Emily snapped her fingers, oblivious to the shocked look on Ava's face as she registered that her twin was engaged to the duke who she had been coveting from afar for so long.
"What's it?" Ava asked, pulling herself back into the present.
"Kilbride and I have one season to decide if we are suited to each other," Emily said in a rush, "But, if we were to swap places, I know that you could convince him that we are most unsuited."
"And why is that?" Ava retorted, offended that her sister thought her capable of repelling a duke without so much as trying.
"Because you have the advantage of distance," Emily replied with a smile, "I am too afraid of upsetting my poor father to rebel against his wishes—but that fear won't hold you back. And, besides, wouldn't it be fun to swap lives for a few weeks? There's no better way to get to know each other, than to walk a few miles in each other's shoes."
Ava looked from her sturdy, practical boots, which just that morning had been covered in dung, to Emily's kidskin half-boots, which were laced at the front and trimmed with ribbon. They were highly impractical for walking, but then, Ava supposed that Emily did not have to walk many places, as she probably had a carriage and five at her disposal.
What would it be like to live as Emily lived, even if only for a few weeks? Ava imagined waking up at noon on a plush, feather mattress, taking hot-chocolate in bed, and generally living a life of opulent, lazy luxury.
"I'll do it," she said, surprising herself and Mary, who had clearly thought she had more sense.
"Lord bless us and save us," the Irish woman said as she glanced from one twin to the other, "And what will you do, my Lady, whilst your sister is pretending to be you?"
"Why I'll take her new position as a governess in..."
"Kent," Ava helpfully supplied, "For the Duke of Hemsworth."
Was it her imagination, or did Emily flinch slightly at the name? The dubious expression had crossed her twin's face for just a second, but Ava was certain that Emily knew her new employer.
"Do you know him?" she queried, biting her lip with worry.
"Only by reputation," Emily said faintly, her face a little pale. "Still, what fun to work and earn my own keep!"
Ava exchanged a knowing look with Mary; there was nothing fun or exciting about working when one had done it for their whole life. Still, she did not want to throw a wet blanket on her sister's excitement, and perhaps the novelty of working for her keep might be enough to entertain her for a few weeks.
"But," Mary interrupted her mistress's excited chatter, "When will you swap back? You can't pretend to be each other forever."
"At the month's end," Emily said firmly, giving Ava's hand a squeeze, "You will come and fetch me from—"
"Kent," Ava supplied again, a little worried that Emily would stumble at the first hurdle and get lost on her way.
"Yes, Kent," Emily continued with a laugh, "And we shall return and tell Papa that we have found each other and can no longer stand the thought of being separated. He'll probably send us off to one of his estates down the country to avoid any scandal. Oh! Then we shall be able to spend all our days together!"
It sounded, to Ava's ears at least, rather an impractical plan. Who knew how Lord Fairfax would react when confronted with the lowly-born Ava? Still, the lure of living Emily's glamorous life—if only for a month—was too great to ignore. So, quashing all her doubts, Ava nodded her head in agreement.
"Sounds smashing," she said enthusiastically.
"It sounds like you both need your heads smashed together," Mary argued, "Your father will know in a second that she's not you, my Lady."
"But how could he guess the truth?" Emily argued, "For, as far as we know, he is not aware that Ava exists. He will simply think I am out of sorts. We are identical in every way, Mary, he will never guess, nor even think to guess."
"Aye," the lady's maid gave a resigned sigh, "Indeed, you're identical down to the last freckle—apart from your hands."
All three pairs of eyes turned to look with dismay at Ava's cracked, dry hands, which were red from being thrust into soapy water thrice a day. Emily's hands, Ava noted, were clad in a pair of elbow-length, kidskin gloves, which matched her boots. A dozen gleaming buttons ran the length of them, and Ava idly wondered how she managed to remove them, until she realised—with a jolt—that it was Mary, not Emily, who was responsible for their removal.
I hope she will manage to dress herself in Kent, Ava thought with alarm. The plan, such as it was, seemed to already be unravelling before her very eyes.
"What if Lady Georgiana recognises me?" Ava questioned, as she thought of another obstacle in her path, "She was here only this afternoon."
"No need to worry about that, my love," Mary said tartly, "They look right through you, the gentry do. You're like the wallpaper to them."
"I don't look through anyone," Emily protested.
"No," the lady's maid bestowed a placating smile upon her mistress, "But then you've always been rather different, my Lady."
"Mad as a box of frogs, she once called me," Emily confessed to her twin with a smile, "Isn't that such a fun expression?"
Ava was apt to think that there was some truth in Mary's description of her sister; Lady Emily was quite unlike any of the ladies of the ton that she had encountered—not that she had encountered many. Emily's face was open, her manner friendly, and her lack of self-awareness endearing.
It's almost as if she doesn't think of herself as a lady, Ava thought, trying to pinpoint exactly what it was about her twin that was so charming.
Any more dissection of her sibling's personality, was brought to a halt by a creaking noise from the floor above.
"Boris," Ava said, explaining in a whisper that Boris was the proprietor of Mr Hobbs' Library. "We'll need to leave soon, or he'll come down complaining that I'm wasting good candle wicks in an empty shop."
"And you need to be home, my Lady," Mary added, "Lest your father sends out a search party. You know what he's like."
The twins both looked at each other for a moment as they realised that they were to separate again.
"It won't be for long," Emily reassured her sister, "Just a month. Then we shall be together forever."
Ava wondered at the way her twin had seemingly read her mind, but another loud creak from upstairs urged her into action; there was no time for marvelling about their connection at present.
"Come," she whispered, beckoning the pair to follow her, "If we take the backstairs, Boris will not see us. We can swap clothes in my bedroom and I can show you the letter from Mr Hobbs, which gives instructions on where you are to go tomorrow and what coach to take."
"Swap clothes?"
For the first time since she had voiced the plan to swap places, Emily looked dubious. Her green eyes hastily assessed Ava's worn dress and sturdy boots and obviously found them lacking.
"We shall swap for tonight," she said firmly, with a smile that seemed forced, "Then tomorrow Mary will have a messenger meet me at the coach with a few of my own dresses."
"I will, will I?" Mary huffed, but Emily was resolute.
"You will," she echoed her firmly, before beckoning her lady's maid to follow Ava, who was patiently waiting for them to finish their bickering.
Upstairs, in Ava's small, attic bedroom, the girls quickly changed—well, as quickly as they could. As Mary assisted Ava in dressing into the many layers of clothes her twin wore, she realised just why a lady's maid was an essential requirement for the belles of the bon ton.
Over her chemise, which was far greyer than the sparkling white one her twin wore, Ava was assisted into short stays, petticoats and a pair of white, silk stockings with elaborately embroidered lace clocks at their heels. Over all these layers, Ava then wore her sister's white walking dress, and over that a green spencer jacket, which came to her waist and was trimmed with gold braid at the cuffs. After waiting patiently for Mary to button her into her gloves, they finally got to the pièce de résistance,
the beautiful half boots, with low heel.
"Divindy," Ava breathed, as she twirled a little in the boots; in all her life she had never worn anything so beautiful.
"These are rather sturdy," Emily replied, her nose wrinkled in confusion as she attempted to walk in Ava's boots. She lumbered heavily across the wooden floors, her gait like that of a very heavy man deep in his cups.
"Hush," Ava whispered, as in response to her twin's stomping, Boris banged on the ceiling—presumably with the sweeping brush.
"We'd best be away, child," Mary said, casting a fearful glance at the door, as though she expected Boris to burst in at any second. "Now, don't forget to take your ticket with you to the coaching inn tomorrow. I'll have a boy meet you outside at ten bells, with some nice, warm clothes to see you through. And, if at any stage you feel homesick, just leave and come home. You're always welcome back in the nest, my little bird."
"Thank you, Mary," Emily said, giving her lady's maid a hug, before turning to Ava and doing the same. "I beg you, don't worry about me; how difficult can being a governess be?"
Mary opened her mouth, as though she wanted to educate her mistress on just how difficult the life of a servant was, but she closed it again with a snap. Perhaps she thinks it best that Emily learn that for herself, Ava thought. Once their goodbyes were finished, and Emily had assured them that she would have no trouble waking up early the next morning, Ava and Mary made for the door.
"I shall write," Emily whispered, giving Ava's hand a squeeze, "To let you know how things go in—in—"
"Kent."
"Yes, Kent!" Emily gave her a winning smile, "Don't fret about me, dear. I fear it is you who have the harder task."
With those rather ominous parting words, Emily closed the door, leaving Ava to lead Mary down the rickety back-stairs of number thirteen Cecil Court.
"Well," the lady's maid said with a smile, once they were outside, "Follow me; your carriage awaits, my Lady."
Ava almost laughed out loud at being addressed so formally, but, as Mary led her toward a gleaming Landau, complete with liveried footmen and driver, she suspected she would have to get used to it rather quickly.
Oh my goodness, she thought, as she held out a gloved hand to the footman who sprang forward to assist her, I'm not me anymore.
Chapter Three
Raff Alexander Hamilton, Sixth Duke of Kilbride, most certainly looked like a duke; anyone who caught a glimpse of him, as he strolled into White's, could tell what he was just by the dashing cut of his figure. His posture and bearing oozed privilege, whilst his clothes clearly displayed that he was a man with a taste for fashion and money to burn. He wore a tailored coat by Weston, a waistcoat by Stultz of Cork Street, and knee breeches by Meyer. The duke was better dressed than Beau Brummell himself. Though, many might say, that it was not the clothes which set him apart as one of the highest-titled men in Great Britain, but rather his gaze, which was cold, haughty, and most definitely unapproachable. The Duke of Kilbride's cutting glare was most duke-like, and had caused many an opportunistic young lady to think twice before catching his eye at a ball.
While Raff had mastered looking like a duke to a tittle; feeling like a duke, however, seemed to be completely beyond him. As he strode into White's, on his way to meet his friend Harry Coachford, Marquis of Durham, Raff once again was overcome with the strange feeling of being an actor thrust into a play that he had not rehearsed for.
Warm looks greeted him as he entered, and a half dozen men looked ready to pounce on him, eager to discuss politics. Raff swept his now customary, cold gaze around the crowded room, signalling that he did not wish to be disturbed.
"Lud, that's a Friday face, if ever I've seen one," Lord Coachford called in greeting from his table by the bow window. The coveted seat was reserved for the most influential members of what was already an exclusive club; Raff, after his brother's death, had been shocked to realise that the bow-window was now reserved for him.
"You'd look blue too, if you had to attend Lady Jersey's ruddy ball," Raff grumbled, though he did take heed of his friend's comment, and relaxed his scowl. "It's good to have you back, Coachford. Tell me, how was Italy?"
"Full of Italians," his friend replied with a lazy smile. Lord Coachford, who had spent the past year on a tour of Italy, was an affable fellow, with a ready smile. A bang up cove, was the phrase most used when describing Coachford, though Raff knew that behind his friend's good-humoured facade, was a man as sharp and shrewd as he. Affable Coachford might be, but he was no chawbacon.
"Is that it?" Raff raised an eyebrow as he waited for Coachford to elaborate further.
"Murals, ancient ruins, sun and wine," the marquess shrugged, "What more can I say? Now, what's this I hear about you getting leg-shackled, Your Grace?"
Not once, since he had assumed the title, had anyone addressed him so mockingly. Finally, Raff thought with a smile, there's someone who remembers the old me.
"Well," Raff paused, as a footman placed a tumbler on the table before him, before continuing, "It's what's expected of a duke."
"Marriage?"
"Procreation," Raff retorted, taking a deep sip of his brandy and relishing the burning feeling, as the alcohol wound its way down to his stomach. "A duke's got to have an heir, or so I'm told, and I was never one to shirk my duty."
"You old romantic," Coachford teased, though Raff could see a rather dubious look in his eye. "Tell me, what's the old girl like, then? Are you both smelling of April and May? Will I cast up my accounts at the sight of you both making dove eyes at each other in Lady Jersey's ballroom?"
"Hardly," Raff gave a snort of derision, "My betrothed has barely uttered a word to me. Though, I am told, that muteness is a rather attractive feature in a wife."
"Really?" Coachford no longer tried to disguise his look of alarm, "It's not a love match? Or even a like match?"
"It's an arranged match," Raff muttered, ignoring his friend's worried expression, "Her father will know his daughter is well looked after, the daughter will become a duchess, and I will have a son with a pedigree lineage that can be traced back to the Normans. Perhaps two, if she is obliging."
"Lud," Coachford shook his head, "I didn't realise that when you assumed the title, you lost all sense of fun."
"Unfortunately, fun is not synonymous with being a duke," Raff replied lightly, hoping that his friend would note his bitterness and leave well enough alone.
The possibility that Raff might one day inherit the title had never occurred to him. His older brother, David, had married dutifully young and sired a daughter in his first year of wedded life. After that, a few unfruitful years had followed, in which David had sagely warned his brother that the dukedom might still one day be his. Then, miracle of miracles, a son—Reese—had been born, and Raff had been free to choose his own path. The army beckoned, for it had always been talked of as the most suitable occupation for the energetic, and sometimes wild, spare heir of Kilbride.
The boyish enthusiasm with which Raff, fresh out of Oxford, had entered service for King and country, was soon torn from him, as the realities of life as a soldier set in. Having bought himself a commission in Wellesley's army, Raff set out for the peninsula in the summer of 1809. He was but a month in Spain, when he was commanded to lead his troops into battle, not knowing that at Talavera he would witness the slaughter of more than seven-thousand British men.
Death, so much needless death; if anyone was to ask Raff to describe his six years of service, that was what he would tell them—though no one ever asked. As a soldier, he was expected to smile bravely and share nothing—especially not the fact that most nights he awoke bathed in a cold sweat and crippled by fear. For six years, Raff had stumbled blindly through the endless war, not knowing one day if he would spend the night playing cards with the men of his regiment, or helping to bury fallen comrades in shallow graves.
Raff's career, if one could call it that, came to an abrupt halt in December of 1814. After taking a bayon
et to the leg, he had been sent back to London to recuperate. Once back amongst the ton, and sedate London life, a strange thing happened—Raff forgot how to breathe.
Not permanently of course, but on occasion, and especially when confined in crowded ballrooms, all his breath left his body, and no matter how he struggled, panted and gasped, he could not get it back. The attacks of breathlessness, which were always accompanied by a tight chest and pounding heart, became so bad that Raff had engaged numerous physicians, seeking a remedy. Each were adamant that it related to his leg-wound and one helpful fellow prescribed a regimen of laudanum tinctures, to help ease his pain.
The laudanum did ease Raff's aches, but it also did something else; it stopped his attacks of breathlessness completely. The tinctures left Raff in such a calm, relaxed state, that he soon devised his own regimen, which was far more generous than the doctor's prescribed one.
A few drops of the tincture in his morning coffee, another few drops midmorning, with some brandy to wash it down, and for the rest of the day another few drops, as and when required. The heady, peaceful feeling that the laudanum induced was addictive, and when it began to ware off, Raff would feel chills, aches and pains—and so he took another dose, to ease that feeling. If his mind had not been addled by the stuff, he would have seen what a vicious circle it was, but it was not long until he barely left his bachelor rooms in Mayfair, preferring instead to remain in bed with the drapes closed against the world outside, while his petrified servants faithfully brought him fresh bottles of the stuff at his command.
On one of these foggy lost days, Raff had a vague memory of one of his brother's staff arriving, to tell him that the duke was gravely ill.
"He has asked to see you," the servant humbly requested.
"I will be along shortly," Raff had replied, dismissing him with a wave of a hand. Of course, instead of leaping from his bed and changing out of his nightshirt, Raff had reached for the bottle of Dover's Powder, and dosed himself into oblivion.
The Duke's Bride in Disguise (Fairfax Twins Book 1) Page 3