A Duchess to Remember (6 page)

“No such luck,” said Cecily, trying to keep the groan from her voice. “My betrothed and his mama are due to arrive at any moment for tea.”

The look of undisguised dismay that passed over Rosamund’s features made Cecily chuckle. “My thoughts
exactly
. But you are here now and you cannot escape.”

Rosamund glanced at the clock. “I’m sure there’s still time if I use the servants’ entrance.”

“No, no. How can you desert me in my hour of need? Stay, dearest Rosamund. Please?” Cecily took her arm in both hands and tugged her toward the door at the end of the gallery.

“But she is so horrid! And
he’s
so…” Rosamund broke off with a slight flush. As if Cecily didn’t know very well her opinion of the Duke of Norland.

“Diffident?” she said. “Persuadable? Teeth-achingly dull?”

“Well … yes!” said Rosamund in an uncharacteristic burst of candor. “He is like, oh, like a lump of clay. You could mold him into any shape you chose.”

Cecily nodded. “You are right. It’s what makes him such a perfect husband for me.”

“I know you believe that,” said Rosamund, regarding her steadily. “But, darling, he is not a man who could make you happy; of that I am convinced. He’s years and years too old for you, for one thing. Won’t you reconsider?”

“He is barely past thirty!” Cecily threw up her hands. “You all act as if I’m marrying Methuselah.”

“Yes, it must be the bald spot and that slight paunch that make him seem older,” said Rosamund with gentle sarcasm. “Don’t do it, my dear.”

“I never suspected you were so frivolous, Rosamund.” Cecily refrained from pointing out the man Rosamund loved was scarcely an oil painting. However, there was a hard, masculine virility to Griffin, Earl of Tregarth, that was wholly lacking in the Duke of Norland.

Instead, Cecily said, “Really, my dear. What happened to duty and honor above all? Do I need to give you the Speech?”

Rosamund’s brow furrowed. “I don’t mean to say it would be the honorable thing to repudiate the arrangement, not after all this time. But … but it’s such a crime that you should be obliged to endure…” Biting her lip, Rosamund glanced around to make sure no one was in earshot. Lowering her voice, she said, “I simply cannot
imagine
how you would suffer his attentions.”

“Oh, stuff and nonsense,” said Cecily. “You make too much of all that. Besides, I shan’t be obliged to endure anything at all. Norland will remain in the country and busy himself with his study of infectious diseases or whatever he does, and I shall make my home in Town. We are to live entirely separately. I’ve made that clear. The arrangement suits us both perfectly.”

She hadn’t told her cousin her intentions before, or not in so many words. Rosamund widened her eyes. “But what about … intimate matters? Surely every husband wants his wife in his bed.”

“Oh, no,” said Cecily. “He won’t trouble me on that score. With two sons from his previous marriage, he doesn’t need an heir. And Norland has had a mistress for years and years. He won’t give her up. Why should he?”

After a dubious silence, Rosamund said, “I suppose I am lucky that my duty coincided with my inclination. I never had to make the choice.”

“Well, and so does mine,” said Cecily. She patted Rosamund’s hand and drew it through her arm as they walked the length of the gallery. “Norland might be dull, but he’ll make a most excellent husband. Particularly for my purposes.”

Rosamund pulled up short. “You are willfully misunderstanding me, Cecily,” she said quietly. “I want—I wish you to fall in love.”

Cecily refrained from rolling her eyes. “That is sweet of you and I perfectly understand that being so blissful yourself, you feel the need to … to
evangelize
love matches. Jane is exactly the same and I don’t blame her, either. But I’m not like the two of you, Rosamund. I don’t possess an ounce of sentiment—you know I don’t. I shall rub along very well with the duke.”

More than anything, she wanted to live her own life with as much freedom as it was possible to have as a member of the so-called inferior sex.

Long ago, she’d decided that the future her parents had mapped out for her would suit her very well. A duchess might do as she pleased to a large extent and wield a great deal of influence if she chose. And Cecily, Duchess of Norland, would choose to wield that influence to try to better the lot of females who were not so fortunate as she.

Of course, certain sins were unforgivable, even in duchesses. But as most of these involved indiscretions committed by brainless, besotted females like Lavinia over worthless libertines, she knew herself to be safe on
that
score.

“Loving someone does not make you weaker, darling,” said Rosamund gently.

Cecily flinched. She couldn’t help it. Oh, but she detested the pity she saw in Rosamund’s heavenly blue eyes. For a bare instant, she felt the urge to hit back at her cousin, to inflict a commensurate amount of pain.

But she no longer gave in to such childish impulses. Rosamund did not mean to wound her. And the last thing Cecily would ever do was deliberately hurt her dearest cousin.

That hadn’t always been the case. After losing Jonathon, Cecily had fought hard enough against forming an attachment to her Westruther cousins. She’d been prickly and wayward and difficult.

But even when Cecily was at her worst, Rosamund, Jane, and the boys had refused to leave her alone in her grief. They’d teased her, tormented her as if she were one of them, shown rare, precious moments of kindness. A group of privileged children who’d stood together because there was no one else in the world to show them love or tenderness.

They were hers and she was theirs. They were the only people in the world she loved. The bond they shared was the only thing in the world she trusted.

That, and the Duke of Montford.

Dredging up her old nonchalance, Cecily shrugged. “If I ever fall in love, it will not be with a man who has ultimate power over me, body and soul. I am simply not made that way, Rosamund. I couldn’t endure it.”

“Do you know, Tibby said something similar to me the day I married Griffin.” Rosamund hesitated. “It is true that many gentlemen exact blind obedience from their wives. But do you think Griffin exercises such tyranny over me? Or that Constantine does over Jane?”

Privately, Cecily thought her cousins’ respective marriages were a kind of mutual enslavement, but she knew better than to express that idea to Rosamund.

Thankfully, before she could frame a tactful reply, their discussion was interrupted by the butler announcing Cecily’s guests.

Cecily shot Rosamund a triumphant glance. “Will you show them to the drawing room, Wilson? Thank you. Lady Tregarth and I will be down directly.”

“Wretch!” said Rosamund with feeling. “Mark my words: When you least expect it, I shall make you pay.”

*   *   *

Ordinarily, Cecily looked forward to her betrothed’s weekly call without interest or enthusiasm. Today was different. She was determined to glean what she could from Norland about the Promethean Club. Better yet, she would persuade him to aid her in a new scheme.

The notion had leaped into her brain in the early hours of the morning when, once again, she hadn’t slept for stewing over her encounter with Ashburn.

“Your Grace. How delightful,” said Cecily, moving forward. “How do you do?”

Norland was a tall, barrel-chested man, fair of coloring and complexion. A high forehead and a rapidly receding hairline emphasized the ovate shape of his head. All the more room for his gigantic brain, she supposed. Rosamund was correct: He did have a slight paunch, but then Cecily was no waif herself. Who was she to take exception to a little avoirdupois in her spouse?

“Lady Cecily.” Norland bowed with a jerky dip from the doorway. He saluted Rosamund and Tibby in the same fashion.

That had never bothered her before, but now it occurred to Cecily that she and Norland had fallen into a rather dismally formal mode of greeting each other. Not that she
wished
him to kiss her hand. Or any other part of her, for that matter.

The memory of another man’s kiss streaked across her senses like forked lightning, shocking her pulse into a frantic race.

Oh, this would never do! Exasperated at Ashburn’s continual intrusion on her musings, she shoved all thought of him aside.

Norland’s touch did nothing to raise her temperature or make her heart beat faster. That was exactly how it should be.

He smiled but the expression in his gray eyes was distant, as if he regarded something beyond her that he found troubling. She turned, half-expecting his attention to be riveted to Rosamund. Norland was a man, after all.

But no, it was only Tibby whose movements had caught his eye as she took up the shirt she’d been mending for Andy and bowed her head over her work.

Cecily smiled. Norland looked forward to his intellectual discussions with Cecily’s former governess. Today, however, Tibby had positioned herself firmly in the background, perhaps in deference to the presence of the duchess. Her Grace was known for her stern views on paid companions knowing their places.

Then and there, Cecily resolved to make a point of including Tibby in the conversation at every opportunity.

“Won’t you sit down, Your Grace?” said Rosamund, indicating the sofa.

“Ah, no. At least, not yet. Er, Mama will be along directly. Must see to her, you know.”

They exchanged the usual meaningless pleasantries while they waited for the familiar stomp on the stairs that heralded Norland’s mama.

The Duchess of Norland entered the room, aided by two footmen, on whose arms she leaned heavily.

With a deep curtsy, Cecily said, “How do you do, Your Grace?” She was determined not to let her future mother-in-law provoke her this time. “We’re so happy you could call on us.”

The duchess was a heavyset, irascible lady, who was usually to be found reclining on some couch or other with a vinaigrette in one hand and hartshorn in the other. She was the terror of her family, particularly her eldest son, for despite her inertia, she ruled both them and the ducal estate with an iron fist.

Cecily had little patience with the duchess and her megrims, for Norland assured her that his mother’s health was, in fact, excellent. This astonished Cecily. Why would anyone lie about all day if they weren’t forced by illness or infirmity to do so?

“Do sit down,” said Cecily, gesturing to a group of chairs by the window. “I’ll ring for tea.”

“Are you
mad,
gel?” said the dowager faintly. “If I sat so near to that drafty window, I’d catch my death. But I suppose that would suit you to a nicety, wouldn’t it? By the hearth, if you please,” she snapped, perversely shaking off her footmen as they tried to assist her. “Norland, build up a fire. I’m likely to freeze in this cavern.” She sniffed. “The place
reeks
of damp.”

Cecily might be prepared to ignore the aspersion cast on what was in truth an elegant and comfortable salon, but she detested the way her prospective mother-in-law ordered her son about as if he were a lackey.

Norland didn’t seem to mind, however, and dutifully settled on his knees on the hearthrug, wielding fire irons and bellows until he’d conjured a blaze.

The bald spot on his crown was clearly visible beneath straggling strands of sandy hair as he bent to his task. His scalp glowed pink; the rest of his face was similarly ruddy as he rose to dismiss his liveried footmen and guide his mother to a chair.

He was a good son, Cecily thought. It wasn’t as if he believed in his mother’s condition, yet he indulged her every whim.

Tactful as always, Rosamund said, “Are you not feeling quite the thing, Your Grace? The exertion of this visit has fatigued you, I daresay.”

The dowager duchess’s grim features softened slightly. She patted Rosamund’s hand. “You are a good, sweet child, Lady Tregarth.
How
I wish I had you for a daughter.”

In other words, she wished Rosamund and not Cecily was to wed her son.

Unable to stop herself, Cecily rolled her eyes at Norland. She ought not to have done that, for his eyes lowered and his cheeks reddened all over again. “Mama, please.”

Taking pity on him, Cecily indicated the sofa. “Won’t you sit down, Your Grace? I’ll ring for tea.”

The dowager duchess let out a bloodcurdling moan. “
Tea?
Are you trying to poison me, girl?”

Her brows snapping together, Cecily opened her mouth to respond, but Rosamund hastily intervened. “Would a tisane be more acceptable?” she suggested. “That might suit Your Grace’s constitution better.”

“Or perhaps a posset?” said Cecily sweetly. “A mustard bath? Some laudanum drops?” An entire bottle full of them, if she had her way.

The dowager closed her eyes as if the mere sound of Cecily’s voice pained her. “A tisane would be adequate. Thank
you,
Lady Tregarth.”

While her kindhearted cousin fussed over the dowager, Cecily seated herself next to Norland.

In a low, thrilling murmur, she said, “The duke has made a fascinating addition to his collection of rare fungi. Would you like to see it?”

She felt as if she were casting out improper lures to him instead of appealing to one of his many intellectual passions. Indeed, he reacted as most men would if she’d offered to show him her garters. The mere mention of a botanical discovery made him straighten, a spark of interest brightening his eye.

“Well, by Jove! I’d no notion Montford was a keen mycologist.”

Airily, she waved a hand. “Oh, His Grace is very fond of mushrooms.”
Sautéed with cream and a dash of brandy.
“The collection is in the conservatory. Would you like to see it?”

Norland huffed in disapproval. “The
conservatory,
you say? No, no, that will never do. Fungi should be kept out of the light. A cool, dark environment suits them best, you know.”

“Oh, but he’s not growing them,” said Cecily, mendacity oozing from her pores. “They’re, ah, mounted. In a case.”