How to Capture a Countess (Duchess Diaries 1) (6 page)

The main part of the castle rose before her, flanked by wings that extended forward on each side. Four stories tall, it was decorated with exquisite stonework, and the wide flagstone courtyard featured an ornate portico that could easily cover ten carriages.

She felt as if she had just stepped into the pages of a fairy tale. Though she had yet to go inside, she was certain that the castle didn’t suffer from the smoking fireplaces, threadbare rugs, creaky stairways, drafty windows, and sagging floors of Caith Manor.

Her throat tightened. As beautiful as the castle was, all she wanted was to have the groom saddle a horse, and ride across the moors until the pressure in her stomach disappeared.

But that was not to be. Although she hated wearing anything other than her serviceable riding habits and rarely wore her hair in anything other than a pinned-up
braid, for the next three weeks she was expected to dress, eat, and smile like a lady of fashion.

Rose sighed. She didn’t have a choice. She’d promised her sisters that she’d take advantage of the duchess’s kind invitation and, come what may, she would do just that.
I owe Lily and Dahlia this unexpected opportunity.

And unexpected it had been. Despite supposedly being Rose’s grandmama’s bosom confidante during girlhood, her grace hadn’t been the most attentive godparent. Over the years the duchess had dutifully sent Rose and her sisters an annual Michaelmas letter and a small gift, and a short, repetitious birthday greeting, but that was all. The duchess’s correspondence had been so predictable that it had become something of a joke at Caith Manor, with Lily pretending shock every time a birthday or Michaelmas letter was read aloud over tea, while Dahlia silently mimicked each line before it was even read.

For the hundredth time since the duchess’s invitation had arrived by liveried footman last week, Rose wondered what had prompted it.
Not that it matters. I should be grateful for a rare opportunity to re-enter society, something I never thought to do again after That Night.

It hurt less to think of that time as That Night rather than as “Your Raging Scandal,” as Aunt Lettice always referenced it. Thank goodness Rose would be spared her aunt’s presence this week, at least. While
she was fond of her aunt, one could take only so many sad sighs and long faces before one went stark, raving mad.

She’d rather remember other, better times. Like the half hour before things had gone awry, when she’d been basking in the attention of the handsomest man she’d ever met. If she closed her eyes now, she could see those sherry-colored eyes and that handsome face as he bent to press his firm lips to hers. A shiver went through her.
Stop that! I should be thinking about Lily and Dahlia, not a handsome wastrel.

Because of her rash actions six years ago and the ensuing scandal, her sisters had been denied all that she’d foolishly squandered for a childish passion: a season in London, balls, scores of invitations, and—more significantly for Lily and Dahlia—the opportunity to meet eligible men.

Her sisters were growing into beautiful women, and they were wasting away in a countryside populated with few eligible male prospects. Lively Dahlia had even begun casting glances at their neighbor, a grumpy, taciturn widower fifteen years older than she was. If Dahlia could only meet younger men with charming manners and handsome grins, then she wouldn’t be content with—

“Miss Balfour?” A footman bowed and then gestured toward the wide doors centered beneath the ornate portico.

Rose took a deep breath and smiled. “Yes, of
course. Thank you.” She walked toward the large doors.

Two identically liveried footmen opened them and stepped to each side.

Steeling herself, Rose crossed the threshold and stared in wonder. Never had she seen such an entryway. The high ceiling was painted with a beautiful mural that depicted the creation of the earth in delicate blues, golds, and greens. The walls were covered in robin’s-egg-blue Chinese silk painted with gilt and green flowers and decorated with gold sconces. The parquet floor sported a playful trompe l’oeil pattern, and the overall effect was breathtakingly beautiful.

A tall, somber-looking man in a black frock coat approached her and bowed. “Miss Balfour, welcome to Floors Castle. I’m MacDougal, the butler. May I assist you with yer pelisse and bonnet?”

“Yes, thank you.” She pulled off her gloves and tucked them into her pocket before she unbuttoned her pelisse and handed it with her bonnet to the butler.

“Thank you, miss.” He carefully handed her possessions to a waiting footman while she turned to a nearby mirror and attempted to pat her mashed curls into a more attractive fashion.

After a moment, she grimaced and turned from the mirror. “That’s the best I can do for now.”

“Of course, miss. I trust yer ride here wasn’t too uncomfortable?”

“It was very pleasant.”

He smiled broadly as if he, and he alone, were responsible for her coach ride. “Och, I’m glad to hear that, miss. The weather is lovely fer a coach ride, is it no’?”

“I don’t think I’ve enjoyed one more,” she lied. Though the sumptuous coach had been comfortable, her mind had been much too uneasy to enjoy it properly.

“Excellent, miss. If ye’ll come this way, her grace is anxious to greet ye. She’s in the sitting room with Lady Charlotte.”

“Oh. I thought I might wash up first.” And wrestle her unruly hair into something resembling a style.

The butler’s smile disappeared. “They are expecting ye.” He didn’t say the words in a dire fashion, but she sensed his urgency, nonetheless.

She forced a smile. “Then I can’t keep them waiting, can I?”

He beamed. “No, miss.”

The butler led her across the entryway and to a pair of massive doors. He turned the knob and instantly a cacophony of barking arose.

The butler sent a regretful look at his polished shoes before saying in a long-suffering tone, “Her ladyship’s pugs, miss.” He opened the door, and out tumbled a herd of yapping pugs.

Chuckling, Rose bent to pet them.

“Miss, I’d be careful if I were you,” the butler said
in a warning tone. “They can scratch, though they dinna mean to.”

“What are their names?”

“Let’s see . . . ” He pointed at each one in turn. “This is Meenie. Tha’ is Weenie. Teenie’s the brown one with the silver-tipped tail. Feenie’s the one with part of an ear missing—a horrible brawl with a local barn cat. Her grace won’t allow the dogs out of the house without an escort now. And the very fat silver pug is Beenie. He looks a bit like a large silver bean with legs, dinna he, miss?”

“Yes, he does.” Rose scratched ears, rubbed furry little chins, and chuckled as the smallest one sniffed her hem so hard that he sneezed. She noticed that one dog stood to the side, an older one with milky eyes. “And who is this one?”

“Och, tha’ is Randolph, miss.”

“Poor thing! You can’t see well, can you?” Rose murmured. She very slowly held out her hand. The fat pug waddled closer and cautiously sniffed her fingers. “Good boy,” she crooned.

His short, stubby tail waggled and he joined the group at her knee.

“Such good puppies.” She gave them each an extra pat, and then stood and straightened her gown.

The butler held the doors open and stood to one side. The pugs, obviously thinking he held the door for them, trotted back into the room as Rose followed.

The sitting room was even grander than the entryway.
The windows were large enough to be barn doors, the ceiling towered so far overhead that the chandeliers were more for show than light, and both fireplaces (there was one on each end of the room) were big enough that two large cows could have easily stood inside them.

The room was decorated in the height of fashion, too. Gold embroidery glittered on the rich striped and tasseled velvets and brocades that covered every chair and settee. Every bit of wood was either gilded or embossed, while the walls were agleam, covered with deep gold satin.

The butler cleared his throat, jerking Rose out of her reverie. She stepped forward as he called out in his soft brogue, “Miss Rose Balfour.”

At the very far end of the sitting room, Rose saw two women seated near one of the large fireplaces. The butler bowed and she walked forward.

The pugs scampered along with her, snorting and grunting like the pigs in the barnyard at Caith Manor.

As Rose reached the sitting area, she instantly knew which woman was the duchess. She was small and slender, her nose impossibly hooked, her eyes a vivid blue, while on her head an improbably huge red wig tilted precariously to one side.

The duchess’s crystal blue gaze traveled over Rose in such a thorough fashion that Rose wished she’d taken the time to fix her hair.

Her face heated, Rose dipped a hurried curtsy. “Your grace, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

The duchess cocked her head to one side, a puzzled look in her eyes. “
You
are Miss Balfour?”

“Yes, your grace.”

“Miss
Rose
Balfour.”

Rose looked from one lady to the other before she said in a firm voice, “Yes, your grace.” There was a flicker in the blue eyes and Rose felt as if she’d disappointed the duchess in some way. Rose smoothed her skirts, the dogs prancing about her feet as if they could sense her unease. “My gown is sadly crushed from my journey, but I was determined to thank you immediately for your gracious invitation.”

The duchess managed a smile, though she by no means looked welcoming. “I’m glad you joined us so quickly.” She gestured to the lady on the opposite settee, who sat watching Rose as if at a play. “This is Lady Charlotte, my companion.”

Rose turned to the other woman and was instantly reassured by the woman’s warm smile and twinkling gaze.

“How do you do?” Lady Charlotte’s soft voice made Rose think of warm cookies.

Rose curtsied. “I’m well, thank you. I hope you’re the same.”

“Oh yes.” Lady Charlotte set aside her knitting and patted the settee beside her. “Come and sit for a few moments before you retire to your bedchamber.”

“Yes, do sit,” the duchess agreed. “When we’re done here, MacDougal will take you to your room and have a bath brought. I find a nice hot bath so refreshing after travel.”

“That would be lovely.” Rose sat beside Lady Charlotte and instantly Weenie and Beenie jumped into her lap. She had to hold them in place, since there was barely room for just one, and she laughed at the armful of squirming puppies.

“Oh, you bad dogs,” the duchess said. “How rude of them! Weenie! Beenie! Stop bothering our guest.”

“Oh, they’re fine.” Rose chuckled and said to the dogs, “I can see that I’m going to have to pick one of you to claim my lap, and it’s too difficult to choose, so you’ll both have to get down.” She gently placed first one and then the other onto the floor.

The duchess smiled a little, which softened her face considerably. “They’ve taken to you. They don’t normally do that with strangers, do they, MacDougal?”

“No, yer grace. Never, tha’ I can remember.”

The duchess watched Rose as she petted Beenie’s head. The dog grunted blissfully. “Miss Balfour, I’m delighted you decided to visit us.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Rose lied, trying to keep her smile locked upon her lips.

Margaret heard the lie and was surprised.
She’s more excited about the dogs than at being at Floors Castle. Interesting. I suppose that means she’s not a social
climber.
Margaret eyed her guest a bit longer.
I never expected her to be so
plain,
either.

Miss Balfour was as far removed from the women Sin usually pursued as one could imagine. The gel’s unruly black hair was held in place by a number of pins, half of which were sticking out, while the other half struggled to remain in place and failed miserably. She was brown, too, rather than the milky pale preferred by society, and far too thin for the day’s fashion of draped gowns, which were more suited to women with bosoms and hips.
Why, she’s no more than a thin, wiry scamp of a gel. She’s far from Sin’s usual bits of fluff, which makes this even more interesting.

Charlotte broke the growing silence. “So, Miss Balfour, tell us more about yourself.”

“What would you like to know?”

“Everything,” Margaret stated baldly.

Miss Balfour blinked, but Lady Charlotte added with a kind smile, “What do you like to do, dear? When you’re at home, that is?”

“I ride a lot, and read. My mother is no longer with us, so it’s just me, my two sisters, and my father.”

“The horticulturalist.”

“Why, yes. Father is a bit of a recluse and spends most of his time in the greenhouses, so I fear we don’t have many guests.” Miss Balfour hesitated. “I do hope you find nothing in my behavior to give you pause. We don’t socialize formally at Caith Manor and—”

“You’ll be fine, dear.” Charlotte smiled reassuringly
and picked up her knitting needles and began to knit once again. “If you’ve any questions, you’ve but to ask one of us and we’ll set you to rights. Won’t we, Margaret?”

“Of course,” Margaret agreed, liking Miss Balfour’s unusual plainspoken ways more and more. “I’m sure we can set you upon the right path of any—”

Weenie jumped into Miss Balfour’s now empty lap and she chuckled and patted the dog, seemingly unconcerned about the creases the animal might cause her gown.

“You like dogs, I see,” Margaret said, still trying to decide what to make of this decidedly odd girl.

“Indeed I do. MacDougal told me all of their names in the hallway.” She looked at the other pugs now lined up at her feet. “Why do all of their names rhyme except Randolph’s?” She indicated the older dog that sat some distance away, panting as if he’d just run up a flight of steps. His tail wagged as she said his name.

“I’ve had him for twelve years, while the others are far more recent acquisitions. I suppose I wasn’t in a rhyming mood then.”

Miss Balfour nodded, and another loop of her hair fell from a pin.

Margaret and Charlotte exchanged a look. Miss Balfour, unaware she was being measured, hugged the dog in her lap and said absently, “I love animals. Better, in fact, than I like people.”