An Ideal Duchess (8 page)

             
“You don’t know how grateful I am to finally find you, Your Grace,” Mrs. Sewell dabbed at her cheeks with the handkerchief. “Mr. Sewell said you couldn’t possibly see to every single guest at the garden party, but I just had to thank you personally for consenting to sit on the school board this term.”

             
“You are welcome.”

             
Mrs. Sewell was oblivious to Ursula’s close-ended reply, and began chattering on about curriculum and textbooks, which, due to her position on the school board, Ursula might find interesting had her attention not strayed back to Malvern and his American. Button wiggled in her arms and barked, breaking her contemplation, and she set the floppy-eared spaniel down on the grass, where he promptly lifted his hind leg and urinated in the direction of Mrs. Sewell’s spring frock. The woman gasped in horror, holding her trailing skirts up as she jumped away from the spray and, to Ursula’s delight, bobbed a hasty curtsey before rushing away.

             
Ursula’s mouth curved into a slight smile as she bent to pick up her delightful dog. “Good Button.”

*          *          *

              Amanda found the Duke of Malvern a much more congenial companion than when they last met, and was pleased to discover a very intelligent, thoughtful and perceptive person beneath the stern façade she astutely surmised time and proximity could chip away. She glanced at him with a small smile of pleasure, which he returned after a moment, and gestured for him to take his turn with the croquet mallet. His left arm remained encased in the silk sling, but it failed to hamper his game as he stood slightly over the yellow beech wood croquet ball, gripped his mallet in his right hand, and swung it towards the ball in a straight, smooth line.

             
The tapered head of the mallet connected with the ball with a slight
pop!
, and the ball rolled bumpily over the manicured lawn in the direction of the sixth bridge, sliding handily beneath the wire arch. Amanda refrained from cheering and grinned at His Grace, as he loped back to her side, the breeze ruffling his auburn hair. He returned her grin, teeth white against his tanned, freckled skin, his gray eyes fixed attentively to her face as though he did not hear the polite clapping of the crowd around their game, nor that he was even aware of their presence.

             
“Well done, Your Grace!” She gripped her mallet, prepared to take her own whack at the ball.

             
“Bron, Miss Townsend,” His eyes crinkled at the corners as he squinted at her. “And you aren’t so bad yourself.”

             
“Is that allowed?” Amanda arched a brow before moving into the proper position to hit her own ball. “It must be de trop to shed so many layers of nomenclature at once.”

             
“It’s rather silly of us to continue ‘Your Grace-ing’ and ‘Miss Townsend-ing’ one another after spending the afternoon together annihilating the other players at croquet.”

             
“Don’t let my brothers hear that—they’re already rather sore at me for not sparing their pride in front of strangers.” She held the mallet in both hands and swung, smacking the ball towards the same bridge at which His Grace had aimed.

             
She tilted her head to the side, crossing her fingers and whispering
pleasepleaseplease
as the ball rolled lazily across the lawn. She let out a small whoop! when the ball knocked against the side of the arch and then spun beneath it, rolling to a halt just beyond His Grace’s ball. She turned to find herself under the duke’s intense scrutiny, and felt her insides wobble a bit, from a disconcerting wave of attraction. She turned away when Mr. Challoner approached, idly swinging his mallet at his side.

             
“I say, this isn’t fair at all,” He stuck his mallet into the ground and leaned against it. “The two best players shouldn’t be paired together.”

             
“I’m handicapped already,” The duke said lightly, gesturing towards his sling.

             
“It doesn’t seem to hamper you from hitting the balls into the bridge, isn’t that right, Vi?”

             
Amanda noticed the girl standing quietly behind Mr. Challoner, her eyes lowered to her mallet. Something seemed to shift in His Grace’s attitude, and she glanced at him to see that his attention had turned to the girl. Amanda’s second perusal of her was much more careful, quickly cataloging her nondescript brown hair, plain shirtwaist and navy skirt. Her face was thin and long, her nose and mouth sharp horizontal and vertical slashes—respectively—in a complexion devoid of color, but Amanda revised her initial assessment when the girl blinked and looked at her, revealing eyes of a deep, startling violet hue.

             
“We could always switch our partners again,” Her voice was sweet and light, possessing the clipped vowels and drawl instinctively identified as “aristocratic”.

             
“Or,” Amanda smiled warily at the girl. “We could always switch everyone’s partners around.”

             
“Now that’s a rum idea!” Mr. Challoner said. “Vi, you go with Miss Vandewater, and Bron and I shall pair up with Ego and Miss Vandewater’s brother Lulu.”

             
“It’s rather late in the game to switch around, Bim,” The duke said.

             
“Nonsense! Vi came in late, and no one said a word,” Mr. Challoner clapped him on the shoulder and began leading him away. “Now, who do you want? Lulu—that demon spawn from New York? Or Ego Charteris?”

             
Amanda glanced at the girl as Mr. Challoner and the duke walked off in search of their new partners, shrugged lightly and extended her hand to her. “I don’t believe we have been properly introduced—I am Amanda Vandewater.”

             
The girl’s handshake was limp and as disinterested as her gaze was. “I am merely the Duchess of Malvern’s companion.”

             
“You do have a name, don’t you?” Amanda tilted her head. “They don’t call you ‘companion’.”

             
“Viola Townsend,” The girl said tersely. “And yes, I am a relation to the family.”

             
Amanda stared after Viola Townsend as the girl stalked off after the players, taken aback by her swift change in attitude. She hastened after her, and soon, found herself engaged in another game, this one much more subtle and bewildering, when the croquet match started all over again with everyone’s new partners. Viola was a competent, if unimaginative player, with an annoying tendency to hem and haw before taking the safest shots. Amanda noticed many of the idle spectators around the croquet game had dispersed towards the refreshment table or towards the regimental band playing merry, if unfamiliar, tunes on the bandstand. She turned back to Viola to find her finally lining up the mallet with the ball and swinging.

             
The ball rolled wildly across the lawn, far, far away from the target bridge and into the hedge bordering the west end of the lawn.

             
“I’ve got it!” Quintus set off at a light jog to fetch the ball.

             
“My God, Vi, darling, you are absolutely hopeless at croquet,” The Duke of Malvern laughed.

             
“You know I don’t get to play as often, Bron,” There was color in her cheeks as she looked up at the duke.

             
Amanda frowned slightly, but was distracted by Quintus’s return, holding the ball above his head like a trophy. “Thanks Quin,”

             
“Don’t ruffle my hair, Manda,” Her ten-year-old brother frowned fiercely at her as he handed her the ball.

             
“I wasn’t going to,” Amanda said in mock innocence. “I know you’re far too old for it.”

             
Quintus nodded in approval and then squinted at her. “Are we going to play croquet all afternoon? I’m famished.”

             
“I’m rather famished too,” Amanda agreed. “Your Grace,”

             
The Duke of Malvern’s attention shifted immediately to her, and he began walking towards her.

             
“I hope you don’t mind if Quin and I break away from the party to fetch some refreshments,”

             
His eyes dipped to her brother’s earnest face before returning to hers, and he smiled slightly. “That sounds like a capital idea—may I join you?”

             
“You couldn’t leave the game all willy-nilly. We’re just two, but you as well would make three, and leave someone without a partner.”

             
“So you don’t want me to join you?” He narrowed his eyes, though his smile remained.

             
“I didn’t say that, Your Grace, but isn’t it rather rude to break up your own croquet match?”

             
“I’m a duke,” His eyes gleamed with humor. “I can do what I like.”

             
“Golly, I want to be a duke!” Quintus exclaimed.

             
“Sorry chum, you’ve got to be born one; the closest you’d get is if your sister were a duchess,” The duke said lightly.

             
“It figures that girls get to have all of the fun.” Quintus glowered.

             
Amanda could only laugh to cover her surprise at His Grace’s bold pronouncement as they walked towards the long tables near the weathered stone wall bordering the terrace. Like magic, or some fantastic ducal conjuration, liveried footmen appeared to take their mallets and hand them glasses of champagne (Amanda removed the coupé from Quin’s hand and replaced it with a glass of barley water). There were trays of sandwiches, masses of cake, and pots and pots of hot water tea on the table, and despite the significant number of guests on the grounds, the supply of refreshments appeared to be endless and limitless.

             
“Quin, your manners,” She warned her brother, who looked ready to grab at the sandwiches and cake like the savage so many English thought Americans were.

             
Quintus groaned as she grabbed one of the small plates on the table and placed it into his hands. The plate in his hands, he moved rapidly down the table, piling the food high until you could see nothing of the round porcelain object whose purpose was to hold dainty amounts of victuals. She rolled her eyes at the duke when he laughed.

             
“Don’t tell me you were the same at ten years of age,”

             
“I shall have to corroborate my story with Bim about our mutual tales of angelic innocence during our salad days.”

             
“I seriously doubt that,” Amanda fetched her own plate and mused over the different types of sandwiches available. “I saw that sad state of those family portraits at Challoner Hall, remember?”

             
“They’ve merely been improved,” He grinned slightly, tilting his head in amusement.

             
“Speaking of the portraits at Challoner Hall…has your friend had the Autissier miniature appraised? I was speaking with my father about it, and he is willing to put in a good word with Duveen,”

             
“Bim isn’t keen on looting the family heirlooms to repair his roof.”

             
Amanda refrained from flinching at the flinty chill in his voice. She cast a glance at him as she placed a few crustless egg sandwiches on her plate. “Is that what you call it? Looting?”

             
“What else do you call stripping England of its treasures to grace the home of some jumped up industrialist?”

             
“Preserving and sharing heritage, I call it.” She turned to face the duke. “J. P. Morgan regularly donates pieces of his collection to the Met—regular citizens, poor people, would never have the opportunity of seeing a Renoir or a Rubens in person when it’s locked away in some moldering estate.”

             
“Besides,” She continued. “What do you call the presence of the Elgin Marbles in the British Museum? Or the Cleopatra Needle along the Embankment?”

             
The duke’s copper brows lowered. “Touché,”

             
Amanda flushed slightly. “You aren’t going to end the argument so easily, are you?”

             
“I know when we’ve reached an impasse we shall never bridge, so I choose to leave this at a stalemate,”

             
“Or a truce,” She squinted up at him with a tremulous smile.

             
He nodded. “Or a truce.”

             
His mouth curved slightly and his eyes remained fixed on her face. Amanda looked down at her place of food and picked up a sandwich to mask her nervousness over his intense regard, and was grateful when her parents interrupted their tête-a-tête, her mother all aflutter over Bledington and its grounds.