When the Duchess Said Yes (16 page)

Others, however, did not agree.

“Have you no shame, Hawkesworth, no decency?” said Lady Allred, her quivering indignation a match for Aunt Sophronia’s. “I cannot believe a son of mine would
behave in such a ridiculously selfish fashion. Where is your honor, sir? Where is your
sense
? What on earth is the reason for the Duke of Hawkesworth to play at being a highwayman, Dick Turpin himself, a robber bridegroom seizing his bride from the city streets?”

“I must agree with the ladies, Hawke,” Brecon said, more sharply than Lizzie had ever heard him speak. “You have paid absolutely no heed to my cautions or my advice for decorum. Your behavior toward this lady has been reprehensible.”

“But not to me!” Lizzie cried, ready to defend Hawke. He’d already claimed possession of her hand, but she went further and slipped her arm around his waist to prove how closely she considered them bound. “To be sure, I appreciate your concern for my welfare, and I regret any suffering caused by my—my disappearance. But I do not find any fault with this gentleman, who acted from only the most noble of intentions toward me.”

Someone—she suspected March—made a derisive snort, which she ignored. Instead she brought Hawke to stand before her mother and sister, proud of him even if he was dressed like the highwayman his mother had called him.

“Hawke, I should like to present to you my mother, Lady Celia Wylder, dowager Countess of Hervey, and my sister, Lady Diana Wylder,” she said. “Mama, my betrothed, His Grace the Duke of Hawkesworth.”

At once Mama and Diana (with the limply sleeping Fig draped over one arm) rose from their chairs to curtsey to Hawke. Given his rank, this was entirely proper, of course, but it did feel odd to Lizzie, and she was relieved when Hawke quickly stepped forward to take Mama’s hand to raise her up.

“It is I who is honored, Lady Wylder,” he said, flashing the full force of his smiling charm toward them.
“For you to grant me Lady Elizabeth’s hand brings me unspeakable joy.”

“You are most generous, Your Grace.” Mama smiled and nodded gracefully as she returned to her chair. Though she was nearly forty, she could still muster a considerable share of charm herself. “My Lizzie is a true jewel, and every day I pray for her happiness.”

Hawke beamed, interpreting this as a compliment, but Lizzie realized that her mother wasn’t exactly welcoming Hawke into the family. Praying for Lizzie’s happiness more likely meant that Mama was praying for Lizzie to be happy with another gentleman. Obviously she had been influenced by what she must have heard before she and Hawke had appeared, and now it was going to be a sizable task to convince her to change her mind.

But Lizzie did have one excellent card to play in her favor, at least to begin.

“Hawke believes me to be a jewel, too, Mama,” she said, “which is why he gave me this bracelet this afternoon as a token of his regard.”

She held out her wrist, the heavy stones sliding forward over the back of her hand. What better way to declare honorable intentions than a gift of rubies and diamonds? There was no mistaking the gasps and oohs and ahhs from around the room: at least Hawke had done something to gather their approval.

“Goodness, sir,” Mama murmured, considering the bracelet. “That is a most generous gift.”

“Please, call me Hawke,” he said. “I’d be most honored if you did.”

“Very well, Hawke,” Mama said, her smile warming. “You are most kind to me, and to my daughter.”

Progress, thought Lizzie with relief. Progress.

“Might I call you Hawke, too, Your Grace?” asked
Diana. “When you marry Lizzie, then you shall be my brother, the same as March.”

She smiled winningly, and Lizzie smiled, too, again with relief. At least Diana liked him, and Diana was notoriously picky about whom she liked, especially gentlemen.

“Of course you may call me Hawke,” he said heartily. “I cannot think of anything more agreeable than to acquire a new sister along with a wife.”

“Thank you, Hawke,” she said, bobbing another quick curtsey. She glanced slyly at Lizzie as she settled Fig against her shoulder, and at once Lizzie’s relief vanished. “We’ve nicknames in our family, too. Has Lizzie told you that when she first came to London, the scandal sheets called her Lady Lizzie Wyldest?”

“Diana, don’t,” Lizzie said sharply.
“Don’t.”

“Yes, Diana,” Mama said, her voice full of warning. “I doubt that Hawke has any interest in you trotting out ancient, tattling history concerning your sister.”

“But I do,” he said easily. “I wish to learn everything there is to know about my own dear Lizzie. Tell me, Diana, if you please. Why was she called Lady Wyldest?”

Diana smiled, delighting in the attention.

“It
is
an amusing story, Hawke,” she began in a confidential tone, stroking the cat on her shoulder. “When Lizzie first came to town, Lord Nightingale conceived a mad passion for her, even though everyone knew she was betrothed to you. She made the mistake of agreeing to dance with his lordship one night, and he danced her into the library, meaning to
seduce
her right there.”

“Diana, please,” Mama said again. “That is enough.”

But Diana was too far into her tale to stop now. “But when his lordship pressed his suit,” she said, her voice rising with excitement, “Lizzie took hold of the nearest volume, a book about African wild beasts, and used it to
thrash him, all the while swearing like blazes. She even chased his lordship back into the ballroom, so that all the company could watch her swinging at him with the book.
That
was why the papers called her Lady Wyldest, on account of the thrashing and because of the African wild beasts.”

Lizzie’s face burned with mortification. It was not that Diana’s telling was untrue—if anything, it was much milder than the actual events—or that she regretted treating Lord Nightingale as she had, for she didn’t, his lordship’s presumption having entirely deserved the African beasts. What she feared was Hawke’s reaction. What gentleman wishes to hear his betrothed described in such a lurid fashion?

“That is all?” Hawke said. “Because she hit Nightingale with a book?”

“She
smote
him about the neck and shoulders, and denounced him,” Diana said with relish. “Even the musicians stopped playing to watch.”

“Oh, well,” he said easily. “Nightingale should have known better. Here I’m bound to marry your sister this week, and yet this afternoon she still made me climb over a twelve-foot brick wall and chase her all through the garden before she’d let me kiss her.”

Abruptly Mama rose. “Hawke, I trust you will excuse me. I am most weary from our journey, and fear I must retire before I fall asleep here on the carpet.”

“Of course, ma’am, of course,” Hawke said. “I look forward to seeing you again under less taxing circumstances.”

She nodded in acknowledgment. “Lizzie, you will accompany me. Now.”

Lizzie gulped, for Mama was never stern like this. She nodded and turned back to Hawke.

“Good day to you, dearest sir,” she said softly, shy before such a crowd. “I thank you for—for everything.”

“I’ll call here for you tomorrow,” he said, not shy at all. “I’ll take you riding in the park, and then we can—”

“I’m afraid my daughter will be too occupied tomorrow to see you, Hawke,” Mama said. “The last of the wedding preparations, you know.”

“You may see her again Saturday morning before the bishop, Hawkesworth,” Lady Allred intoned with all the authority of the bishop herself. “In the chapel at St. Barnabas, and not before.”

Hawke sighed, a sigh that managed to be heartfelt, resigned, and full of melancholy regret as well.

“It seems we have no choice, sweeting,” he said to Lizzie. “We must wait until Saturday.”

Then he deftly tipped her into the crook of his arm and kissed her, long and well and without a care for those who were watching.

And Lizzie—Lizzie kissed him back. If she was going to scandalize her family, why, then, she was determined to enjoy herself in the process.

“Until Saturday, when I shall become your wife forever,” she said breathlessly when they were done. “Until Saturday!”

She would have lingered longer still if she dared, but Mama had been so appalled by the kiss that she was already halfway from the room. With one final glance of regret for Hawke, she hurried after Mama.

Charlotte had give Mama a pleasing suite of rooms overlooking the gardens, with everything done in sunny shades of yellow and pale green. Servants had already unpacked Mama’s trunks, and there were flowers in the vases and a fire set and burning cheerfully in the grate. But Lizzie knew there was bound to be little cheer in this conversation, and she stood expectantly—or at least in expectant dread—as Mama’s maid helped her remove her hat and traveling Brunswick, and change into
a simple dressing gown until it was time to make ready for dinner.

At last the maid left them, and they were alone. Mama sat in one of the armchairs before the fire, motioning for Lizzie to take the other as she poured fresh tea.

“Your sister does know how to make me happy,” Mama said, handing Lizzie a steaming cup. “Fresh flowers, clean linens, and a pot of India tea are all I require to be completely content.”

Lizzie stared down into the cup, breathing deep of the tea’s fragrance. It was Mama’s favorite tea, and she’d always associate it with her. But only Charlotte would be thoughtful enough to remember the blend and have it waiting for her, and while Lizzie resolved to do the same in the future, she also understood what was truly being said.

Charlotte (and March) made her happy.

Lizzie (and Hawke) did not.

“I am sorry that you do not care for Hawke, Mama,” Lizzie said into the tea, unable to keep her wounded feelings to herself any longer. “I am sorry he isn’t March and that I’m not Charlotte. I am sorry indeed.”

“There you are again, Lizzie,” Mama said with a sigh, “apologizing when no apology is required. I have never once wished you were Charlotte, and it is complete foolishness of you to believe otherwise. And I have never said that I didn’t care for Hawke. On the contrary, I find him charming, handsome, and attentive, and everything that a lady could wish in a gentleman.”

Lizzie smiled, sinking back into the armchair. “Oh, I am so vastly glad!”

“Permit me to finish, Lizzie,” Mama said, setting the pot beside her. “I said he is all a lady could wish in a gentleman, meaning a gentleman who will dance with her, and amuse her, and bring her posies and sweets at a ball. But as for being the sort of gentleman that you
should marry, the duke strikes me as a complete and unmitigated disaster.”

Lizzie gasped with disappointment, pressing her hand over her mouth to keep from bursting into tears. Silently Mama drew a fresh handkerchief from her pocket and handed it to Lizzie.

“I’m sure you think I’m judging him too harshly,” Mama went on, undeterred by Lizzie’s tears. “But pray consider what we know of His Grace. He has lived his entire adult life in shameless self-indulgence, wallowing in the dissipation of a foreign excess. He has avoided his responsibilities as a peer, preferring to leave his obligations to his properties and tenants in the hands of agents. Unlike his father, who was respected both at court and in Parliament, Hawke has only once taken his seat in the House of Lords, for the form of it, and given only a single speech.”

“But he has no interest in politics,” Lizzie said tearfully, snuffling through the handkerchief. “He prefers art and painting and—and beauty.”

Mama sighed and sipped her tea. “Art and beauty are well enough in their place, Lizzie, but they will do precious little for you. Consider how the duke neglected his obligation to you until the last possible moment, and finally appeared only because he was compelled by the strictures of his father’s will.”

“I know that, Mama, I know it all,” Lizzie said with a little hiccupping sob. “But once he met me, he has become most attentive and—and ardent.”

“That is exactly my greatest concern, Lizzie,” Mama said, leaning forward for emphasis. “I saw it at once. He is infatuated with you, and is wooing you with the ardor that a man displays for a new mistress, for the novelty of love. But what will happen once the pursuit is done and he has possessed you, and that novelty is gone?”

“Mama, if you could only see him as I do—”

“Lizzie, you scarcely know the Duke!” Mama exclaimed. “How many times have you been in his company? Two, three, four? What can you know of any person in that span? What will you do if, in time, he fails to show you the respect and regard that a good husband demonstrates toward his wife, and his children if you are blessed?”

These were sobering thoughts indeed: dreadful, serious, sobering thoughts. Lizzie swallowed hard. “But I—I cannot break with Hawke. Because Father arranged it, I must marry him.”

“You understand the dilemma, then.” Mama tried to smile, and failed, and did not try again. “What worries me the most is that you and Hawke are so much alike. I saw it at once when you first stood together before me, and then when he kissed you just now—my, I didn’t know where to look, for modesty’s sake. I can imagine well enough what occurred this afternoon in that garden bower of his.”

“Next to nothing, Mama, I assure you,” Lizzie said quickly. But just as she knew no one believed her when she swore that Hawke had not ravished her, she knew, too, that if only the footmen and violinist hadn’t been there—or if she hadn’t seen them—she most certainly and most happily would have permitted Hawke the final favor. “I swear by all that’s holy that I am still a virgin.”

“Oh yes, and I am not so vastly old that I need believe you.” Mama dropped a spoonful of sugar into her tea, stirring it thoughtfully. “You’re both so full of passion, with so little regard for anything but the present day. Of course your love will burn bright in the beginning. How could it not?”

The more Lizzie considered this, the more she wondered at how perfectly Mama had described what she’d discovered with Hawke. They
were
exactly alike, which explained how what began as a quarrel could magically
shift to a fiery kiss. She had of course heard the old adage about how those of opposite temperaments were attracted to each other, but why couldn’t two of a similar nature love equally well?