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

by Amanda McCabe

  ‘Oh, Vi, there you are!’ Lily called. ‘Have you quite looked your fill? I’m parched for some tea.’

  For an instant, Violet did consider telling Lily what she had heard. Wasn’t Aidan friends with Charteris? But something held her back at the last minute, something about the air of privacy Charteris always wore.

  ‘Yes, of course, tea sounds lovely,’ she gasped.

  Lily frowned as she studied Violet’s face. ‘Are you quite all right, darling?’

  Violet made herself smile. ‘Just a bit tired.’

  Lily tsked. ‘And no wonder! What a terrible sister I have been, dragging you all over town. We shall just have a good rest before Prince Alfred’s party. Tea on a tray and a good book!’

  Violet nodded. Thelma had said she would enact her silly plan at the party. That would give Violet a bit of time to decide how to act, work out what to do. How to help the Duke, if she could.

  Chapter Six

  William studied himself in the looking glass, automatically straightening his cravat, tugging at his cream brocade waistcoat, tucking away the ruby-studded pocket watch that had been his father’s and grandfather’s. It was always the same when he went to a party, he looked just the same. Fashionable but never flashy, proper, well-tailored, just as a duke should be. Just as he had been taught all his life.

  Just as he should be, at his core. As he always was. And yet, walking through the exhibition with Violet Wilkins, watching the way her eyes gleamed and her hands fluttered with excitement as she talked, as she led him through a different world, made him feel—unsettled. As if something, a new fire, was igniting deep inside of him, something that was well hidden the rest of the time. He’d never felt quite like that before, as if life itself had revealed a new light, just for that one bright moment. The shadows gone, the steady thrum of duty interrupted, only there for one flaring instant.

  Then she was gone and that light gone with her. All was just as it had been before he saw her looking at those scandalous photos. He’d never thought himself an imaginative man; he had no time for such things. Bourne was all he knew, his world and work. Yet perhaps he had become a fanciful man now, after the brilliant sun of Egypt. Maybe he imagined things in her eyes, bright, exciting, unknown things.

  Violet was not quite beautiful. But she was pretty, with her vivid hair, her sparkling eyes, the splash of freckles on her nose, her air of energy and health and vivacity. She burned with vitality, as if time could not contain her, could not limit her. She didn’t seem to care what people thought of her, as a duke could never afford to do, not if he had ambitions in the world.

  She was so different from anyone he had ever known. Unfathomable, even as he tried to read her. She did seem to have such a passion for her photography, far beyond the polite artistic accomplishments of other ladies. She seemed to feel, in fact, as he did about Bourne. That it was something she must do, must work on, must be a part of, no matter what.

  Listening to her, talking to her, was like standing in the Cairo sun too long, or drinking too much brandy. It could so easily consume him, destroy his careful control. He couldn’t afford that.

  Yet he did wonder if she would be at the party, if she would talk to him, dance with him. Smile at him again.

  ‘Don’t be a fool, man,’ he told himself sternly. A woman like Violet Wilkins, an American with raw energy burning through her veins like champagne, could never be a good duchess. Could never happily live with such duties, with a man like him. She was too much.

  Honoria was right. He needed a quiet, sensible wife, and soon. But no sensible woman he had ever met had eyes like Violet Wilkins’s.

  * * *

  Violet held up one necklace to her throat, then another and another, unsure which went best with her pale blue silk gown trimmed with darker blue velvet ribbons and crystal-dotted lace roses. She just couldn’t make up her mind, and that was nothing like her.

  She enjoyed clothes—they were just like another form of art, especially when she considered how they would look in photographs. Yet she herself could usually choose her attire quickly and go on to more interesting activities. Tonight, though, she felt like a ditherer.

  She glanced at the French enamelled clock on the mantel, with its cavorting cupids and blooming roses. Almost time to leave, those gilt hands said. Everyone told her Princess Alexandra was always late to everything, even a ball she was hosting, but her guests could not be. They had to be at Marlborough House on time or they wouldn’t be let in. She looked back down at the jewels scattered on her dressing table. Which ones, which ones?

  She feared she knew the reason for her uncharacteristic indecision: William, the Duke. Would he be at the party, as Thelma seemed sure he would be? Would she have to tell him about what she had overheard, and would she be in time to help him? How could she even begin to warn a man that he was about to be trapped into marriage?

  But she was afraid it wasn’t just how to tell him that was making her so nervous. It was facing the man himself.

  The Duke of Bore. How silly she had been to think that of him! Or at least just that. He was serious, that was true. His rare smiles were like jewels dropping into her hands, brighter than the necklaces before her now. They made her feel so silly, made her want to do and say the most ridiculous things just to see that smile again.

  And when his hand touched hers—it tingled, just like photography chemicals, only softer, warmer. What could that mean?

  She thought of her sisters and their husbands, how happy they seemed. She was not completely averse to marriage. But it would have to be to just the right man, one who understood her, who allowed her to be herself, who she could understand and help, too. She knew also what she did not want and it wasn’t a solemn man with the many duties of a dukedom on his shoulders.

  And it definitely wasn’t her father’s old business partner, either, no matter what her parents said.

  Violet sighed. Harold Rogers was a problem she would have to solve another time. She couldn’t think about that now. At least her parents and Mr Rogers were an ocean away right now. Her most vital problem was warning Charteris about Thelma Parker-Parks and her silly plan.

  And not daydreaming about his touch, his smile, his blasted adorable dimple all the time. She had ambitions of her own. After seeing the beautiful works at the exhibition, she was determined her own photographs would be among them one day soon.

  If she could just stop imagining a photograph of the Duke himself, posed like one of those naughty images in the back room...

  ‘Oh, just stop it!’ she cried, banging her silver-backed hairbrush on the dressing table.

  ‘Stop what? Are you ill, Miss Violet?’ the maid asked, bringing in Violet’s newly stretched kid gloves.

  ‘No, no, I’m just being silly,’ she said, quickly collecting herself. ‘I just can’t seem to decide on a necklace.’

  ‘Really?’ The maid sounded puzzled. It usually took Lily much longer to get ready for a party than Violet. ‘Why not the pearls, then, miss? You can never go wrong with pearls.’

  Violet studied the tangle of necklaces, the three strands of creamy pearls with a sapphire-and-diamond clasp that had been a present from her father. It reminded her of the Duke, strangely. Elegant, timeless, quiet, but with a sheen that drew a person closer, made them want to see more.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You’re quite right. The pearls it is.’

  Chapter Seven

  As Violet handed her fur-edged blue velvet wrap to a footman, she stared around her at the entrance hall of Marlborough House, the Prince and Princess of Wales’s London residence. She knew she shouldn’t stare like a milkmaid, but she couldn’t help it. It was just so very grand. So—so royal. It had none of the shabbiness at its edges like Buckingham Palace, but was immaculate and elegant in every way, all bright colours and sparkle.

  The footman led them up a staircase and into a drawing r
oom, where the butler waited to announce the guests. In line ahead of them, Violet saw an elderly royal aunt, a marquess and two earls. No Duke, though, and no Thelma. She fidgeted with her lace fan, worried about the night ahead.

  At last they reached the doorway, and the butler called out, ‘Their Graces the Duke and Duchess of Lennox and Miss Violet Wilkins.’

  The Prince of Wales headed his own receiving line, portly and genial in a stiff evening suit bearing the blue ribbon of the Garter order and plenty of gleaming medals. His wife, the Tardy Princess, was nowhere to be seen yet. ‘Aidan, my dear chap! I hope you’re up for a hand of whist after dinner, eh? No baccarat with Mama just around the corner at Buck House, I’m afraid. And you’ve brought your beautiful wife and sister-in-law to grace my little drawing room. I’m overjoyed. My own wife shall be down—well, soon, I’m sure? You know my sister, Princess Helena, I think.’

  The Princess, with a plain face and slightly outdated brown silk gown, as if she cared more for horses and dogs than fashion, gave them a pretty smile, and there were bows and curtsies all around. Violet was glad of all that practice for her presentation.

  ‘And you’ve met my brother Prince Alfred, the bridegroom,’ Bertie said, gesturing for his bearded, sparkly-eyed brother in his naval uniform to step forward. ‘We can hardly drag him away from his old ships, but true love did the trick, eh? Been angling to marry his Grand Duchess for years.’

  ‘It took that long to persuade her, I fear,’ Prince Alfred said with a hearty laugh. Violet nodded slightly. She had heard the gossip. The Tsar wasn’t sure a mere English prince would be good enough for his only daughter and Queen Victoria thought Russia a fearsome, barbaric place. But then the two lovebirds blotted their copybook in some way and so a marriage was reluctantly arranged. But, no matter how reluctant, it was all full steam ahead for the grand nuptials. ‘I am a lucky man indeed now. You’ll be at the wedding, I think, Lennox? And you, Miss Wilkins?’

  ‘We are honoured to be invited, Your Highness,’ Aidan said. ‘My wife has never been to Russia.’

  ‘You will enjoy it, Duchess, like nowhere else. Very grand they are, not like Mama’s little court.’ The Prince smiled at Violet. ‘And I seem to remember that you are the one who shares my interest in photography, Miss Wilkins?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Your Highness,’ Violet replied eagerly. ‘We just visited the new exhibition today. It was wonderful.’

  ‘I am hoping to visit there myself tomorrow. I look forward to hearing your thoughts about it, Miss Wilkins.’

  Violet knew it was not the moment to ask him about wedding portraits, but maybe soon. At least she had made a start; he had remembered who she was, and she had done nothing to embarrass herself or Lily.

  Yet.

  ‘I would enjoy that very much, sir,’ she said with one more curtsy.

  More people waited behind them, so they moved into the drawing room to take glasses of champagne from more footmen in the scarlet royal livery and to look around. But she didn’t see the Duke anywhere.

  ‘Aidan, darling! How grand to see you. I didn’t know you were here,’ a woman trilled, and Violet felt her stomach flutter with nerves all over again. She turned to see Aidan’s fearsome mother, the Dowager Duchess of Lennox, now remarried and a countess, but everyone just called her Duchess Agnes. And she was very much the Duchess tonight, in a dark red gown beaded with green and black, feathers nodding in her pale hair, her eyes sparkling and sharp. ‘And your little sister-in-law, how lovely. You do look nice tonight, Violet, so sweet in blue.’

  ‘Thank you, Duchess,’ Violet gritted out.

  ‘Mother,’ Aidan said warily, kissing his mother’s powdered cheek. ‘I thought you were in Cannes for the Earl’s gout.’

  ‘Oh, we were, but it was too, too dull. There’s no one there at all right now, so empty. All anyone can think about is this Russian wedding! I understand you are going?’

  ‘Yes, Lily and I, and Violet,’ Aidan said.

  The Duchess gave Violet a suspicious glance. ‘Really? All of you? Oh, I do wish I could attend, to keep an eye on you! But the Earl is still too unwell, the poor darling. I am quite on my own tonight.’

  ‘I’m so sorry to hear he still feels ill, Mother Duchess,’ Lily said. ‘It’s too bad you cannot be at the wedding.’ But Violet was sure she wasn’t that sorry; Duchess Agnes’s eagle eye would be sure to put a damper on any St Petersburg fun.

  ‘Ah, well, you must tell me all about it when you return,’ the Duchess said, her gaze sweeping the room. She waved at a group of ladies in the corner, including Princess Helena. Two of them hurried towards her. ‘Have you met my friend Mrs Palmer and her daughter Beatrice? Bea just made her debut, as you did, Violet, dear.’

  Beatrice Palmer giggled and Violet was startled to realise that this was Thelma’s friend, the proposed note-passer. ‘How do you do,’ Violet said carefully.

  ‘The Duke of Charteris and Lady Honoria Browning,’ the butler announced, and Violet felt her hands tingle under her gloves, as if he had touched them again. She patted at her pearl necklace, the upsweep of her hair, and glanced at the doorway.

  The Duke was bowing over Princess Alexandra’s hand as she smiled at him, a small smile on his own face, that wretchedly adorable dimple flashing in his cheek, his eyes so brightly green she couldn’t bear to look away from him. But then those eyes caught hers and his smile widened, and she felt quite ridiculously warm and flustered. She turned away, but she could still sense him looking at her. It was all so silly—and yet so giddily delightful...

  * * *

  At the gleaming dinner table, Violet was happily surprised to find herself seated next to Charteris, so close she could smell his sandalwood soap, sense him close to her. But she had been led into dinner by the gentleman on her right, a rather deaf elderly marquess, and was obliged to try to converse with him during the soup course.

  As they shouted to each other about the weather and sipped at the lobster bisque, Violet was all too aware of the Duke beside her. She longed to warn him about what she’d heard, but at the same time she rather dreaded it. How did a person say to someone Whatever you do, don’t let yourself marry Miss Parker-Parks! It sounded quite ridiculous, even in her head.

  Yet she couldn’t let that happen, even to the Duke of Bore. Besides, as she’d already admitted to herself, she now rather suspected he wasn’t quite as boring as all that. He deserved better than to be stuck with such a wife forever.

  At last the soup was cleared and the fish course, salmon in dill sauce, was brought in. Footmen poured out a new wine, a crisp Rhône white, with a double-large glass for Prince Bertie, and Princess Alexandra turned to her other side to converse with the man on her left.

  As Violet turned to the Duke, she caught a glimpse of Miss Parker-Parks on the other side of the table and further to the left. She stared at them with burning eyes beneath her sweep of blonde curls.

  ‘Did you enjoy the rest of the exhibition, Miss Wilkins?’ the Duke asked.

  ‘Oh, yes, very much. In fact, I’ll have to go back for a second, closer look,’ she said. ‘I have so much to learn about technique and subjects for my own work.’ She studied his face in the amber light, particularly noting those wonderful angles and sharp edges to his jaw and nose, his jewel-like eyes. Yes, he would make a marvellous image himself, perhaps as a classical Greek hero.

  ‘I, too, enjoyed it. Bourne Abbey, my family’s home, is filled with beautiful art my grandfathers collected, and I’m ashamed to say I’ve never appreciated it as I should. But I am learning to. There is a Raphael, several Van Dycks, even a Rembrandt. And some French landscapes my mother liked, beautiful, gorgeous colours.’ He sounded somehow lighter tonight, happier. She even glimpsed that enticing dimple as he flashed her a quick smile. It made her more determined to try to save him from marriage. ‘Perhaps I should add some photographs to the collection, something modern and different. A p
ortrait of my sister, for instance.’ He gestured down the table towards Lady Honoria, who would indeed make a fine portrait image, with her angular face and dark hair, so like her brother.

  ‘She would make a very photogenic subject, I think. And you should have your portrait done, as well.’

  He laughed, a dark, deep sound that seemed a bit rusty at the edges, as if he didn’t laugh enough. She longed to hear it again and again. ‘Me? Oh, no, Miss Wilkins. I would not want to frighten any visitors who are shown around Bourne by our housekeeper. It’s bad enough I must have a painting done for the gallery—at least the artist can soften my scowls a bit.’

  ‘Did you find anything for your collection while you were in Egypt?’

  ‘A few things. A group of scarabs and some fine rugs. It was all most astonishing there. The light and the sparkle on the river. The pyramids against the sunset. You would certainly find many subjects for your camera there, Miss Wilkins.’

  ‘I’m sure I would. I do dream of such travel,’ Violet said with a wistful sigh. But he did not seem like the usual sort of tourist. ‘Why were you there, Your Grace? Perhaps you have an interest in work for the Foreign Office?’

  He shook his head, the light glinting on his glossy hair. ‘I am only interested in helping my home county, helping Bourne and its people, however I can. The House of Lords, perhaps, or the Home Office. It’s my duty. That couldn’t be achieved in diplomacy, no matter how interesting that might be. Education for my tenants’ children, proper work for them, things of that sort.’

  Violet nodded. So he, like her, had ambitions and plans, hopes. Different ones, of course, but she heard the passion in his voice, the determination to see those visions come true. It surprised and moved her. Most of the noblemen she had met in England did not seem to care so much for their people, only for what they got out of their estates.