The Wild Duchess/The Willful Duchess (The Duchess Club Book 1) (12 page)

“It can seem that way,” Caroline sighed. “Though in my experience, it means I was in the way of my own heart or at war with my own head. Your father’s charms were only a catalyst for me to figure out what I wanted and who I wished to be.” She looked over at Scarlett. “Why are you so quiet? Lately, I worry that I have missed something—some great injury or great change, dearest. Will you not tell me what has you so still and sad?”

“I feel a bit…lost. All the women around me, all have such incredible aspirations and they have all done so much. You have founded a college for women! All those lives changed for the better! Aunt Grace is a published author. Aunt Gayle is a physician in practice if not in name and Aunt Eleanor is—”

“Dearest!” Caroline gently cut her off. “Life is not a competition.”

“Mother, even Tara aspires to be a teacher and a scholar. I am…”

“Tell us.”

“If there is a great movement of women’s progress, I fear I am not made to be a warrior on the front lines.”

Starr and their mother smiled, but it was Caroline who answered. “Battles are waged on many fronts. Tell me, Lettie, tell me what kind of woman you wish to be.”

“It feels petty and small to say I have only ever dreamt of being in love, of making a good wife and creating a loving and lively household of my own one day. I only ever wanted to be…to find a husband who would love me as much as Father loves you.”

“That is not so small a dream, dearest.”

“No? It is a miniscule crusade next to yours.”

“I disagree. Each of us carves out the measure of our ambitions. For most of society, marriage and children are the
only
standards of success a woman can aspire toward.”

“But you don’t believe that. Neither of you do!”

Caroline sighed and covered her hands in a tender hold. “Scarlett, they are one standard. I don’t devalue those things. How could I? If I did—if I looked down on every woman who dedicates herself to her husband and to her family’s well-being and happiness—how could I ever hope that they would respect a woman’s choice to incorporate more into her life’s work?”

“You don’t think less of me? After all, Starr is so like you, Mother and I’m…”

“You are exactly as we would wish you to be! Isn’t she, Mother?” Starr asked quickly, anxious for her sister’s feelings.

“Tara’s correct, Lettie. You are kind and courageous, you have a keen sense of what is fair and if you possess a weakness for bonnets and silk ribbons then I’m envious.” Caroline steadied herself amidst the bedding. “If your Father didn’t intervene, I would default to a wardrobe of comfortable grey cotton to avoid ever worrying about what matches what.”

Scarlett and Starr shared a look of total understanding and didn’t offer a squeak in argument which only made their mother laugh.

“You see? It is so true that neither of you will bother to deny it!” Then the laughter fell away and once again, the mood became quiet and sweet. “Scarlett, marriage is not necessarily an easy choice. The wrong man…” She shuddered at the notion. “Be sure of yourself, dearest, before you give your heart away. Both of you. You are your Father’s daughters, too.”

“And Blackwells do not love in half measures,” the girls whispered together in chorus.

“No. No, they do not.”

“
I
t’s preposterous
!” his mother waved the letter about again as if daring the gods to rewrite what was written there and amend the situation. By now Ryder Maitland had memorized its contents. His Uncle Elgin, the Duke of Chesterton, had sent a letter so infused with the giddy glee of a man on the brink of a match that on first reading it his mother had forfeited the drama of sending for her smelling salts and simply fainted dead away.

Ryder kept his hands tightly clasped behind his back and said nothing.

For as long as he could remember, being heir to his uncle had been part of his understanding of his own identity—it had defined him to a great extent. Groomed for the title of duke since he was in short pants, any worry that Uncle Elgin, the confirmed bachelor, would alter the course of his life had long passed. When Ryder was twenty-one, his allowance had been increased to reflect his status and every credit line he had—every social invitation he received—every friendship he probably possessed—was linked to the promise of becoming the next Duke of Chesterton. It was no small thing to be a lord in his own right but it was hard to imagine the lesser status of being Lord Hayle of Cornwall against the greater prize he’d assumed was inevitably his to hold.

He closed his eyes as his mother’s endless rants continued.

Not a leg to stand on. God help us, it’s his right to do as he wishes and all I can do is keep a tight hold of my hat and play the humble penitent awaiting sentence—or absolution. How much pleasure have I stolen to trade on a title that wasn’t yet mine?

“Who is this girl? How dare she?” Maeve slammed the letter back down on the table with such force that the china rattled. “Your cousin’s last letter made it clear that there is nothing but danger and ruin to be had!”

Ryder turned back from the windows to face his mother. It had been a long morning.

“Elizabeth is prone to hysteria. I am not sure I trust her opinions nor should you be treating them as fact carved into sacred tablets, Mother.”

“Do not patronize me!” She stood indignantly. “This girl’s family is not on the registries of the peerage and I cannot ever remember hearing the name. She is a pretender and an over-reaching lamprey!”

“Mother, calm yourself.”

“Did you see the Times? You think it’s all the overworkings of my mind? All some fantasy I’ve concocted from malicious gossip and thin air?”

Ryder reluctantly picked the copy of the London Times back up and winced as the words leapt from the page.
The Blackwell Beauties. “The eldest has a certain Duke of C___ in tow and many have said that an announcement of Great Import cannot be far off for the young debutante.” Well, that is a bit harder to deny…

“You need to get to London.” His mother announced. “I’m ringing Polk to have your things packed and readied. You will leave today.” She was in motion before he had time to register what she intended.

“Mother, I am not a child to be ordered off!”

“You are my son and if you care one fig about your future you will race to London as if your coat is on fire.”

Ryder dropped the Times on the sofa and walked to the fireplace to subtly block her from the bell-pull to summon Polk. “I care very much about my future and no one is more familiar with the stakes than I am but what exactly do you want me to do? Bolt into his home and start shouting about how this girl is—what? I know nothing of her.”

“She is nineteen! He is past fifty! She is no one and a nobody who thinks to flirt and tease her way into becoming a duchess!” Maeve was screeching again, finally collapsing back into her chair from the effort, her chest heaving as she fought for air. “What else do you need to know?”

He retrieved Cousin Elizabeth’s letter from her overwrought hands with an even deeper sigh. Her handwriting was as flowery and overdone as usual but the paragraph about the Blackwell girl was uncharacteristically splotched with ink and far less dainty as his cousin’s emotions had gotten the better of her.

T
hings have
taken
an unexpected turn in London and your uncle, the duke, has parted ways with his senses! You should see him mooning after this heartless creature! She is an infamous blond beauty and impossibly gauche at nineteen. One can only guess that he has mistaken her awkward manners for innocence. I have heard that her father is in trade and her mother an American—some poor school-teacher who is so unpresentable that no one worth knowing has actually seen her in good society for nearly two years! I write you naturally not out of malicious intent or with any eye to your financial future—though I would wonder if she has not already managed to assess the tapestries and test the furniture! No, I write out of my Christian care for him as true family and a concerned relation only. People are laughing at the dear old soul and it breaks my heart to see him brought so low and so unaware of what is said behind his back.

T
here was more
but he couldn’t stomach it—something about how appropriate that she’d been named after the color that whores preferred. It was all so petty and sordid but even so, a thorn in his side.

Damn it!

He turned and pulled the embroidered cloth himself to summon the butler and give him the news.

“Thank God! Thank God you’ve seen reason at last!”

“I have seen that I will go to London to see what there is to be done but let me make myself clear. It is not my wish to deny my uncle a legitimate move toward happiness. He has every right to marry. Every right, Mother. He need not live his life at the convenience or at the bidding of others. If I am going to lose my place in the line of succession, so be it.”

“Ryder!” Her voice cracked in horror, the color draining from her face. “You cannot be so…unaffected!”

“I am not unaffected. Farewell, Mother. I will write when I am safely there.”

He walked out, unwilling to betray the storm of his own thoughts to a woman who lived each day in a storm of her own making, if not over china patterns and a wish for more lace than over every bit of gossip she could milk from a world of agony created merely for her amusement.

Because he wasn’t unaffected—or half as calm as he’d tried to portray.

He loved his Uncle Elgin. And between the newspaper and his cousin’s agitated writing, it wasn’t hard to conclude that some title-hunting creature had inserted herself into the Duke of Chesterton’s path and was not to be shaken loose. If the gossips were having a delightful time of it at his uncle’s expense then Ryder was not content to allow a disaster to unfold beyond his reach.

He’d meant what he’d said. If he was going to lose his place in the line of succession, so be it. But it would not be without ensuring that everything was above board and that whoever this girl was, she wasn’t making off with the family silver after every call.

S
carlett alighted
from the carriage with her dear friend, Ivy Hastings, and then linked arms as they made their way up the steps into Madame Beecher’s dress shop. It was hard to say that her wardrobe lacked for anything but as her exposure in good company multiplied, Father had made it clear that a few additional gowns would not be wasted. He hadn’t needed to repeat the generous offer.

Starr on the other hand had politely declined to endure the exercise of shopping and worse, the torment of the fitting room. Even now, Scarlett marveled that they could be so different in temperament and then in the next breath, read each other’s thoughts.

For Ivy, it was a grand treat to be out with her friend and in on the fun.

“Will you select something for yourself, Ivy?”

“Oh, no! Though if something catches my eye, I may change my mind. No doubt when my time comes, I will have to wade into the waters of fashion for a new wardrobe of my own but…there is no rush.”

It was heady liberation to be out without a chaperone on their heels but a dressmaker was considered a woman’s realm and safe enough for the occasion, especially since they had a coachman and footman outside the door if some strange danger arose.

“I feel so grown up,” Ivy whispered to Scarlett as they crossed the threshold.

“That’s because you are,” Scarlett whispered back then turned her attention to Madame Beecher who was approaching with the enthusiasm and energy of a sirocco. “Madame Beecher, I have come again and brought my dear friend, Miss Ivy Hastings. I wished to introduce her to the finest and kindest dressmaker in all of London and let her see for herself what to expect when she makes her debut.”

“Miss Blackwell! And Miss Hastings! I am humbled! Truly humbled that you would grace my establishment!” Madame Beecher swept them into the back room where a settee was arranged to allow them to make their selections in comfort while the shop girls wheeled and hovered about them with fabrics and fashion plates. “I have read every drip and drop of the Blackwell Beauties and do not mind telling you that business has been very good thanks to your patronage as word has spread.”

“Word has spread?” Scarlett asked carefully.

“If a girl wants to get a duke, then Madame Beecher’s is the key!” She clapped her hands merrily. “Once your engagement is announced, I may just have to put that slogan on a placard for my windows!”

“Oh….please….don’t, Madame Beecher,” Scarlett said softly, certain that all the air in the shop had disappeared. “It would be…terribly premature and…”

Ivy squared her shoulders, her back stiffening and without losing a beat, channeled her mother who was the queen of commanding etiquette. “Miss Blackwell is not to be fodder for a slogan, Madame Beecher. I am horrified to think that such a thing would ever be deemed acceptable and if His Grace were to catch wind of it—I would think it would
not
be an asset to your lovely shop to earn his distaste at the lack of discretion such an action would demonstrate.”

Scarlett stared at her friend in happy surprise and then immediately tried to sober her expression to support Ivy’s theatrical efforts. “Discretion is so important in these matters.”

“Oh! Oh, yes, of course! I was—jesting! Discretion is ingrained in our every practice here and the privacy and protection of our clientele must take precedence over all things. Oh, yes! Without question!”

“That is good to hear, Madame Beecher. Thank you so much for your assurances.” Ivy smoothed out her skirts.

“What can I do for you today, Miss Blackwell?”

“I would like to add two day dresses, a dinner dress and one ball gown to my trousseau.”

“Nothing for the afternoon?” Madame Beecher asked.

“What do you think, Ivy?”

Ivy made a show of looking pensive. “I love your afternoon dresses but another would be very practical and something exclusively for making calls. First impressions are so important but to be seen calling a second time without a fresh approach…one begins to wonder if it demonstrates a lack of effort, would you not agree?”

Scarlett smiled.
Oh, Ivy Hastings! I am going to take you shopping each and every time!

“Oh, yes. I will have to agree.” She looked to Madame Beecher. “I trust you to help me to hold my own.”

“You will do more than that, Miss Blackwell,” Madame Beecher replied merrily. “You will shine so brightly that every other young woman will pale in your presence!” She bustled off without waiting for a response, several of the girls launching into a frenzy of activity at the quiet bidding of their mistress. Fabrics were pulled and fashion plates laid out for inspection as the complex task of selections and decisions began.

Time flew as they put their heads close together to admire the details and infinite possibilities of ribbon, pleating and trains. Ivy laughed along with her as they debated the philosophical ramifications of marquise sleeves and the universal appeal of velvet. Ivy’s eye for colors was invaluable as the afternoon unfolded and before it was over, Scarlett was sure that they’d created at least one or two masterpieces in the lot.

Tea was brought but ultimately, the task was completed. Madame Beecher returned with her appointment book to make arrangements for fittings and Scarlett took notes. They stood to make their farewells just as the bell above the shop’s door jangled again and a formidable woman came into the door with a younger pale version of herself in tow.

Lady Durham. Oh, God. Let today be the day she tries to be kind instead of—

“Ah, what is this? One of the Blackwell Beauties! But which is it I wonder! So inconsiderate of you to make every encounter a dreaded puzzle, Miss Blackwell.”

Very well. Not today.

“I am Scarlett Blackwell, your ladyship. This is my friend, Miss Ivy Hastings.”

Lady Durham barely bothered to glance at Ivy.

“I am out to do a scant bit of shopping for my daughter, Charlotte. But what a strange twist of fate to meet you out and about, Miss Scarlett.”

Scarlett and Ivy dutifully nodded at the introduction. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Charlotte.”

Charlotte said nothing, her smile so thin and fleeting that it was painful to behold. If Miss Charlotte Durham appeared to be out of practice at simple expressions of happiness and that was the saddest notion of all.