His Unlikely Duchess

by Amanda McCabe

  Lily longed to groan and pull the satin quilts over her head, to ignore Doris, her mother, Lady Heath, London society, everyone, and dive back down into dreams. But she knew very well that a lady wouldn’t behave that way. And she’d been taught, above all things, all her life, to be a lady.

  She opened her eyes and pushed herself up against her pillows to face the day. Doris held out a steaming cup of tea with one biscuit—always only one—on the edge of the saucer and Lily smiled up at her. It wasn’t Doris’s fault Lily felt all at sea that morning, as if something deep and fundamental had shifted. Doris had been her ally for years, ever since she became Lily’s personal maid when they were both only sixteen. Her mother had wanted a French maid, of course, not a girl who had started as a housemaid at the Newport cottage, but Lily had always liked laughing with Doris and begged and begged for the promotion. For once she had got her way and now she had a friend to depend on behind the scenes.

  ‘Thank you, Doris,’ Lily said hoarsely and reached for the tea. It was blessedly hot and strong, giving her strength to face the morning.

  Doris went about tidying the room, picking up the ballgown discarded across a chaise and shaking out its rumpled folds. How magical it felt wearing it last night, sweeping its satin train across the floor with Aidan!

  ‘How was the ball, then, Miss Lily?’ she asked, checking stockings and petticoats for any tears that could be mended. ‘Not as boring as you feared?’

  ‘No. Not boring at all, in the end.’ She smiled as she thought of that music, that dance.

  ‘I knew you’d like it, once you were there! Did the Prince of Wales come?’ Doris was obsessed with royalty and cut out every newspaper snippet she could find about Prince Bertie and Princess Alexandra for her scrapbook. Their glamor brightened even a grey day.

  ‘No. I don’t think he could possibly go to every house where he’s invited.’ She felt bad when Doris looked terribly disappointed by the lack of royal sightings. ‘But Lady Heath thinks she can get me on the list to be presented at the next royal Drawing Room. She says that since the Queen has become so quiet, Princess Alexandra usually presides.’

  Doris brightened, no doubt buoyed up by the thought of the ostrich feathers and embroidered trains she would be in charge of arranging. Maybe there would even be a glimpse of her idol, the beautiful Princess, in all her jewels. ‘Now, that would be grand! She does look so lovely, the Princess. But a bit sad in her photographs.’

  Lily thought of the rumours of the Prince’s many affairs and thought, if the gossip was true, it was no wonder his wife was sad. Were all English noblemen like that? All dukes like that? ‘I would imagine she’s not always entirely happy. She’s a long way from her homeland and family in Denmark. No matter how much she’s envied, everyone has sorrows.’

  ‘Now, that’s the honest truth, Miss Lily. I wouldn’t trade places with her for a thousand dollars, but I wouldn’t mind a peek at her wardrobe.’ She picked up the pair of satin dancing shoes and clucked over stains on the white fabric, then checked the almost unmarked soles. ‘Did you dance much last night? Or did you hide in the corner like last time?’

  Lily laughed. Poor Doris had had to listen when Lily’s mother lectured her after the last ball for not making enough effort. ‘You do know me too well, Doris.’

  Doris shook her head, the lace trim of her cap trembling. ‘The best way to get away, Miss Lily, to get your own life, is to find someone nice to marry. Your mother can’t boss you, then, when you have your own house.’

  Lily knew Doris was quite right. Marrying might have its pluses and minuses, but it was essential if she ever wanted her own life, ever wanted to be able to help her sisters find their own independent lives away from their parents. And an ocean between her and Stella wouldn’t come amiss sometimes. But the thought of a marriage without real love made her want to sob. Like the Prince and Princess.

  She gulped down the last of her tea. Crying would do no one any good at all. ‘Well, Doris, you’ll be happy to know I did dance a few times and I didn’t even hate it.’ In fact, for a few moments, it had been utterly blissful. But that was her secret for now. Probably her own secret for always. The time she danced with a handsome adventurer and he turned out to be Prince Charming. Well, Duke Charming, which in England seemed even better.

  Doris beamed. ‘That’s more like it. I knew England would be more fun than home.’ She draped the gown over her arm, along with the frothy lace petticoats. ‘Now, I’ll go see about your bath. Don’t forget Mrs Wilkins wants to see you. She’ll be in a flurry with Lady Heath coming.’

  Lily sighed. ‘When is my mother not in a flurry? But you’re right, we’ll have to hurry. I’ll wear that new eau de Nil morning dress. Mother can’t find fault with that, it’s quite new.’ And green would make her think of Aidan’s eyes.

  Once she was alone, Lily finished her biscuit and studied the chamber around her. It was a rented room in a rented town house, so nothing was her own, but that was not much different from home. Her mother arranged every room in Newport and New York, choosing every carpet and vase and cushion. But Lily thought she rather liked this English room better, with its cosy fireplace and flowered chintz upholstery on every chair and chaise. She wondered if she might choose something like it for her own room one day, when she had made her escape.

  She thought of Doris’s words. If she wanted to get away, to have her own house, make her own decisions, she would have to marry. And marry carefully, to someone who would be kind and understanding, and not just another tyrant to replace her mother.

  She leaned over to reach under the edge of her mattress, the only place her mother didn’t regularly search, and pulled out a small, red leather notebook. She’d kept the journal for as long as she could remember, especially since coming to Europe, writing all her confused thoughts about the new place and where she fit into it.

  She flipped through the pages, covered with lists of what to do and not to do in English etiquette:

  The charm of good housekeeping lies in a nice attention to little things, not a super-abundance; at table, the hostess should always wear her brightest smile, no matter what occurs.

  There were sketches of castles and ancient bridges and the river. On the last page was a list of gentlemen who had asked for dances or sent her flowers and what Lady Heath said about them all.

  The last name was Lord James Grantley. The younger son of a duke, so of course her mother rather liked him even though she would have preferred an elder son, and Lily thought he did seem nice. He studied sixteenth-century poetry, knew all sorts of history and languages and had lovely brown eyes. She’d put a little star by his name. If she had to marry in England, he seemed like just the sort of man she should look for.

  She’d hoped to see him again at the Crewe ball, but instead there was the Duke.

  Lily frowned as that wondrous dance came flooding back to her. The dazzlement of his eyes, the thrill of his touch. That was how her parents first came together, in a rush of infatuation. Long before her father was ‘Old King Coal’, he was a law clerk who once danced with a golden-haired Southern belle at a church social and they fell madly in love. That was the story he told everyone and look where an amour foudre took them. Separate suites at opposite ends of enormous houses, quarrels and brusque letters. Lily didn’t want that for herself and especially not for her sisters. Better someone who could be her friend than someone who evoked such emotions, someone who could like her as well as that coal money.

  But, oh—the Duke’s green eyes...

  There was a quick knock at the door and Lily just had time to shove the book back under the bed when her sisters rushed in. Even they looked different here in England, older, taller, their red hair swept up into silver combs and ribbons, their navy serge skirts sweeping the floor. They would be ready to marry, too, sooner rather than later.

  Violet ran to jump on the bed next to Lily, sending pil
lows flying, while Rose followed more sedately to perch on the edge of the dressing table stool.

  ‘Oh, Lily, how was the ball? Do tell us everything!’ Violet cried. She snatched the remains of the biscuit from the teacup saucer and stuffed it in her mouth. ‘Did you dance all night? I wish I had been there to photograph it all!’

  Lily laughed and hugged Violet close. No matter what happened, no matter who she married, she would always have her sisters. How she loved them! ‘Not all night, but once or twice. Really, it was all a bit boring and stuffy.’

  Violet sighed. ‘I can’t believe it would be boring. Music and gossip, and handsome men falling at your feet! Staying at home practising our French is what is boring. Rose and I are old enough now to be out here in England, why can’t we go to balls, I’d like to know? My art will never be inspired this way.’

  ‘Because we don’t know anyone in London, so Lily has to meet them for us,’ Rose said. ‘I think a large ball like that sounds utterly terrifying.’

  ‘I would have much preferred reading French with you two, anyway,’ Lily said. Except for her dance with Aidan. But that was her secret for now.

  ‘But once you choose one of your lovely English suitors and have a vast medieval manor house of your own, we can stay with you and go to parties as much as we like, right?’ Violet said.

  ‘Who told you I have English suitors?’ Lily asked.

  ‘Mother, of course,’ Violet answered. ‘Isn’t that why we’re here? To captivate London with your beauty and find a fine English suitor who will be much more cultured than any New York boor?’

  ‘I don’t think Lily should ever marry anyone she doesn’t like,’ Rose said softly. She fiddled with one of the silver combs on the table, a worried expression on her perfect oval face.

  ‘Certainly she shouldn’t,’ Violet said. ‘But surely the men here must be more interesting than the ones at home? The way they always natter on about their yachts and their Wall Street offices...’

  ‘The ones here aren’t usually any better,’ Lily said. ‘Except they natter on about cricket and shooting.’ Apart from Aidan. He had made her laugh, made her forget where she really was. Not a word about cricket or shooting.

  Doris came into the chamber, the evening gown gone and the green morning dress carefully draped over her arm. ‘Your bath is ready, Miss Lily. And Mademoiselle Clemence is looking for Miss Violet and Miss Rose for their lessons.’

  Violet rolled her eyes. ‘Must we?’

  Lily nudged her off the bed. ‘You must, if you want to catch a medieval manor with your fine accomplishments. But go along with you both! My bath will be ready soon and I need to make my own plans.’ It was better than sitting in the morning room with their mother and Lady Heath, analysing all that went right and wrong at the ball last night. Time to start the day.

  * * *

  Lily tiptoed down the stairs of their house, her kid leather shoes muffled by the old Axminster carpet, and she wished she could run back to her room. To lock the door and escape into her books, forget London and all the expectations landing on her shoulders.

  She turned at the landing and hurried down the last of the stairs into the entrance hall. Not that her mother had such terrible taste when it came to gilded cages, Lily thought as she glanced around. Just like their New York house and Newport cottage, this town house was decorated in beautiful, up-to-the-minute fashion. But here, it had an English flavour that was different. As in Lily’s bedroom, the colours were lighter, brighter, just a bit shabby at the edges. Portraits of people she did not know, in stiff satins and gleaming pearls, gazed down at her from the moiré-silk-papered walls and fresh white roses were arranged on every table along with silver and porcelain ornaments. Liveried footmen waited by the front door.

  This was the sort of cage Stella had designs on locking Lily in for ever—English, historical, correct, elegantly shabby. Only, with real family portraits, real silver and china and silk touched by the hands of the same family for generations. And she, Lily, would be expected to be part of that, a link in some old family’s chain. Could she do it? Did she want to do it?

  What were her choices?

  Lily stopped in front of a looking glass, Louis XV, framed in gilt, and smoothed her loose Newport knot of waving dark hair. She shook out the skirt of her green dress, with its high lace collar and ruffled lace sleeves, and pinched at her cheeks that looked so pale after her dream-filled night. She pasted a bright smile on her lips, determined to get through the day as pleasantly as possible.

  Through the half-open door of the morning room, she heard voices. Lady Heath’s crisp tones, her mother’s Southern drawl. But her mother didn’t sound entirely happy.

  ‘...such a triumph for her, dancing with the Duke of Lennox of all people! But she wouldn’t make the most of it. I’ve told her, she needs to jolly these boys along a bit. Men like a girl who flirts just a little, who seems interested in them.’

  There was the clink of fine, thin china. ‘In America, maybe, Stella dearest, but we are in England, looking at English suitors. Englishmen do also like a girl who laughs and teases—just look at Prince Bertie! He comes alive in the company of such women. But not always in the ladies they marry. They want to marry ladies just like dear Lily. Quiet, well-dressed, sensible, intelligent. A woman who can look good in a coronet, or smoothly run your dinner parties from the foot of the table no matter who the guests might be. She’s quite perfect here, really.’

  ‘I should hope so,’ Stella said with a sniff. ‘I’ve worked hard enough for years, since the day she was born, fitting her for just such a position.’

  So she had. Lily remembered with a shudder the iron posture brace, the hours of drilling in French, the going over and over Debrett’s.

  ‘Was it for nothing?’ Stella went on. ‘We’ve only had proposals from an impoverished French comte and the untitled son of a viscount! All very well, but...’

  Lily frowned, an image of Henri in Paris flashing in her mind. All his hand-kissing and elaborate compliments...he’d made her laugh, even though his moustache was rather too elaborate. He had proposed? Why hadn’t she known? And Mr Lewis, said son of a viscount? He did come from a good family, but spent most of his time talking to her about cricket. And there had been Mr Goelet at home. Stella seemed to like him at first, but then when the England trip came about she had turned on him, the poor boy.

  That was when Lily had realised her parents had something more in mind for her.

  But what did she want? She could hardly begin to know. Giving her own opinions had been discouraged since she was toddler. She only knew she wanted to find happiness for herself and her sisters.

  ‘Well, she did certainly score a great victory last night,’ Lady Heath said, satisfaction in her creamy English voice. ‘The Duke of Lennox! And he danced with no one else. They’re all surely still chatting about that today.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Stella said with a happy sigh. ‘The Duke of Lennox! How handsome he was. They did look well together.’ Lily was sure her mother was having rosy visions of Lily and the Duke in velvet robes, processing through Westminster Abbey.

  She closed her eyes and tried to imagine it herself, but all she could see was his hand held out to her, his smile as he looked into her eyes.

  ‘Tell me more about him, then,’ Stella said and there was the splash of more tea being poured.

  ‘He was the second son, not meant to inherit Roderick Castle. His brother, Edward, was such a paragon, so perfect at Oxford, quite brilliant. He could have been a first-rate Classicist if he was not meant to be the Duke! The boys’ father died rather young, you see, after sadly frittering away so much of the old Lennox fortune. It was up to his mother to try to sort it all out when the boys were young. Edward was dutiful, but Aidan did turn wild. Sent down from Oxford for running in such a fast set! Gamblers, pranksters—and even worse.’

  ‘Worse?’ Stell
a gasped and Lily nearly echoed her.

  ‘But then he went off on some archaeological expedition for the British Museum, travelling all over America and the East. And Edward fell in love with the Honourable Melisande Milwood, was expected to marry her, even though...’

  ‘Even though what?’ Stella whispered, clearly thrilled.

  ‘Miss Milwood was caught kissing Aidan before he left. At a tea party.’

  Stella gasped and Lily felt her stomach lurch at the gossip. ‘So Edward was going to marry his brother’s cast-off goods?’

  ‘So it seemed. The Duchess was against it, of course, violently so. Then poor Edward died, swam too far offshore on a trip to Blackpool. Melisande married a Scottish lord, Lord Rannock, and went off to hide herself among the heather...until this Season, when Aidan came back to London at last.’

  ‘Do you think...?’ Stella sounded uncertain for the first time. ‘Do you think they will revive their old romance?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so,’ Lady Heath said firmly. ‘Lady Rannock is still married and, anyway, she has no money. If Roderick Castle is to be restored to its former glory, or even made not to fall in, that would never work. And she’s not as young as she once was, either. Lennox will need heirs.’

  Lily bit her lip, feeling queasy at so much news at once. So the Duke needed a bank balance and a baby—and an heiress to give him both. Did he expect that of her? It hardly seemed likely of the man she’d met on the dance floor, but she was still learning the English way. Maybe it would always be beyond her.

  She made herself smile again and stepped into the room as if she’d just arrived. ‘Mother.’ She kissed the older woman’s powdered cheek and sat down on one of the tapestried chairs on the edge of the seat, her ankles crossed, back perfectly straight, chin parallel to the floor, just as she’d been taught. ‘And Lady Heath, how lovely to see you today.’