The Seduction of a Duke (6 page)

“Nonsense,” Percy remonstrated. “You’ve always done well with the ladies. I’m sure once you remove that ridiculous headpiece, she’ll be overcome with her good fortune. What woman wouldn’t wish to find herself betrothed to a handsome duke?”

William grimaced. He rather expected the chit to be overcome with joy no matter his appearance by virtue of his title alone. That was what his last wife did. Once the vows were spoken, her true nature emerged.

His brother Nicholas had married the most non-appropriate woman he could find and a happier couple William had never seen. The jealous longing that surfaced whenever his thoughts turned to Nicholas pulled at his chest. What would it be like to share a life with a woman who truly loved a man for himself and not his wealth or title? Did such women exist? If they did, he had run out of time to find them. The duty and responsibility that came hand in hand with his title had made that kind of happiness little more than a pipe dream.

He lifted the frog head and settled it on his shoulders once again and peered through the small holes that allowed sight. He squinted at his absurd reflection in the mirror. “What woman indeed?”

 

 

“MISS WINTHROP, YOUR MOTHER WON’T LIKE BEING tricked like this.”

“My mother is an old hand at trickery,” Fran said, remembering her mother’s frequent use of guile to manipulate others. She adjusted the peacock mask to conceal most of Mary’s face. “As long as the evening ends with my engagement to the Duke, she’ll forgive your involvement.”

And if she throws a sufficient fit, enough to make the Duke drop his engagement proposal, so much the better, she thought smugly. She stepped back from her regally attired maid, pointing her in the direction of the mirror. “There. You are stunning. Everyone will believe you are a rich American heiress.”

Mary frowned at her reflection. “Your parents will know. I’m not nearly as tall as you, Miss Winthrop. I don’t know all those fancy words you use, and I’ve never tried those fancy dances.” She pulled on the revealing bodice. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this.”

“Nonsense,” Fran reassured her, readjusting the folds of the elaborate costume. Indeed, poor Mary appeared a bit overwhelmed by all the blue and green feathers. But the low décolleté displaying Mary’s ample assets would draw all the attention. No one would notice the heavy garment dragging on the floor from Mary’s lack of height. “You will be the princess of the ball. You don’t have to dance if you don’t want to. Just stroll about the rooms downstairs and pretend you are me.”

She doubted the deception would progress that far. Her mother was well acquainted with Fran’s abhorrence of crowds and strangers. Once Maman realized that it was not Francesca in the peacock costume, Fran imagined the ball, and more important the engagement, would be cut short. At a minimum, she’d gain more time to effect an escape. At best, the resulting scandal would give the Duke sufficient motive to search for his bride in England and not on these shores.

She glanced at her own reflection standing behind Mary, wondering if her mother would appreciate the irony of her choice of costume. Fran wore the free-flowing folds of fabric that symbolized the French statue given to the United States as a gift, Liberty Enlightening the World. The costume currently was a popular one at fancy dress balls, as fund-raising efforts for the monument’s pedestal had been sluggish. Mr. Evarts had approached the Winthrops to lend support and had left several sketches of the statue behind. Once erected, he had said, the statue would serve as symbol of liberty and escape from oppression.

She had purchased the costume several months ago in anticipation of the many costumed balls that ended the summer season not realizing she’d have occasion to use it in her own bid for liberty. How appropriate as tonight she hoped for an escape of her mother’s oppression.

“You won’t let me be engaged to no duke?” Mary’s wide eyes pleaded with her in the mirror.

“No, I won’t let that happen,” Fran reassured her. However much she disliked the future her mother had planned for her, she couldn’t in good faith send her maid to stand in her stead before an altar. No, she must conspire a way for the Duke to denounce the engagement.

“Now remember the plan. You’re to go downstairs just as the Duke enters the foyer, not a moment before. We’ll know him by that costume Maman selected. Curtsy, just as we practiced, when you’re presented.”

Mary nodded and attempted a wobbly curtsy in front of the mirror. Fran remembered the hours her mother used to make her practice the movement as a young girl. She hadn’t wobbled like that in twenty years. Surely, a conceited, pretentious old duke would be offended by such an awkward display. A smile crept to her lips. And if her mother caused a scandalous scene, so much the better.

“I couldn’t curtsy better myself,” Fran lied. “The Duke has never met me so he won’t suspect a switch. Just play it by ear.”

“Where will you be? What if your mother confronts me?” Mary’s eyes grew big and round. “What if I’m discharged as a result?”

“Tell her I made you do it,” Fran responded. “Tell them it is all my fault. She’ll believe you. Maybe that will make the Duke call off this ridiculous arrangement.”

They exchanged places. Fran sat on the chair before the mirror, while Mary vigorously stroked her long hair with a brush. “Are you sure you don’t want me to put it up, Miss Winthrop? Your mother would want you to have it high like a proper lady.”

Fran retrieved one of the sketches of Bartholdi’s statue from the vanity drawer. “It should resemble this lady’s hair. Gathered at the nape in a series of folds with finger curls below the ears,” Fran said, appraising herself in the mirror.

Mary smiled. “You look like a young girl with your hair down around your shoulders. You have such pretty hair.”

Indeed, she did look younger this way. Not at all like the old spinster she was bound to become now that Randolph had abandoned her. Perhaps that was the true motive behind this sham engagement, she thought. Her mother might just want to see her properly married. As quickly as she entertained that thought, she abandoned it. Her mother was interested only in what her pawn could do for her. She had no concern for her daughter’s wishes or happiness. Alva’s desires were all that mattered. That was the way it had always been.

Fran pressed a copper crown that radiated seven spikes in a sunburst design into her hair. “This headpiece should stand out above the crowd. I should be easy enough to find.”

She hesitated. If all transpired according to plan, the commotion at the doorway should prove sufficient to dissuade the Duke. But if not, she had an alternative plan. A cold shiver slipped down her spine.

“If you don’t find me in the ballroom,” she said, hoping events would not progress that far, “ask someone to check the gardens.”

 

 

NO ONE KNEW BETTER HOW TO STAGE A DRAMATIC entrance than her mother, Fran thought, which explained the wide, multilevel Siena marble staircase solidly stationed in the middle of the house. From their position on the mezzanine level, Mary and Fran could lean over the ornate iron-and-bronze rail to the gathering below. Alva had spared no expense for the ball from the look of the decorations. A large bronze fountain, filled with floating lotus blooms and water hyacinths, bubbled directly beneath them. Hummingbirds and brightly colored butterflies had been brought in specifically to flutter about the spectacular floral masterpiece. She suspected a few of her honeybees had found their own entrance as well, drawn to the overwhelming floral scent of lilies and roses. A white-wigged footman dressed in Louis XIV fashion stood just beyond the fountain, announcing the names of the guests as they arrived.

Had Fran not already recognized the Duke’s costume the moment he strolled through the decorative grille into the en tryway, she would have known by her mother’s effusive efforts that a person of societal import had arrived.

“Now!” She urged Mary with a slight push. Mary tentatively approached the wide, sweeping turn of the staircase to descend to the main floor, her blue and green silks rippling on the smooth steps behind her.

Fran retreated behind a giant potted fern to observe her plan unfold. Guilt and uncertainty roiled in her stomach. She wouldn’t have taken such desperate measures if the stakes, her very future, weren’t so critical, she reassured herself.

The fair-headed Duke, dressed in a regimental uniform, had the athletic build and soft charm that many would call handsome. He was not as old as she had imagined, nor as corpulent. Her attention, however, was drawn to the Duke’s companion, a man dressed in tails as if for a formal evening, but with the head of a frog, reminding her of a favored storybook character from her childhood. Holding a hand to her mouth to soften the chuckle that rose to her lips, she imagined the princess in
The Frog King
would have had little difficulty befriending such a well-formed amphibian. She cautiously moved forward, risking discovery, to see his direction.

“His Grace, the ninth Duke of Bedford, and Mr. Percival Hunt,” the footman announced.

Her mother’s face lit with an internal glow. Rising from a curtsy, she stepped forward to receive her special guest. She looked so carefree and happy. When was the last time her mother had looked so joyful?

Doubt surrounding the appropriateness of the switch began to gnaw at Fran’s nerves. Her mother beamed approval of the handsome young man. Anticipating her mother’s disappointment when she discovered the trick, Fran felt a moment of guilt. Perhaps this plan was not the clever solution she had envisioned.

She quickly descended a few steps. Her mother wouldn’t approve of the costume switch, but she’d never forgive the planned deception with Mary. However, Fran had barely touched the fifth step when she realized. Mary had reached the bottom of the stairs. The deception was in play. Fran would be too late to stop it.

“Your Grace,” her mother, beautifully attired as a Venetian princess, extended a hand toward the staircase. “Allow me to introduce my daughter, Miss Francesca—”

Her mother stopped in mid-introduction and stared hard at Mary. No one else would probably have noted the difference, but Fran saw the joy drain from her mother’s eyes. A cold, passionless steel returned in its stead.

Mary’s peacock feathers flitted in constant motion as she bent in a surprisingly graceful curtsy with arm extended. Fran herself could not have executed it better. “Miss Francesca Winthrop, Your Grace,” she said, her voice strong and clear.

“Well done, Mary!” Fran whispered before retreating back to the landing. Too involved with the scene below to leave, but too afraid of her mother’s reaction to remain in sight, she slipped back behind the fern.

“Miss Winthrop,” the Duke smiled and accepted Mary’s hand, bestowing a kiss on her fingertips. Her mother tilted her Venetian headdress, searching the staircase without a change in expression, not once correcting the Duke’s false assumption.

Fran’s heart sank. This was not going according to plan! She had counted on her mother creating the sort of stir that would have kept the old society matrons chattering for weeks—the sort of stir that would cause the Duke to hesitate and not agree to the negotiated engagement. If Fran had more time, she knew she could convince the Duke she’d make an unsuitable wife. Duchesses don’t go to extraordinary lengths to avoid strangers. They certainly don’t spend their time translating myths and legends from ancient and foreign texts. And they don’t have hurtful names given to them by newspapers who don’t understand her fear of crowded places.

Yet her mother nodded her approval as the Duke placed Mary’s dyed-blue glove on top of his military sleeve and led her toward the gold ballroom. Fran had to admit, they did make an attractive couple. Mary’s smile broadcast her delight as they made their way to the crowded ballroom.

She glanced back toward her mother, who flagged down a footman. Alva whispered something in his ear. The man glanced up the staircase. Afraid she’d been spotted, Fran dashed down a hallway toward the servant’s stairs. Her hasty flight carried her down to the butler’s pantry and then out to the gardens through the delivery courtyard. It was time for her secondary plan, the one she was loathe to take, but under the circumstances, had no choice.

 

 

SWEAT STUNG HIS EYES AND TRICKLED DOWN WILLIAM’S temple within the closed confines of his papier-mâché prison. Although the open bottom of the frog head mask extended a good foot beyond his chin, the breeze stirring the ostrich feather of the lady before him never penetrated to soothe his heated cheeks. Even a glass of cool champagne, awkwardly manipulated under the bottom of the mask, couldn’t reduce his discomfort.

“Are you quite all right in there?” asked a lady dressed entirely in white feathers who purported to be a swan.

William nodded, finding that method of communication less painful than speaking. His vision, slightly obscured by a sheer mesh cloth covering the huge frog eyes, allowed him to observe Percy’s progress with the lady peacock from a distance. The girl possessed no semblance of grace or elegance and her irritating feathers flitted and fretted as much as those bloody bees who kept thinking his bulbous green head was some kind of exotic flower.

Still Percy seemed captivated by the chit, which offered some vague hope that she might eventually prove somewhat suitable as a duchess. He doubted she would measure up to his aunt’s rigid standards for the title. Even with her substantial dowry, she was nevertheless American.

He glanced about the room as much as the mask afforded with a bit of awe. The things he could do with the money spent on this room alone. The gold and the glitter, the artistry on the ceilings and in the statues tucked into the corners of the room, and all of it new. According to Percival, this was not the result of centuries of inheritance, one generation building upon the foundations laid by another. This was all newly purchased and placed, and this “cottage” only one of the family’s many newly purchased manors. Why, the money spent on this residence alone would save Deerfeld Abbey and all of its tenants.