Just as she was wishing she had not so willingly participated in this venture, a group of rough-looking men, one with a hammer in hand, wandered through the garden. She drew back so as not to be seen. Perhaps that distant hammering wasn’t just in her head.
There came a knock at the door. “Entrez,” Fran called, hoping Mary had arrived.
“Good morning, Your Grace.” A rather stout woman, about twenty years her senior and dressed in mourning attire, stood at the door. “I’m Mrs. Beckett, Lady Rosalyn’s personal maid. As your maid has not yet arrived, Lady Rosalyn instructed that I am to help you dress.”
She smiled. How considerate her new aunt must be to oversee her needs in this fashion.
“Thank you, I believe a riding habit was included in the garments sent earlier. I wonder—”
“That is not the attire Lady Rosalyn has chosen for you to wear,” Mrs. Beckett replied. “I’ve been instructed to prepare the velvet for you.”
“Velvet? Is it not August on this side of the world? I shall melt in the heat,” Fran protested, trying not to dwell on the thought that William’s aunt thought fit to rummage through the wardrobe Fran had sent over in advance of the wedding. How fortunate her mother had insisted that Fran’s jewels be hand transported across the Atlantic. Those certainly would have been inspected without her presence as well.
“It is what Lady Rosalyn selected.”
Fran acquiesced, feeling much as she had back in Newport when her mother dressed her in uncomfortable, expensive finery for the purpose of showing off their wealth. She became little more than a fashion plate with no participation in the styles she was told to wear. Funny, just moments earlier she had wished to be back in Newport, although not in this manner. Still, it would be wise to yield to Bedford’s aunt to keep the harmony of the house.
After she was dressed in the seasonally inappropriate gown chosen by Lady Rosalyn, she added her tiny bee pin to the heavy collar before following Mrs. Beckett down the stairs to the blue salon where the aunt waited.
She paused in the hallway outside the salon to tug on her jacket to make sure it sat properly, when she heard voices from inside the salon.
“He married an American! My brother is probably turning over in his grave. Surely, William could have managed without scraping the gutter for gold coins.”
“Lady Rosalyn, may I remind you that you haven’t met—”
“I don’t need to meet her! Her money is from trade, did you know that? She probably can’t make a decent curtsy. We shall be lucky if she doesn’t wear her hair in long braids with turkey feathers attached.”
“Aunt! She’s not an Indian. Nicholas said she was quite refined when he met her last night. You should have more faith in your nephew.”
“You mark my words. William will turn this family into a jest to be bandied about the ton. He has no concept of what it means to be a duke. Never has.”
The overheard insults set Fran’s chest to burning, or maybe it was a reaction to the sweltering garments she’d worn for the aunt’s edification. She thought to turn away and hide in her room, though she suspected the aunt’s venom would not dilute with time.
No. She could do this. Reading the courtesan’s journal had led her to do things of an intimate nature that she never thought she could manage, and yet she survived. This would be no different. Her mother’s counsel whispered in her mind,
Never show emotion, or risk the scorn that follows
. She took a breath, patted her hair to make sure her “turkey feathers” were in place, and slipped through the doorway to face the two unknown women.
Something akin to delight flashed over the face of the youngest, a woman close to her own age. Fran smiled inwardly. Her mother would have criticized the young woman for allowing her emotions to show so openly on her face, but in this case, Fran was glad she had. From the overheard conversation, she thought she was stepping into a nest of vipers. It was reassuring to find one friendly face in the room.
“I’m sorry I could not greet you properly last night, Your Grace,” the woman said with a wide smile. “I am Lady Nicholas Chambers. I believe you’ve met my husband?”
Fran nodded, perhaps a bit awkwardly, unsure as she was as how one proceeded to turn an acquaintance into a friend. Her mother had disapproved of Fran being exposed to other girls her own age. Consequently, her only close friend had been Randolph.
“Please call me Emma,” the woman continued, offering her hands. “I hope we shall be friends as well as sisters-in-law.”
“Yes,” Fran managed. She squeezed Emma’s hands lightly. “I hope—”
The sound of someone loudly clearing their throat issued from a corner of the room. Both women turned in response.
“Duchess,” Emma said. “Allow me to introduce our aunt, Lady Rosalyn.”
“Come here, girl,” the matronly woman said. “Let me have a look at you.”
Dressed in mourning, Lady Rosalyn’s girth overflowed her high-backed armchair. She kept a man’s walking stick by her side. Fran squinted, barely discerning the slightly raised image of the family crest in the blackened metal. A shudder slipped down her spine.
This was the one with the hurtful insults. Remembering her mother’s advice to keep her thoughts her own, Fran turned to the woman and dipped into a curtsy worthy of a queen. “My lady,” she said.
Fran thought she heard a poorly concealed snicker from Emma’s direction.
The aunt just frowned. “I suppose you’ll do as long as you don’t speak to anyone. Your accent grates on my ears.” She looked Fran up and down. “I see Mrs. Beckett has you looking acceptable enough.”
“Aunt, do you not feel it is too warm for fur-trimmed velvet?” Emma asked.
“I personally selected that gown,” the matronly woman intoned. “As she’ll be introduced to our neighboring estates, it’s important to show that the Duke’s American wife brings at least wealth to the marriage.”
“Where is my husband?” Fran asked, her expression showing no cognizance of the continued insults. She was starting to appreciate why her mother kept her yappy Pomeranians with her at all times. She wouldn’t object to exposing this woman to a nip or two from their sharp teeth.
“The abbey is swarming with laborers working on the west wall. The steward needed the Duke’s counsel regarding dry rot. Bundles and boxes are arriving daily from all the recent purchases. None of that, however, is your concern. My nephew is far too busy to deal with petty issues. As soon as he is finished, we’ll begin those calls.”
Fran turned and began to unbutton her jacket, with the thought of using the intervening time to explore the house, or at least stand in the breeze from an open window.
“I hope you are not one of those unrestrained women like that Yznaga creature,” the aunt snapped. “All the money in the world cannot buy character and respectability. You should remember that.”
Fran hid her snicker. A former American heiress, Con suelo Yznaga, now the Duchess of Manchester, had been ru mored to be beautiful, talented, and engaging. Her mother had often instructed Fran to follow her example. However, the well-known society hostess was a distant cry from Frosty Franny.
Fran took a deep breath. It was painfully obvious that no one would stand up for her if she did not do so herself. Her heart pounded a rhythm in her throat. She swallowed her fear and turned, smiling sweetly, “I’m sorry you’ve found the receipt of my money so troublesome, madam. I’m sure a word to the bankers will ensure that you won’t suffer so needlessly again.” She left the salon with the woman sputtering.
Once outside the room and removed from the sight of the irritating aunt, Fran leaned against the ancient wall to catch her breath. What had she done! She could not recall ever having deliberately insulted anyone before in her life. Yet she wasn’t sorry, the woman had been absolutely hateful. She continued down the hallway, seeking to put needed distance between herself and Lady Rosalyn.
Emma caught up with her. “I’m beginning to understand how you had the fortitude to take on William. You truly crossed the Atlantic with him and didn’t feel compelled to push him overboard at least once?”
Fran tilted her head toward Emma. “You know Bedford well then?”
She smiled. “I know that he acts on good intentions, if not good sense. He believes he knows what is best for all concerned and acts on those beliefs, even if others are hurt in the process.”
Fran stopped and narrowed her eyes. “He hurt you?”
Emma blushed. “He thought he was helping Nicholas. I was inconsequential.”
A handsomely attired, clean-shaved William turned a corner, placing him directly in their path. Fran caught her breath. The sight of him had intrigued her from that very first day and he still managed to cause a fluttering beneath her stays. Heat, not associated with her furs, sprang from her core.
“Ladies.” He bowed his head, but his gaze remain fixed on Fran. He lifted an eyebrow. “Were you expecting snow, my dear?”
Emma laughed. “Lady Rosalyn selected her attire.”
“Then I suppose it’s appropriate enough. My aunt would rather go to her grave than be associated with something inappropriate.”
“In my case, it seems she has little choice,” Fran said.
He raised a brow. “For what purpose is my aunt choosing your attire?”
Fran explained about the calls. William frowned. “There’s much to do and I haven’t the time to go riding about the countryside making calls. Stone for the renovations will be arriving today. All those neighbors shall be here in due time for the ball. They can meet the new Duchess then. I’ll inform my aunt.” He turned to Emma. “I wonder if you could be so kind as to find your husband. I have need of his artistic sensibilities.”
She grimaced. “I don’t believe Nicholas—”
“Now, Emma.” He flicked his intense gaze her way.
She nodded. “I’ll find him and advise him of your wishes.” She quickly glanced at Fran. “Not tempted? Not even once?”
Fran snapped open her fan and pushed an air current toward her face.
Once Emma had disappeared down the hall, he stepped nearer, his eyelids lowered in a lazy, seductive fashion. His lower lip extended just the smallest bit. “Did I understand my sister-in-law to say that I don’t tempt you?”
He slipped his hands under her opened jacket and spanned her waist. “That I’ve never tempted you?”
His thumbs followed the path of her stays till they rubbed the tips of her breasts, turning them to pebbled peaks.
She smiled. “You’ve misunderstood the context of her question.”
“Did I?” His lips started to descend for a kiss.
She wanted that kiss, not for any prelude to seduction, but just to feel wanted, desired. The moment she felt the gentle pressure of his lips, she opened for him in anticipation of deepening the embrace. His hands tightened on her waist. She heard a low groan, filling her with an amazing sense of accomplishment.
“There you are!” Nicholas’s voice sounded from the opposite direction.
William’s back had blocked her from Nicholas’s view, but she knew embarrassment stained her cheeks. She hesitated, hoping the heat might be blamed for her heightened color, before stepping around Bedford to greet the brother. Nicholas, followed by the lumbering Spotted Dick, approached, then stopped. He glanced at Fran, then William, his face twisted in disbelief. “You can hardly expect her to go out like that. If she stands in the sun, you’ll be a widower again before sundown.”
Something about his reference to William’s first wife sent a dampening shiver down her spine. The possibility of a pleasant conclusion to their brief interlude faded.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” she said. “I believe I need to change my attire.”
“The trunks won’t arrive till later today,” Bedford advised. “Do you have something suitable?”
Fran raised her brow. “I believe I packed my buckskins in the earlier deliveries.” She strode back toward the stairs, hoping she could find her room and wardrobe on her own.
William watched the mink tails trimming her jacket sway rather alluringly with her movement down the hall. Spotted Dick trotted behind her. Lucky dog.
“If I were a gambling man”—Nicholas gazed at his brother—“I would bet you won’t last two weeks before you install her in your bed.”
Franny disappeared around a corner.
“I’m sorry.” William dragged his attention back to his brother. “What did you say? A bet?”
“I know you believe you have the sangfroid to keep your distance from your lovely American, but I beg to differ.” Nicholas looked pensive. “I challenge you. If you consummate this marriage within the next two weeks, then I shall win . . . the Canaletto in the dining room.”
Maintaining his outward calm, William gnashed his teeth. The Canaletto was the most valuable painting in the abbey. The others had been sold off earlier to keep the estate afloat. That Venice scene remained a remembrance of the glory the Chambers family once held, and he would not be pleased to part with it.
Still, if he was already determined to wait the next few weeks so as to know if she truly carried a bastard, then the opportunity to best his little brother would just make the waiting more enticing. He would prove that he was right in this, but the idea of betting on his ability to refuse Franny . . .
“And if I accept this foolish gambit, what do you intend to forfeit when you lose,
Artemis’s Revenge
?” he suggested. Nicholas would never agree to forfeit the painting that had gained him his reputation, the naked portrait of the woman who later became his wife. But it would establish a high basis for stakes.
Nicholas’s face reddened. “I believe we settled this last night.” He turned, as if to leave the conversation, then reconsidered. “If you should win the bet and manage to avoid knowing your wife in the intimate way she deserves, then I will paint that portrait of the old Duke, as you requested, to complete the family gallery. I shall curse your name with every stroke, but I will do it.”