expected the dramatic change a small girl would make to every aspect of his life. Now every hurt child’s cry alarmed him like the cracking sound of a firing rifle had in the war.

  He rounded the trees and shrubs bordering the water. A girl in a white frock, her hair a brilliant red, darted toward the water, her arms waving wildly in the air. Her ribbons streamed loose from her braids. Mary Alice, Dowager Duchess of Pymworth and her liveried footman raced after the errant child. The duchess was a curvaceous woman, possessing a heavy bosom and voluptuous hips, but she moved with athletic agility.

  “Anna, no!” Her Grace cried as the girl splashed into the river.

  The child began to flail, even though the shallow water rose just above her chest. Her screams grew sharper and more frantic. Her Grace, clad in a lavender gown of half mourning, didn’t hesitate to wade into the dirty water.

  She reached out to the girl, but stopped just short of touching her. “Anna, shhh. It’s Mama.”

  The screaming child only pushed into deeper waters, her mind in such a wild state as not to perceive danger.

  Stratton and several nearby gentlemen had sprinted to the river’s edge and were ready to dive in.

  “Your Grace,” one called.

  Keeping her eye on her daughter, the duchess held her palm to the men. “Please stop,” she said in a controlled, calm voice. “She’ll only come to me.”

  Stratton, frustrated like the other would-be saviors, could do nothing but clench and unclench his hands.

  Her Grace edged closer to the girl. “Anna, hush. It’s just Mama. See? Mama.”

  Anna paused in her tantrum. She gazed at her mother, her shiny, unfocused eyes seeming not to recognize her. In that small second, the duchess zoomed across the water and seized the girl.

  Anna shrieked and beat the air with her small fists, knocking away her mother’s bonnet. The duchess’s long auburn curls fell loose and gleamed a rich amber color in the sunlight. Her Grace hugged her hysterical daughter close to her chest, issuing soothing sounds. Her expression remained composed, not registering the blows and kicks she suffered as she hauled the dripping child from the water.

  More gentlemen now lined the bank, eager to be heroes. Stratton remembered when the would-be duchess hadn’t a friend in Society, when her desperate overtures had been met with taunts and ridicule. Now, most of Society—especially ambitious bachelors—waited at her beck and call. Stratton stepped back, concealing himself behind the others so that the duchess wouldn’t see him. Now that he was no longer needed to save a child from drowning, his presence would only make the traumatic situation worse for Her Grace.

  With an attentive footman in her wake, the duchess carried the wailing child to the willow tree where her two other children waited, each holding a nurse’s hand. They stared at their out-of-control sibling with solemn, worried eyes. The eldest was a girl of about eight or nine years—Stratton’s daughter’s age. The boy appeared to be a year or so younger. Their slim build, sharp features, and black hair resembled that of their late father’s, the Duke of Pymworth.

  The duchess sat by the tree trunk, clutching her hysterical daughter, who squirmed and screamed as if her skin were on fire. Though Her Grace kept her face calm and composed, tears slipped down her cheeks. Stratton sensed there was something very different about this child. She acted like an inhabitant at Bedlam.

  More people began to crowd the bank, feigning concern to hide their voyeuristic curiosity. The duchess scooted herself and her child closer to the tree, trying to hide under the protection of its drooping branches.

  Deirdre and her friends caught up with Stratton.

  “What is Her Grace doing?” his sister demanded, her voice oozing with disgust. “Why is her nurse just standing about uselessly? I would relieve my nurse on the spot, with no letter of recommendation, if my child embarrassed me in public. Oh Lord, Her Grace is sitting in the dirt and grass in her gown.”

  “Maybe she cares more about her child than her bloody clothes,” Stratton barked. He had had enough with being polite. He couldn’t take another minute with his vicious sister and his old set.

  Anna finally quieted. She curled into a stiff ball in her mother’s tight embrace. The duchess awkwardly tried to rise to her feet, still holding her rigid child. Stratton stepped forward, instinctively wanting to assist. However, her footman was closer and rushed to take her elbow. Her Grace’s face possessed that hollowed, haunted quality Stratton had seen on his soldiers’ faces in Spain and Portugal.

  She motioned to the nurse that they were leaving. The young duke ran to his mother’s side.

  “Stop staring,” he spat at the crowd as his mother and siblings progressed toward the park gates.

  The young lad’s fierce protection of his mother reminded Stratton of Her Grace’s late husband. The duke had despised Stratton for how he, his sister, and their circle of vicious friends had maliciously treated his bride. Though Stratton didn’t possess a title, he and his sister were not to be trifled with in Society. Their father heralded from an ancient line of powerful, wealthy brewers, and their mother was an earl’s daughter. However, this had meant little to the serious-minded duke, who didn’t suffer fools. Not fearing Society’s disapproval, the duke had cut Stratton cold and wouldn’t allow him within a few feet of his beloved wife.

  The new young duke would have made his father proud.

  As Her Grace passed, Stratton sank deeper into the crowd to avoid detection. The duchess kept her head high and gazed straight ahead.

  Up close, Stratton realized the child she clutched must have been five or six—too old for such a tantrum. He could see that the duchess visibly strained under the child’s weight but kept her gripped tightly, refusing to relinquish Anna to the footman and nurse following closely in her wake.

  “I wouldn’t allow my child in public if she was so rude and unruly,” Deirdre said in an overly loud voice.

  Dammit!

  “You are only encouraging her atrocious behavior,” Deirdre told the duchess in a smugly knowing manner—such rich advice from a woman who spent as little time as possible with her darlings.

  “Quiet!” Stratton hissed.

  “I’m just being honest,” Deirdre protested, as if her so-called honesty justified her cruelty.

  The duchess stopped. She slowly turned and raised one finely shaped brow. Her large, amber-colored eyes zeroed in on Stratton and his sister. He cursed under his breath as she approached with a menacing swing to her hips. When he had first met her, she was a round, freckled ball of a girl, fresh out of the schoolroom for her first Season. Over time, her body had taken on more womanly dimensions—heavy breasts, flared hips, and a tapered waist. Her child whimpered in her protective arms. Water dripped from the hem of the duchess’s now-filthy gown. Yet she held her head high, her long curls sparkling in fiery shades of amber and sienna in the sunlight. Her wide, generous mouth and high cheekbones lent her a majestic air. Other ladies her age were beginning to lose their fresh bud of beauty, but Her Grace was just beginning to grow into her splendor. She possessed a mature beauty perfected from a loveliness of body, heart, and mind.

  “Your Grace.” He bowed. An electrical storm crackled in his insides at her proximity. “I’m sorry if—”

  “Good day, Mr. Stratton and Lady Fentleigh.” The duchess’s voice possessed a low, dusky quality as she addressed his sister. “If you believe my child should stay at home because she is rude and unruly, then I would suggest the same to you and your brother. For no one’s behavior is more atr
ocious than yours. I know that I speak for more than myself when I say your petty meanness is transparent. No one finds you nearly as clever as you think yourselves.”

  The duchess turned and walked to her servants and other daughter. Her son took her arm and glanced over his shoulder at Stratton, casting him a nasty look.

  Dull, heavy pain weighed in Stratton’s chest as he watched her retreat. He deserved her harsh cut.

  The Season before Stratton had left for the war, when the duchess was just a young merchant’s daughter named Miss Mary Alice Ward, she had been the object of his and his sister’s ridicule. Her numerous sins had been heinous, indeed. Aside from a round face peppered with freckles, a fleshy body, and a fervent desire to be accepted into Society, she had displayed a painfully obvious tendre for Stratton. Whenever they were in the same company, her enormous, lovely eyes had tracked his every movement. It had become a game among his friends to whisper, “Moo,” whenever she was about.

  One evening he had spied her ogling him in a loose-lipped, spoony way across the ballroom. “I don’t know if my ardent bovine admirer desires to flirt or serve me up,” he had said loudly enough to be heard by his friends and other people milling nearby. “Perhaps both.” The infamous insult had blazed through Society. Soon, people desperate to be included in Stratton’s fashionable circles began quietly mooing when she was around and referring to her as “the bovine admirer.”

  Stratton had committed many sins in his life, and he shouldered numerous regrets. But the two that weighed most heavily on his conscience were how he had hurt his daughter and the Duchess of Pymworth.