When the Duchess Said Yes (2 page)

A sobering reminder, indeed. A grim, depressing, damnably sobering reminder.

Lady Elizabeth Wylder, second daughter of the late and lamented Earl of Hervey, sat squeezed into one corner of her older sister’s coach, bound to meet her destiny at the masquerade at Ranelagh Gardens.

Her gown was green silk with scattered spangles on the skirts and bodice that itched terribly beneath her arms. On her hands were silver mesh mitts that also itched, and so many silk flowers had been pinned into her hair that she felt like a barrow at Covent Garden. Sewn to the back of her gown, over her shoulder blades, were two small wired wings, likewise covered with spangles. Because of the wings, she couldn’t rest back against the feather-stuffed cushions, but was forced to crouch forward on the very edge of the seat, a posture that made her queasily feel every bump and cobblestone beneath the carriage’s iron-bound wheels. The wings and the rest of the costume had been the idea of her older sister, Charlotte, and as she’d stood before her dressing glass, Lizzie—for she had always been called Lizzie, not possessing the innate grandeur to be a true Elizabeth—had judged the entire rig to be unconscionably hideous.

She was supposed to be a charming fairy. Instead she felt a complete fool, and when she thought of how vastly
important this evening would be for her, she could only despair.

A despairing, queasy, itchy, hideous, complete fool of a fairy: oh, yes, surely His Grace the Duke of Hawkesworth would be all eagerness to meet
her
.

“I trust that for once Hawke will keep his promise and join us tonight,” her brother-in-law, March, was saying. March was Charlotte’s husband and the Duke of Marchbourne, who was tall and wonderfully handsome and not afraid to show exactly how much he loved Charlotte. He was dressed as King Arthur, though the extent of his costume seemed to be the brass crown now sitting on his lap, and a cape trimmed with imitation ermine over his regular dark clothes. “It’s been one empty excuse after another with him since he returned to London. Surely he must be the most selfish rogue in all creation.”

“He’ll come tonight,” Charlotte said. “Who can resist a masquerade?”

“He’d best not resist this one,” March grumbled. “He’s been in residence at the Chase for nearly a fortnight by now, and it’s past time that he called upon us.”

“His Grace will join us tonight,” Lizzie said, echoing her sister with resignation. If she’d liked her costume, he wouldn’t have appeared, but because she hated what she wore, he was certain to join them. “I am sure of it.”

March shook his head, unconvinced. “It’s ungallant of him to treat you like this, Lizzie, and I do not like it.”

Precariously balanced on the seat as she was, Lizzie smiled her gratitude at March. At least he was being gallant on her behalf, even if so far the Duke of Hawkesworth wasn’t. When, on her eighteenth birthday last year, Mama had told her that Father had long ago arranged a marriage for her, too, Lizzie had nearly expired with joy. Six months ago, she had come to London to stay with Charlotte and March and prepare for her wedding.
Of course she’d imagined her future husband to be a second March, as eager to fall in love with her as March had been with Charlotte. It was possible, even likely, since the two dukes were distant cousins.

“Be easy, March, be easy,” Charlotte said fondly, reaching across to pat her husband’s knee. Naturally, she was dressed as Queen Guinevere, in a brilliant blue damask costume. The widespread hoops beneath her skirts weren’t exactly medieval, but they were very fashionable for this year in London, and also the reason that Lizzie was so squeezed into her corner.

“Hawke has just spent weeks and weeks at sea on his voyage home,” Charlotte continued. “You can’t expect the poor man to launch instantly into wooing without a few days’ rest.”

March frowned, his dark brows drawing together. “It would have been more proper if he had,” he said. “Did he live so long among those Neapolitans that he took on their dallying southern ways? It’s an insult to the family, and to your sister in particular.”

“Lizzie understands the virtue of a little patience, March,” Charlotte said with one of her famously beatific smiles. “She’s waited nearly a year for Hawke to return. I’m sure she can wait another few days without perishing.”

But Lizzie’s smile was anxious, not beatific. She couldn’t help it. She
had
waited nearly a year for this gentleman, her bridegroom, whom she’d never met, and now, it seemed, the waiting was almost done.

“I won’t have to wait even a day longer if he comes tonight,” she said, then corrected herself. “
When
he comes tonight.”

“As soon as he meets you, Lizzie, he’ll see what a prize he’s been missing,” Charlotte assured her one more time. “And you are a prize.”

Lizzie supposed she was a prize, mainly because people
had been assuring her that she was one all this last, long year. Being a Wylder meant she was also a lady, and their family was so desirably old and venerable that they’d likely been waiting to brandish their swords against William the Conqueror. She’d a handsome marriage portion, too, all of which was sufficient for her to qualify as a prize.

True, her personal qualities weren’t quite so sterling. She had no genteel accomplishments. She couldn’t play the pianoforte, or sing, or recite sentimental French poetry. She wasn’t exactly plain, but she knew she wasn’t as radiant and charming as Charlotte, nor did she possess the golden beauty and sweetness of her younger sister, Diana.

To be sure, there
had
been a small, unfortunate incident when she’d first come to town to stay with Charlotte and March. At a private ball, a so-called gentleman (or, at least, that was how Lizzie had always thought of him; in truth, he’d been a rather indisputable gentleman, a viscount) had attempted more familiarity with her behind a potted orange tree than she’d found pleasing. She’d denounced him, loudly and colorfully, and boxed his ears, too. But despite his having earned this treatment, she was the one who’d earned the unfortunate sobriquet of “Lizzie Wyldest” in the scandal sheets, a distressing term for a future duchess.

But she was clever and amusing, and she could tell jests like a firecracker, even the bawdy ones she’d overheard in the stables. Because she’d been raised near the sea, she could row a boat and trim a sail. On a horse, she could outride every man she’d ever met, and she could outlast them on the dance floor, too, so long as a minuet wasn’t called. She liked to laugh, and to make others laugh with her, and she could as much as guarantee that the Duke of Hawkesworth would never be bored in her company.

Which, in her own estimation, really did make her a powerfully fine prize, even for a duke. Was it any wonder that it stung both her heart and her pride that the duke had taken so wicked long in claiming her?

“If I’m such a prize, Charlotte,” she said, “then why didn’t he come back to London sooner? No one ever speaks of that.”

“Yes, we have, Lizzie,” Charlotte said patiently, looking down to check the catch on her pearl bracelet. “I’ve explained to you before that a gentleman like the duke has many affairs to settle and arrange before he can make such a long voyage.”

March grunted. “It’s time to be honest with her, Charlotte. Tell her the truth. Hawke had an idle, indulgent bachelor’s life in a villa overlooking the Bay of Naples that he was loath to leave, complete with a pretty Italian mistress or two as well.”

Lizzie gasped, a small gasp for all the shock and disappointment it contained. Her first dream of an adoring bridegroom had become more threadbare and worn with each month that the Duke of Hawkesworth had delayed his return to England, but she’d still cherished it. She’d imagined endless excuses for his delays, from storms at sea to perilous illnesses. But to be left dangling for the sake of an exotic Italian mistress or two, unwillingly left behind in a villa—oh, she’d never imagined anything so
humiliating
. How could she possibly compete with Italian mistresses, especially when she was dressed as an infernal fairy?

“Really, March.” Charlotte glared at him, and there was nothing beatific about her expression now. “Lizzie doesn’t need to hear such things.”

“And I say it’s past time that she did,” March said. “Far better for her to know the truth now, before she meets him, than to be led forward in blind trust.”

“I’ve no wish to be blind, March,” Lizzie said, struggling
to make sense of what he’d just told her—and rather ungallantly for March, too. “But—but
two
mistresses? Are you certain of that?”

“Perhaps not at once,” he admitted. “But pay heed to what I’m saying, Lizzie. It’s not you but the whole notion of marriage that has made Hawke so balky. His delay has had absolutely nothing to do with you or your person, except that you’re the lady he must marry.”

“Ah,” Lizzie said slowly. “I suppose that’s a small comfort.”

But it wasn’t, not at all. She wanted to be a prize, not a punishment, and her dream of a gallant, ardent suitor was now tattered well beyond repair.

Charlotte slipped her arm around Lizzie’s shoulders. “What March is trying to say, lamb, is that it’s up to you to be charming and clever, and show Hawke that the wedded state truly can be a blissful one. He’s only twenty-seven. Nearly all gentlemen have a past of some sort. No lady can reasonably expect otherwise.”

Lizzie scowled. “And yet I am expected to be entirely pure and innocent, with no more past than a new-hatched chick in the nest.”

March frowned, too, glancing uneasily at Charlotte. “You do not have any, ah, past of your own, do you, Lizzie? Any, ah, indiscretions that I’ve not been told of?”

“Of course she doesn’t, March,” Charlotte said impatiently. “You know that. Mama might have been careless with our education, but she made sure that Ransom Manor was as good as a convent for keeping us away from temptation and mischief.”

With an indignant harrumph, she turned back to Lizzie. “What you can do is to make Hawke forget his youthful adventures. Once he meets you tonight, he’s sure to be enchanted.”

Lizzie looked down at her hands in their foolish fairy mitts. “Why must I be the one to do all the charming?
Shouldn’t he be trying to please me, too, and make me forget all about his strumpets?”

She didn’t miss the pointed glance that Charlotte and March exchanged.

“That is what we hope,” Charlotte said with great delicacy. “That once Hawke meets you, that he’ll want to do nothing more than please and love you, as you deserve.”

“But you don’t
know
that he will,” Lizzie said, her first disappointment swiftly turning into resentment, and then anger after that. “That’s what you truly mean, isn’t it? Then I shall spare him the trouble. If he doesn’t wish to marry me, then I’ve no desire to marry him, either, and that’s an end to it. We should simply turn about and go home.”

Furiously she began to pull off the spangled mitts, until Charlotte laid her hands over Lizzie’s to stop her. “What he wants doesn’t matter. His duty—”

“A pox on his duty!” cried Lizzie. “I’ll go back home to Ransom and marry some—some
fisherman
who’ll love me for myself. Why should I agree to being anyone’s
duty
, just because he’s a duke?”

“Because neither of you has a choice,” Charlotte said, her voice suddenly firm. “You know this match can’t be broken. It’s been arranged for years. And it is a most excellent match, Lizzie. Father chose well for you, as he did for me.”

Lizzie made a wordless, outraged moan. “Father didn’t know I’d have to compete with harlots!”

“The harlots and their mischief have been left far behind in Italy, where they’ll never trouble you,” March said, much too heartily for Lizzie’s tastes. “Your sister is right. This is an excellent match. You’ll become a duchess, a peeress, and your children will be descended from kings. You’ll be mistress of several houses, and you’ll have every jewel and frippery a lady could wish. Most
ladies would trade their souls to marry an English duke.”

Of course Lizzie knew that every word of what he said was true. The same contracts that Father had signed to provide for her and protect her in such an advantageous way also sealed her doom. She knew she must marry the Duke of Hawkesworth, and it wouldn’t matter if he’d kept an entire harem of mistresses. Just as Charlotte said, she knew she had no choice.

But all that sensible knowing had been done by her head. Her heart longed for more from a marriage, much more, and a single, slow tear of angry frustration slipped from her eye and fell onto the green silk of her lap.

“There now, you mustn’t cry,” Charlotte said, her usual gentleness returning as she drew her handkerchief to wipe the tear from Lizzie’s cheek. “No gentleman likes to see a weeping woman. Look, we’re here at the gates. Come, lamb, collect yourself to make a proud show, before the footman opens the door.”

Lizzie pressed her fingers over her eyes, willing back her tears. It was strange that while her pride had suffered so grievously from Hawkesworth’s neglect, she now clung to that same pride for support. She would be strong, and she would not weep. No matter what the duke had done in the past or what future they would be forced to share, for now she was still Lady Elizabeth Wylder—and she was determined to follow her sister’s advice and make a proud show for herself.