His Unlikely Duchess

by Amanda McCabe

  When she’d hidden away to read tales of England, of King Arthur and his chivalrous knights, the Crusades, Miss Austen’s villages, the Brontes’ grey skies and governesses, she had built a vision of England in her mind. An image of grand houses that were a part of history and family and immortality. A part of a neighbourhood, a net woven that encompassed everyone in it, bound them together.

  Yet she had not thought a great deal about the real people who must live in such houses, beyond an image of such history. She’d vaguely thought they must be grey and fusty, bound to the past. Aidan wasn’t like that at all. He was golden and vibrant, so alive. So full of secrets, too.

  Her mother and Lady Heath might think that by plopping her down next to the Duke at dinner all would be well. But Lily was not so sure. Aidan seemed like a man who knew so much, had seen so much. Was he bored with London life, with young ladies like her?

  Perhaps it was true and he could be the key to the new life she longed for. She had to think of her sisters. What kind of life did they deserve? A wealthy man’s wife in America, even one miraculously accepted by Mrs Astor, had no real role to play in the world. Those ladies faded away into their own plush houses, into the shadows. In England, Lily had seen, a lady could do more, even bound as she still was by marriage and family. Ladies in London had salons, literary societies, political groups, ran charities, helped others. Surely fiery Violet and gentle Rose would fare better here, with her to help them—and protect them from their mother, as there was no one to protect Lily.

  She thought again of Lord James Grantley, of how intellectual and kind he had appeared, how he had seemed the sort of man she should look for. So different from Aidan, with his golden sun-god looks, intimidating title and his past.

  When Lord James touched her hand, it had been—pleasant. Sweet. Not at all like when Aidan had touched her and she felt the crackle of fire against her skin. A breathless thrill. But surely it was Lord James who could give her what she needed? And she did not even know the state of his roof.

  She took a deep breath. She had to stop dreaming now and start doing. Taking control of this England plan herself. Starting tonight.

  ‘There, Miss Lily. What do you think?’ Doris said.

  Lily dragged herself away from her distractions and turned back to the mirror. For an instant, she didn’t recognise herself. Usually her hair was caught back in a simple twist, maybe decorated with a flower or two as all young ladies did. Tonight, Doris had copied a guide from a ladies’ magazine and done it à la Alexandra, a style made popular by the Princess of Wales. It was drawn high and curled, fastened with those diamond stars and framing her brow with a loose fringe. It made her look older, sophisticated. But not at all like herself.

  ‘Oh, Doris,’ she murmured. ‘You’ve quite outdone yourself. It’s very—well, stylish. But surely it’s a tiny bit...er...mature for me?’

  ‘Mrs Wilkins’s orders for the evening. And she says you’re to wear this. I’ve specially pressed it and everything.’ Doris nodded at the bed, where a gown of silver brocade trimmed with midnight-blue velvet and swansdown waited, rustling stiffly.

  Lily stared at it, open-mouthed. It was not the blue tulle Lady Heath had suggested. It was a creation from Monsieur Worth in Paris; her mother had insisted on including it among the piles of simpler silks and muslins and tulles suitable for a young lady. It had a deeper décolleté than anything else Lily had worn and was more elaborate, richer.

  ‘I can’t wear that,’ she protested. ‘It’s just a small dinner party! I will feel...too much.’

  ‘Your mother said so, Miss Lily,’ Doris said firmly. Doris was her friend, but even Lily had to admit that Stella paid the wages. ‘It’s the only gown I’ve pressed. And just look at those gorgeous sleeves! You will be the most elegant lady there.’

  That was what Lily was afraid of. No deb she had seen in London could be called ‘elegant’. But she saw she had no choice. The minutes were ticking away on the little Louis XVI clock on the mantel and they would have to leave soon or be late. No one could arrive after the Prince, Lady Heath had said. Between tardiness and looking like the Queen of Sheba, she would have to choose Sheba.

  Lily sighed and stood up to unfasten her lace dressing gown. Doris bustled around her, tightening her corset, lowering the elaborate gown into place, straightening the velvet sleeves. It was stiff and itchy against her skin.

  ‘There! Now see, Miss Lily, you do look beautiful,’ Doris said, her voice filled with the satisfaction of a job well done.

  And it was well done, Lily saw as she glanced in the full-length mirror. Doris would make a fine lady’s maid to a titled Englishwoman. Every fold of the heavy, elaborate gown was perfectly straight, every jewel exquisite. She looked like a fashion plate, from the diamond stars in her hair to the tips of her white satin shoes.

  She looked like a duchess. A young, scared duchess.

  The door flew open and her mother rushed in, dressed just as perfectly for her role as ‘a proper duchess’s mother’ in amber cut velvet and a topaz and diamond parure. She held a large satin box stamped Garrard in her gloved hands.

  ‘Oh, Lily!’ she cried, her accent as rich and smooth as honey in her satisfaction. ‘You look stupendous. I always say you just don’t make use of your looks as much as you should.’ She reached out to adjust one sleeve, smoothing the swansdown trim. ‘And I have the perfect finishing touch. Your dear papa had it sent over to me last week, but I think it suits you better.’

  Lily, shaking with trepidation, unlatched and lifted the lid. Resting on a bed of rose satin was a pearl necklace, but what a necklace. It put her plain double strand to shame. Six strands of perfectly matched milky orbs, interspersed with bars of sapphires and diamonds, with a clasp of diamonds in the shape of a fleur-de-lys.

  ‘Mother!’ she gasped.

  ‘And there are earrings, too!’ Stella pointed out long pearl drops suspended from more sapphire fleur-de-lys. ‘They belonged to a French emigré from the eighteenth century. And now they’re ours. Can you believe that, darlin’?’

  She took out the heavy necklace and with Doris’s help fastened it around Lily’s neck. It lay there, cool and heavy.

  Lily pressed her fingertips against one of the pearls. The diamond bars bit into her skin. ‘Mother, none of the other debs will be dressed like this...’

  Stella’s pretty face hardened. ‘We are lucky, Lily. Never forget that. My family lost everything. We were utterly dispersed after that dreadful war. And here we are in England, meeting dukes and duchesses, even princes! You should be proud. You must be proud.’

  ‘I am proud, Mother.’ And she was—though perhaps not of the same things her mother was.

  Stella beamed and squeezed Lily’s hands so tightly her clasp bit into her daughter’s fingers. ‘Wonderful. Now, we are going to have a lovely evening. A successful evening. Yes?’

  Lily nodded, and tried to smile. It was always easier to just smile with her mother—even when her lips could barely make the motion.

  How, how, could she face Aidan tonight?

  * * *

  Eleanor, Lady Heath, gave a satisfied smile as she examined the table decorations one last time. She might not live in a fashionable neighbourhood; she might not have the money for the finest food or the most elaborate flowers. Poor Leonard, her handsome Army officer who unexpectedly inherited a title from his uncle before he, too, perished most inconveniently, hadn’t left her with a sixpence. But she had her brain, her originality, and it made her bread and butter.

  Tonight’s party, more than any other, had to be absolutely perfect. She studied her dining table with a critical eye. The candlelight cast a golden, mellow glow over the room, gleaming on the silver and the masses of white flowers, disguising the shabby wallpaper, the cheap artwork. The air smelled sweetly of rose oil, the wine—a fine vintage, gifted from one of the heiresses she had assisted—was decanted
on the sideboard, the company would be delightful.

  She moved slowly along the table, moving a fish fork here, a crystal goblet there, twitching the damask cloth into place. At the head of the table, she studied the carefully penned place-cards. Next to herself was the Duke of Lennox, and to his right Lily Wilkins.

  She slid the two cards just a tiny bit closer together. Not subtle, she had to admit, but in this matter there was no time for subtleties. She had the chance to put those two together in an intimate setting and the Season was too swiftly drawing to a close.

  If she could help arrange such a spectacular marriage as the Wilkins millions and the Lennox strawberry leaves of a ducal coronet, her career would be made. Her drawing room would be the destination of every American heiress, every impecunious peer, from London to Edinburgh. It had to go perfectly.

  Eleanor tilted her head as she considered Lily Wilkins. It was lucky the girl was as she was: pretty, well read, well mannered. She needed little enough instruction in English etiquette. It was easy to introduce her to anyone without fear of embarrassment on a hostess’s part. Yet there was that worrisome glint she got sometimes in her doe-like eyes, that flash of something like...rebellion.

  Eleanor sighed. She knew such things too well from her own wild youth. But Stella Wilkins was sure to dampen down any such sparks immediately.

  As for Lennox, there should be no problem there, surely. Handsome young dukes were thin on the ground indeed. Dukes that were famously dashing adventurers were even rarer. Unique, even. What lady could resist?

  Eleanor touched one gloved fingertip to the edge of the place-card. There was still the gossip about Lady Rannock, it was true. Once she and Lennox had been rumoured to be quite in love, even though she was meant for his brother. Would they coax their flame back into a bonfire now? But Roderick Castle was falling in. No love affair, no matter how passionate it once was, could patch leaky roofs.

  No, Miss Wilkins would do very well indeed. And with the gratitude of Stella Wilkins, Eleanor might even be able to move to a more salubrious address.

  ‘Is everything to your liking, Lady Heath?’ her butler asked.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Eleanor purred. ‘Very nice indeed.’

  Chapter Six

  Lady Heath’s house, unfashionable neighbourhood or not, was everything Lily might like for herself, she thought as they were helped from their carriage and hurried up the shallow stone steps to the red front door. The house was narrow but cheerful and pretty, pale rose brick with light shining invitingly from every sparkling window, the sound of laughter and piano music floating out to the tree-lined street.

  Lily couldn’t understand what was wrong with the neighbourhood, for it all looked quite respectable, with a small park across the way and quiet houses to either side. In fact, if she had her choice, if she was not bound by ‘Old King Coal’s’ money, she might like to live there herself, with books and music and chintz chairs as in their rented town house.

  But that sort of thing for her was as far away as the moon and it was no use worrying about it. She followed her mother into the small entrance hall, where the scent of hothouse lilies was strong and the laughter echoed a little louder. A footman came to take their wraps.

  ‘I’m glad to see Lady Heath can keep a servant,’ Stella sniffed.

  ‘Oh, Mother, she is a lady,’ Lily whispered. ‘She hardly scrubs the floors. And this all looks quite respectable.’

  ‘Respectable. Yes.’ Stella’s gaze swept up the narrow staircase with its polished banister and old Persian carpet runners, the marble-topped table with its arrangement of lilies and silver tray for cards. ‘She is good at appearances, as we all must be.’

  Lady Heath appeared in the doorway from where that laughter emanated and smiled. Her gown, cream-coloured satin trimmed with touches of crimson, her hair swept up and caught by another lily, shone brightly in the old-fashioned candlelight. ‘My dear Mrs Wilkins, Miss Wilkins. I’m so glad you could come. Do have a glass of sherry before dinner. Miss Banks was just entertaining us with some Chopin at the piano. Perhaps you could favour us so after dinner, Miss Wilkins? I hear you are very talented.’

  ‘Oh, she would love to, Lady Heath, I’m sure!’ Stella replied happily, as if she had not just been criticising Lady Heath’s house. ‘I do hope we’re not too late?’

  ‘Perfectly on time, Mrs Wilkins. And how lovely you both look! Such spectacular gowns. Do come in.’

  Lily nervously smoothed her skirt and her elaborately curled hair, wishing again she had worn her regular tulle or plain silk. She didn’t feel like herself at all.

  ‘Do stop fidgeting, Lily,’ her mother hissed. ‘Smile!’

  Lady Heath’s drawing room, though small, was attractive, with its piano and paintings and dainty decorations, but Lily barely noticed it. It looked as if they were the last to arrive, with a crowd gathered around Miss Banks at the piano. Just as Lily had feared, she was dressed quite wrong. Older ladies like her mother were in heavy satins and brocades, but girls her own age, such as the piano player, wore white and pale pink and daffodil-yellow tulles with dainty single strands of pearls.

  Yet she forgot all that when she saw the Duke of Lennox standing near an open window, listening to a lady in grass-green velvet who chatted to him vivaciously as he listened with a half-smile on his lips. He nodded to Lily as he caught her staring and raised his glass to her in a little salute.

  Lily felt her cheeks flood with heat and she glanced away. Her fingers twitched as if they wanted to reach for him again, to let him sweep her on to the floor and into a looping, twining circle of dance. She took a glass of sherry from a butler’s tray and tried not to gulp it down.

  ‘Miss Wilkins!’ another lady said and Lily turned to see Miss Mary Banks, the pianist’s sister, smiling at her. ‘What a charming gown. I’m sure it must be Monsieur Worth. My mama is such a tyrant, she won’t even let my sister and me enter his salon yet! She says it must wait until I marry.’ She patted her own pink gauze skirt. ‘Is it all terribly luxurious and wonderful?’

  Lily laughed, glad of the distraction from the Duke, and told Miss Mary all about the red velvet fitting rooms of Worth’s salon, the glasses of champagne and plates of foie gras, the lengths of beadwork and lace everywhere. She said nothing of the tedium of long hours of standing perfectly still while heavy satins and velvets were pinned around her, while her mother debated with the couturier himself over feathers and braid.

  ‘I do hope I’m not interrupting,’ a voice said and Lily glanced up to see Lord James Grantley smiling at them shyly.

  ‘Oh, you must know our cousin, Lord James Grantley,’ Miss Mary said. ‘Jamie, I am glad to see you’ve dragged yourself away from your studies for one evening of fun. He is studying Hebrew, Miss Wilkins, though he already knows Latin and Greek, not to mention French and Italian. I don’t know how you keep it all in your head at once!’

  Lily smiled at him and thought of how restful and easy his calm good looks were next to Aidan. ‘You do sound rather like my sister Rose, Lord James. She is teaching herself Spanish right now and last month it was Sanskrit, though I don’t think she will go to India. She’s always off to the British Library.’ She took a sip of her sherry and wished she did not envy Rose quite so much. She could escape into her reading, but people like Rose and Lord James had whole worlds open to them through their studies. Just as Violet did with her camera.

  ‘How frightfully clever she must be,’ Miss Mary said, though her tone clearly said a clever young lady was most odd indeed.

  ‘Do you read much yourself, Miss Wilkins?’ Lord James said. ‘I thought from our last conversation you were literary.’

  ‘Whenever I can, though mostly poetry and novels, and Shakespeare now that we’re in England,’ Lily said. She remembered how she had thought of Aidan as some poetic hero, some medieval warrior setting off for unknown climes. She took another, longer sip of the w
ine and tried to ignore her mother’s little frown from across the room.

  ‘I will send you a little treatise I wrote on Love’s Labour’s Lost, then,’ Lord James said. ‘It may be quite dull, of course, but perhaps it would be of some interest.’

  ‘I would enjoy that,’ Lily said.

  There was no time for more conversation, for a sudden hush descended on the drawing room and the Prince of Wales appeared. Lily had glimpsed him once or twice, but up close she realised he wasn’t much like she would imagine a prince to be. He was not tall and was rather portly, his pale hair thinning, except for his beard, and his pale eyes small. But his smile was kind enough and he nodded affably as everyone bowed and curtsied low. ‘Good evening, everyone,’ he said, in a surprisingly German-accented voice.

  Lily thought the Duke of Lennox would have made a much more poetic prince. But Prince Bertie did have a presence, a confidence, a barely leashed sense of fun and an attractive smile that took in everyone. She could see why society flocked around him.

  ‘Shall we all go in to dinner?’ Lady Heath announced.

  Lord James glanced at Lily and opened his mouth, as if he would offer to escort her. Miss Mary had already left her side with another young man. Lady Heath’s soirée did seem far more informal than the usual strictly regimented affairs Lily had become accustomed to in Paris and London—and Newport, of course; no place was ever more formal than Newport. But Lady Heath hurried over to her, the Duke himself in tow.

  He looked frozen, as if caught in the wake of an implacable ship, and Lily felt quite the same. She felt her cheeks turning hot just to be near him again, especially now that she knew the gossip about his past.

  ‘Miss Wilkins, would you be a dear and go in with Lennox?’ Lady Heath said with a gentle, impossible-to-refuse smile. ‘Lord James, I see the elder Miss Banks has left the piano now. I am sure she is quite longing to practise her Latin.’