Playing the Duke's Fiancée--A Victorian Historical Romance

by Amanda McCabe

  He dropped the scarab and walked away to take those duties up once more.

  * * *

  William rode Zeus, his favourite gelding, hard over the well-beaten paths through the ancient woods of the Bourne estate. He remembered long hours tramping the same ways with his father and the gamekeepers, learning every inch of the estate, all of its history and meaning.

  ‘This will all be your responsibility one day, William,’ his father would tell him gruffly, pointing out the game hides, the fields, the tenant cottages, the towering chimneys of the house itself in the distance. ‘The family name, the future of it all, is in your hands once I am gone. You are my only son. I must know that you can be utterly relied upon to see it safe.’

  Even as a child, William had been able to see the solemnity in his father’s eyes, the worried lines around his mouth. His father’s own brother, the late Uncle Henry, had been utterly unreliable. He had even eloped with the lady meant for his own nephew, the roué. William heard his parents’ whispers even from his mother’s sickroom when he was young, the tense anger and worry over all the money his uncle gambled away, the loose women, the rumours that floated out of Monte Carlo and Venice. William couldn’t understand it all then, but he heard well the worry of it all. The despair. His uncle threatened the first object of all their lives—the prosperity and future of the dukedom and of Bourne.

  William had vowed then that he would never be like his uncle, never cause his family and all those who depended on them a moment’s worry. He was alone in the world; he alone could maintain it all. And he had never faltered in that promise, not through Eton and Oxford, his frail mother’s death, his uncle’s scandalous demise in Marseilles and finally his father’s death, which left it all in William’s hands.

  He had repaired the house, which had been rather neglected after his mother’s death, saw to Honoria’s schooling and marriage, maintained the farms and tenants and servants, and took a few steps towards political influence, though by then he was still only barely out of school himself. There hadn’t been a moment for a free breath and never one for laughter or fun.

  A duke could not afford fun.

  He turned Zeus out of the thicket of trees and on to a high clearing, drawing the horse in so they could sit for a moment and watch the house, so peaceful and eternal in the distance. As much as he had enjoyed his travels, he had missed home. Those familiar walls, a shelter since birth to so many people, were his to maintain for now and in the future. He could not fail.

  He laughed. No wonder Honoria decried his lack of ‘fun’. There was simply no space for it here. No way to give even an inch or give in to a baser nature as poor Uncle Henry had.

  But she was right about something else, too. He did need a wife. Bourne needed a duchess, especially if he was to rise in politics and bring honour to his family. He had put it off long enough.

  Oh, there had been a woman or two in the past, all knowing their place in his life and his in theirs. Finding relief in each other’s company for a few hours. And they were still friends. ‘How ladies do love you, Will, though who knows why,’ Honoria had once teased. ‘You could have a pretty wife with one snap of your fingers!’

  But who wanted a spaniel, summoned with a snap, for a wife?

  Someone dutiful, yes, who knew the depth of the task she took on, who was equal to it. But someone with ideas of her own, too. Someone who could improve Bourne. Who could make him smile sometimes.

  Was there a ballroom or tea party in London where such a lady could be found? He remembered Honoria urging him to attend the royal Drawing Room. He closed his eyes, imagining a long line of girls waiting to try on the strawberry leaf coronet, and he laughed. That seemed as good a matchmaking plan as any.

  He wheeled Zeus around and galloped away from the view of the house, along a rougher path that skirted the fields. He had certainly missed this; there was nothing like a fast gallop on a misty English afternoon, no one in sight, just the endless rolling fields, the smell of fresh air, burning leaves somewhere in the distance, the crisp wind catching at his uncovered hair. The horse moved beneath him as if they were one, wild and free, if only for that moment.

  He drew up at the top of a hill just at the edge of Bourne land. Beyond a low grey stone wall was Aidan’s estate. He should go call on his old friend, see how he was settling into English life again after all his years of exploring, wandering, seeing so many wonders. Once, William had quite envied Aidan that freedom, dreamed of what it must be like. But Aidan had been a second son, not meant to shoulder the burden of a dukedom until his brother died. William hoped his friend didn’t feel trapped now.

  Yet he had a wife now, a pretty American, Honoria said, even a child. Perhaps Aidan wasn’t so unhappy after all.

  As William studied the house in the distance, his attention was caught by a bright flash of movement in the grey-green meadows. He shielded his eyes from the glare of the light and saw it was a lady making her way slowly towards the castle. She wore a blue-and-white-striped gown, the ruffled hem trailing behind her. Her red hair blew in the breeze like a banner, uncovered by any hat, and she dragged a strange contraption with her, a tripod and a medium-sized box with a handle. He remembered men with just such a thing at the pyramids, taking photographs, but he had never seen a lady with one.

  Aidan’s wife? She did seem eccentric enough to be an American. Yet strangely, William hoped she was not. Something about her, that waving, brilliant hair, like something in a Millais painting, that strong, free independence of her stride and her fearless posture, caught at something inside of him. He longed to ride down to her, to see her face clearly, to hear the laughter from her wide red lips that the wind seemed to snatch away.

  Who was she? What was she doing, so close yet so far away? He watched, enraptured, as she waved one arm as if to test the wind then threw back her head to look up into the sky. The lace-edged sleeve fell back, revealing a slender arm and a gold bracelet. As she looked up into the meagre light, William could see her more clearly, her face illuminated like a cameo in the grey day. Her chin was lightly pointed, her cheekbones high and elegant, her full lips curved in a whisper of a smile. He could even glimpse a spray of freckles over her straight nose. Her pose indicated intelligence, defiance, concentration.

  She shook her head, took up her equipment and hurried away. William wanted to call after her, follow her, but he stayed frozen where he was. No lady on a country ramble wanted a gentleman to chase her down, surely even one as bold as that redhead obviously was. He was never in the business of frightening ladies, not even one who intrigued him so. And he was so rarely intrigued.

  Besides, she might indeed be Aidan’s new wife. Something sank in him at such a thought. Not that he himself could marry an American. He had already told himself that.

  He spun Zeus around and galloped back towards Bourne. It was nearly dinnertime and perhaps Honoria would know something about the red-headed lady. He feared he wouldn’t be able to get her out of his mind for quite a while.

  * * *

  Violet had to stop on her path back to the house, caught by the afternoon light shimmering like rose gold on the fields. It seemed to ripple like some rare beaded fabric. There was no time to set up her camera, so she took a sketchbook from her satchel and sat down to try to catch it in quick pencil strokes to remember later.

  As she drew in the impression of light, caught up in images of rare beauty, she suddenly realised she wasn’t quite alone in the silent afternoon. A figure on horseback appeared on the pathway below her perch, outlined in sunlight that turned him golden, like a pagan idol. Violet shielded her eyes to study him.

  And what she saw made her gasp. That glimmering light made him seem truly godlike, with tousled dark hair over a noble brow, riding so smoothly and carelessly, as if one with the horse, tall and lean and powerful. She wondered if he was truly real at all.

  For an instant, her fingers froze
on the pencil, as if time had stalled. Then she drew even faster, trying to capture his image before he rode away. She’d seldom seen anything quite so beautiful.

  As she sketched an impression of his features, chiselled as if sculpted just so beneath the brim of his hat, he suddenly raised his hand and waved at her. Violet was tempted to duck, but then she told herself sternly that there was no way he could see her blush from there, no way he could see that she drew his face so she could always remember it. Instead she waved back and he laughed before he galloped onwards. That laughter made him even more handsome, made him glow from within.

  Who on earth was he?

  Chapter Three

  ‘Oh, Vi, do sit still! It will all be quite crooked if you don’t, and everything must be perfect,’ Lily beseeched, watching from across the bedchamber as the hairdresser pulled and prodded at Violet’s aching head.

  ‘Oh, Lily, dear, I’ve been sitting here forever,’ Violet muttered. She fiddled with the items scattered across her dressing table, the silver-capped pots of creams and powders, the ribbons and engraved brushes and perfume flagons. Silver-framed photographs of her sisters gazed back at her, happier, freer moments at the seaside and in the garden, where no one tortured them with knife-like hairpins.

  Where she could glimpse the most astonishing men sometimes.

  ‘I told you, perfection takes time and nothing less than perfection will do for today,’ Lily said. She was already dressed, perfect as she always was in silvery-lilac satin embroidered with pearls and sequins in lily patterns over her skirt and the three-yard, fur-trimmed train. Her brown hair was swept high and fastened with the three feathers, held with the famous Lennox diamond-and-pearl tiara. Violet would wear the diadem her mother had given Lily for her wedding.

  Violet winced as another pin pierced her scalp.

  ‘My art cannot be rushed, mademoiselle,’ the little French coiffeur muttered, his waxed moustache quivering, as he ruthlessly twisted up another red curl. ‘I have seldom faced such a challenge...’

  ‘The flowers have arrived!’ Rose cried, rushing in followed by maids bearing fragrant cardboard boxes. Violet’s twin would stay behind at Grantley House to put the finishing touches on that evening’s ball, but she, too, was impeccably dressed, in a grey sateen skirt and starched shirtwaist, a red Indian shawl draped over her shoulders. The perfect scholar’s wife.

  ‘Oh, thank heavens for that,’ Lily gasped. ‘One can’t go to the palace without the right bouquet.’ She lifted out the large, trailing arrangements, white roses interspersed with violets for Violet and a sheaf of lilies for her. ‘Did the flowers for the drawing room at Grantley arrive, too?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I was just there and the florist’s assistants are hard at work.’ Rose clapped her hands as Lily held the bouquet up to the gown displayed on the dress form as seamstresses put the finishing touches on the hem. ‘It is quite perfect.’

  Violet tried to twist around to look, too, but the hairdresser sternly held her in place. It was a beautiful dress, she had to admit that. From Worth in Paris, creamy white, swathed from one puffed shoulder to hem with tulle dotted with satin violets that twinkled with amethysts and pearls and clear beads that shone like tiny diamonds. More velvet violets lay across the low neckline like a wreath.

  * * *

  Once she was at last dressed, her satins and tulles smoothed and the requisite three feathers fastened in her hair with the tiara and a row of pearls around her neck, Violet stood very still in front of the looking glass. She could hardly believe it was her standing there, this slim lady so perfect in her jewels. She hardly dared move an inch, scared she would ruin it all, especially since they had been up since dawn creating it all. She was sure she would disappoint her sisters, as usual, with some wild jape.

  ‘Oh, Vi, how beautiful you look.’ Lily sighed, dabbing at her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. Violet was sure no one could look as beautiful as Lily herself, the perfect Duchess. The perfect lady Violet could never be. ‘If only Mother could see you!’

  Violet gave a choked laugh. ‘She would only think I had been switched by fairies or something.’

  Lily and Rose laughed, too, and they kissed Violet’s cheeks, careful not to mess up her fine feathers. ‘Well, as long as they wait a few hours to trade you back again. I know the palace will be tedious, but it will all soon be over and then you can do just as you like.’

  Violet frowned. If what she liked was to marry an Englishman, or go to Newport to let her mother brag about her daughter being presented at Court, maybe Lily was right. But that was assuredly not what Violet wanted.

  Though maybe her sister was right after all. The more famous people Violet met, the more likely she was to find good subjects for her photographs. Maybe it would not be wasted time at all.

  As she smoothed her satin-and-tulle skirt, Rose handed her the long kid gloves. Only Lily and Violet would go to the palace, but Rose had to be prepared to host the ball afterwards. If Jamie could just be lured from his library to play host.

  ‘Oh, Vi.’ Rose sighed. ‘You are so very beautiful, truly. Like a princess. No—a queen!’

  ‘Queen of a desert island, maybe,’ Violet said. But she was secretly pleased. Though they were twins, she’d always been sure that Rose was the beauty, dainty and quiet and bookish, and Lily of course was a goddess who had captured the heart of a handsome duke. But today, after all those preparations, she had to admit she wasn’t so bad herself. It would never do to subject herself to this every day, as surely someone like Princess Alexandra must. But for once it was rather fun.

  Rose and a maid each took a hand and carefully rolled on the skintight kid gloves, fastening the tiny pearls to her elbows. Lily handed her the pearl drop earrings from her own jewel case and Rose handed her a fan, which was Brussels lace with a mother-of-pearl handle.

  ‘There...’ Rose sighed dreamily ‘...now you are absolutely perfect.’

  ‘Until I put my foot through my train while walking backwards from Their Highnesses,’ Violet teased.

  Rose and Lily gasped. ‘Oh, no!’

  Lily giggled. ‘I nearly did so myself when the Dowager Duchess presented me after I married Aidan. I was so very nervous, I was sure I would faint!’

  ‘You would never have dared in front of the Dowager Duchess!’

  Lily shook her head vehemently. Lily might be Duchess of Lennox now, and her mother-in-law a countess after her remarriage, but Agnes was always the Duchess. Perfect and formidable, behind all her style and airy charm. Lily was lucky her mother-in-law had gone off to run a new estate far away in Scotland, leaving Lily in charge of all the Lennox houses. But the Countess and the Earl were meant to be at Rose’s ball that night.

  As Lily helped Violet step into her pearl-encrusted, white high-heeled shoes, Rose cried, ‘I almost forgot! A letter from Papa and Mother came this morning. I forgot with the excitement of the florists.’ She took a pale blue missive sealed with their mother’s distinctive green wax from the pocket of her skirt.

  ‘A letter? How odd. We just got a telegram yesterday,’ Lily said, fussing with the feathers in her own hair and straightening her diamond necklace.

  ‘I suppose Mother has more advice to give,’ Rose said. ‘It must be quite killing her not to be here!’

  Curious, Violet reached for a penknife and cut open the letter. She read it with growing horror.

  ‘Oh, no!’ she gasped when she reached the second page. The sting in the scorpion’s tail her mother often hid until the end.

  ‘What is it?’ Lily whispered. She and Rose knew well how their Southern belle mother Stella operated—sweet as peach pie, until the bitter tincture appeared.

  ‘Mother says Papa is coming over on the Oceanic after we get back from Russia,’ Violet said. ‘And he’s bringing Harold Rogers with him.’

  ‘Mr Rogers?’ Rose said, puzzled. Her hands froze in fussing with the puffs of
tulle on Violet’s shoulder. ‘But why would Papa’s business partner be coming here? He never leaves the Park Avenue offices.’

  ‘To—to marry me, Mother says!’ Violet wailed, her stomach so tight she was sure she would be sick all over her expensive new finery. ‘Now that I’m of age and presented at Court, Mother says it’s time I made myself useful by bringing the business closer together. But, but why now? Now, when I can finally see a way to be happy!’

  ‘Oh, Vi, my darling, I am sure that can’t be what she means,’ Rose said, taking the letter to read herself. Her eyes were wide, her slim hand with its gold band and ruby engagement ring shaking.

  ‘Mr Rogers is thirty years older than you,’ Lily protested. ‘We’ve known him since we were toddlers! They can’t mean for you to marry him!’

  Violet thought of Harold Rogers, the times he had come to the Newport house, the way he smelled of camphor, his yellowed teeth. Ugh. Papa said he was a wizard at foreseeing good investments, but Violet cared nothing for that.

  ‘Well, it does seem to be what Mother is saying,’ Rose whispered sadly.

  Lily’s lips tightened. She was usually the sweetest, kindest of the Wilkins girls, but when her protective instincts were up, she could be a dragon more than even Stella Wilkins could imagine. ‘Well, Mr Rogers can come here whenever he likes, but he is not here now. You are in England, Vi, and Aidan is a duke, which is no small thing. And after today you will be officially known to the royal Court. We will find you an earl or marquess to marry. Preferably one with a powerful seat in the Lords. Then we will just see what the likes of Harold Rogers can do.’

  ‘What a snob you’ve become, Lil,’ Rose said admiringly.

  Violet could feel panic sweep over her like a cold wind, her parents and Mr Rogers and her sisters pressing all around her until she was sure she would disappear under them all. ‘But, Lily, I don’t...’