When the Duchess Said Yes (9 page)

Lizzie had done a great deal of thinking in the day and night since she’d run from the garden at Marchbourne House. She’d had plenty of time alone for thinking, too. First she’d shut herself in her bedchamber, too mortified to appear until Charlotte had cajoled her to come down for supper. As soon as that dismal meal was over, she’d swiftly retreated back upstairs, claiming to be too exhausted to stay awake any longer. But instead of sleep, she’d tossed and turned and thrashed about, her thoughts racing feverishly this way and that the entire night long, with absolutely no useful conclusions having come from any of it.

She had defiantly declared that she’d never wed Hawkesworth, but even she knew how empty a threat that was. She’d have to marry him. Neither of them had a choice, exactly as he’d said. At least her father had made sure she’d never be jilted, though that was small comfort indeed.

She desperately wished her mother were here to hug her and tell her everything would work out for the best. She wished her younger sister, Diana, were here, too, to tell her of new kittens in the barn at home, and how hard the wind had blown the night before, and how what might have been the remnants of a genuine sea monster
had washed up on the beach in the morning. Even better, she heartily wished herself back home at Ransom Manor, where she wouldn’t disappoint anyone.

It wasn’t that she didn’t find Hawkesworth acceptable. Far from it. In appearance he was all that a bridegroom should be; if anything, her sister hadn’t done him full justice when she’d described him as handsome, tall, and well made. Bowing before her in the garden with his dark hair tousled by the breeze, he’d been
dazzling
. And when he’d kissed her—ah, she’d been dazzled by that, too.

But everything in between had been decidedly without dazzle. She’d had months and months to imagine what their first real meeting would be like, and he’d destroyed every one of those dreams in a matter of minutes. He had been neither charming nor romantic. He had been blunt and direct, and he’d insinuated—no, he’d spoken it plainly enough—that she’d somehow tricked him into their meeting at Ranelagh. It made no sense, no sense at all, and she’d hated how he’d mistrusted her so much that he’d actually believed such foolishness. That mistrust had hurt, and had made her say and do things that she wasn’t proud of, things that no honorable lady should ever have on her conscience regarding a gentleman.

Especially the gentleman she was to marry.

But no matter how grim her betrothal had seemed in the middle of the night, it had grown markedly worse in the morning. That was when Charlotte had told her that their Aunt Sophronia had decided to take matters into her own overbearing hands and personally oversee the next meeting between Lizzie and Hawkesworth. Aunt Sophronia was the dowager Countess of Carbery, her late father’s oldest aunt and a looming presence in society. Because she’d no children of her own, she was perfectly happy to suggest the correct guidance of everyone
else’s. She was one of the reasons that Mama had retreated as far from London as she had to raise her daughters, and after Lizzie had witnessed how much Aunt Sophronia meddled in Charlotte’s life, she understood why.

Now it was Lizzie’s turn. First Aunt Sophronia had dictated her dress for the afternoon: a plain blue silk lutestring, with a white linen kerchief tucked securely into the top of her bodice to hide even a hint of décolletage. If that weren’t grim enough, her aunt had also insisted that Lizzie pin her hair tightly away from her face, and wear a linen cap over it for good measure.

Pointedly not including Charlotte in her invitation, Aunt Sophronia had then sent her own coach to Marchbourne House to fetch Lizzie, and installed her here, in the reception room of her house, overlooking St. James’s Square. The room was large and echoing, with excessive gilding on the walls and furnishings and so many looking glasses that Lizzie kept seeing a hundred versions of herself reflected every way she turned. Likely that, too, was part of Aunt Sophronia’s plan for suitable humility, as she explained in a lengthy lecture on what was proper conversation for young ladies in Lizzie’s position and what wasn’t. Clearly Aunt Sophronia assumed that Lizzie knew none of the former and far too much of the latter—which was rather true, though Lizzie would never admit it—and so the lecture continued on and on while Lizzie struggled not to yawn outright.

Finally Aunt Sophronia finished, or at least paused, and turned to feeding chunks of cake to her three fat white spaniels. While she did, Lizzie was permitted to stand by the tall window, waiting for her first glimpse of Hawkesworth’s arrival. At least she hoped he’d arrive and wouldn’t return to his old disappearing ways.

But as Lizzie looked out at the square, a carriage drew
up before the house. The footman opened the door, and Hawkesworth stepped out.

“He’s here!” she exclaimed excitedly, leaning closer to the glass. “He’s here, and—and he’s brought someone with him.”

As she watched, Hawkesworth handed out a tall, older lady in an extravagant dark gray gown fluttering with a great many ruffles, and even more jewels draped over the ruffles. She did not wait to take his arm, but sailed toward the house and left him to follow.

“He is not a ‘he,’ Elizabeth,” Aunt Sophronia said sternly, popping another morsel of frosted cake into the open mouth of one of the dogs. “He is His Grace to you until you are wed and he raises you to be his equal. And that someone accompanying him is His Grace’s mother.”

“His mother!” Lizzie looked down with new interest at the woman who would become her mother-in-law. Her own mother was warm and comfortable, always eager to put others at ease. Even from two floors up, Lizzie could tell that Hawkesworth’s mother wasn’t like that, and she felt a fresh wave of trepidation wash over her.

“Elizabeth, please, come away from the window directly,” Aunt Sophronia said, briskly dusting the cake crumbs from her hands. “His Grace must find you waiting for him with genteel attendance in your chair, not peering from the window like an idle parlor maid. Quickly now, sit beside me, and hold that book as if you were reading it.
If
you have ever done such a thing.”

Swiftly Lizzie hurried across the room, dropping into the chair beside her aunt. Belatedly she realized she’d sat on the book, and jumped up to rescue it from the chair. She glanced at the title on the spine and laughed.

“Sermons, Aunt?” she said. “I’ve
never
read a book of
sermons
.”

“I should never have guessed that of you.” Her aunt
sighed with exasperation. “Now pray stop laughing. It makes your face red and common. Sit straight, Elizabeth, ankles crossed, and hold the book gracefully, gracefully, with your head raised so your eyes are downcast. Let His Grace discover you engaged in a becoming pursuit.”

Obediently Lizzie struggled not to laugh or even smile, smoothing her skirts and crossing her ankles so that just the tiny pointed toes of her shoes peeked out from beneath her petticoats. She drew her shoulders back straight as Aunt Sophronia had insisted, taking care not to lounge against the chair, and relaxed her arm to hold the book open before her. It wasn’t easy to keep her chin up and her eyes down; she felt as if she were being aloof and looking down her nose instead of keeping her eyes downcast with perfect noble serenity.

It was, she decided, wicked hard to behave like a duchess, not that a duchess could ever admit that any task was difficult for her to perform.

She could hear voices on the stairs, Hawkesworth and his mother being escorted by a footman. She forced herself to focus on the words before her, which proved impossible, since she was holding the book upside down. Quickly she turned it around just as the drawing room door opened and the footman announced the guests.

She rose, and at once sank down into a curtsey, the book still in her hand, exactly as her aunt had bidden her do. She held the pose, even as the three white dogs yipped and yapped and bounced around her skirts with excitement.

“What a pretty child, Sophronia,” said Hawkesworth’s mother, raising her voice over the dogs. “Quite charming.”

“She is indeed, Mary,” said Aunt Sophronia, even as she was swatting at the dogs. “Down, down, I say. Hush, you bad boys!”

Lizzie didn’t answer, not sure if being spoken of by Lady Allred was the same as being addressed. She couldn’t speak to the dowager duchess until that lady took notice of her, just as she couldn’t stand upright until the duke had acknowledged her, too.

She hadn’t long to wait. Hawkesworth’s hand took hers, exactly as she remembered, and at his touch, excitement rushed through her again, also exactly as she remembered. Finally she looked up, and if her face grew red and common again when their gazes met, well, then, she could not help it. His expression was studiously somber, and she couldn’t yet tell if he was unhappy or perhaps even angry with her.

“Good day, Lady Elizabeth,” he said. “I trust you are recovered from your, ah, indisposition of yesterday?”

If he wished to dismiss her grabbing her hat from his hands without thanks, shouting in his face that she’d never marry him, and then running off without his leave as an “indisposition,” then she was gratefully, instantly happy to agree.

She smiled, which was doubtless common of her, too, but she was too relieved to worry overmuch about it. Even duchesses had to smile sometimes.

“Good day, Your Grace,” she said. “I thank you for your concern, but I can assure you I am entirely recovered.”

“Entirely?” His mouth and voice held that solemnity, but his eyes sparkled with amusement, a shared secret between them. Perhaps yesterday, when they’d spoken so sharply to each other, had been the anomaly, and the other time at Ranelagh had been the one that mattered. Perhaps her giddy dreams of love and romance weren’t to be dashed after all, but only needed this fresh beginning, exactly as Aunt Sophronia had predicted.

“I am absolutely, entirely recovered, sir,” she said. Daring greatly, she squeezed his fingers, a tiny, barely
discernible squeeze, but enough to make him squeeze hers in return. If she weren’t supposed to be so infernally proper and duchesslike, she might even have reached up and kissed him herself.

“I am glad of it,” he said softly, and with his gaze not leaving hers, he began to introduce her to his mother.

“Mother, may I present my betrothed, Lady Elizabeth Wylder,” he said. “Lady Elizabeth, my mother, Lady Allred.”

Hawkesworth might not look his mother’s way, but Lizzie knew that she should, and did, and she dropped a second curtsey, full of respect.

“Oh, Hawkesworth, she is lovely,” Lady Allred declared, being the kind of lady who declared rather than merely spoke. “How fortunate for you! Look at me, Lady Elizabeth. Hah, as I thought. Your father’s face is quite alive in yours, particularly in the eyes. I vow you must hear that often.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Lizzie said, surprised and pleased. Mama always said that she was the only one of her daughters to resemble Father, and Lizzie believed it the greatest of compliments, even if it meant she wasn’t as beautiful as either Charlotte or Diana. “I am most honored, my lady. My mother has told me the same as well.”

“Then you must be a comfort to her,” Lady Allred said, “because every time she looks at you, she must see her late consort. What book is that you read?”

“A book of my choosing,” Aunt Sophronia said quickly, as if fearing what Lizzie herself might answer. “A collection of Reverend Fullingham’s sermons for ladies. I thought it wise for her to prepare herself for the sacrament of marriage, and what better way than through the guidance of Reverend Fullingham?”

“An excellent, edifying choice.” Lady Allred nodded with approval, and the plumes on her hat nodded as
well. “Tell me, Lady Elizabeth. In light of your readings, what is the best quality for a wife to possess?”

“The best, my lady?” Lizzie said, stalling. Having not read a word, right side up or otherwise, of Reverend Fullingham’s sage advice, she was hard-pressed to answer. “There are so many, my lady, that it is difficult to choose one.”

Lady Allred’s eyes narrowed a skeptical fraction. “If there are so many, my dear, then it should be no trial to name one.”

“Yes, my lady.” Lizzie glanced down at the closed book in her hand, wishing the words inside would suddenly and conveniently appear on the cover. “I should say the best quality is, ah, being dutiful, my lady. Yes. A good wife should be dutiful to her husband in all matters.”

Lady Allred smiled, approving again. “Do you hear that, Hawkesworth? Your intended duchess aspires to be dutiful to you in all matters. That is far better than you deserve, you know. Even if she achieves that worthy goal in only half of those matters, you will be a fortunate husband indeed.”

Hawkesworth smiled, making a half bow of acknowledgment, and Lizzie was certain she’d seen a slight twitch around his eye to prove that, had the two older ladies not been present, he would have winked as well.

Aunt Sophronia laid her hand on Lady Allred’s arm.

“My dear Mary,” she said, their friendship sufficiently long and fond that she could be familiar. “Shall we retreat and leave these two to their own private conversation?”