An Ideal Duchess (33 page)

             
Amanda moved her hands when Maggie came to unfastened her walking skirt and shirtwaist. “Do remind me to have one installed in Bledington for you all.”

             
“I don’t know, Your Grace, Mr. Fowler doesn’t even like the electricity in the servants’ hall. He despises the new bell system.”

             
Amanda stepped from the skirt and then untied the ribbons on her chemise. This was too high necked for an evening gown, and Maggie promptly brought her one suitable for the Paquin.

             
“Well, I’m sure the other servants will appreciate a bathroom,” Amanda said as she pulled the chemise over her head and tied the ribbons. “We cannot fall behind the standards of other, more modern country houses.”

             
All of this talk of improvements reminded Amanda of how far removed she was even from the use of her substantial dowry. She had forced the thought of the money from her mind, of the insinuations why she and Malvern were to marry, and the result was that she had been doubly pushed out of the workings of the estate.

             
She had wallowed in self-pity for much too long, content with allowing life at Bledington to eddy around her so long as she could do a little riding, play with her sons in the nursery, and do her best to avoid another row with Bron or his mother. Amanda adjusted the beaded tassels dripping from the bodice and over her shoulders, musing that though she enjoyed dressing up and entertaining, it was a rather hollow existence.

             
She opened her jewelry box and set the glittering Bledington tiara on her head, since it was de rigueur and she knew her attire would be closely scrutinized, but there was something almost indecent about such magnificence. Maggie on the other hand it seemed, was quite impressed by the tiara Malvern had collected from the bank vault for her use, and she could only smile.

             
“I’d rather you didn’t wait up for me, Maggie,” She reached for her bottle of Guerlain and dabbed a few drops on her throat and wrists before and donning her white gloves. “You should get your rest for the night.”

             
“But Your Grace—”

             
“No buts, Maggie,” Amanda scolded gently.              

             
“Yes Your Grace,” Her lady’s maid sighed deeply, but bobbed her curtsey.

             
Amanda gave herself one last adjustment, and then stepped from the room to meet the other guests for dinner. She was superbly grateful for Sylvia’s shrewd advice, for when she reached the ground floor, Lady Rawson’s scrutiny was so sharp she felt she would be shred into dozens of tiny, flesh-toned pieces.

             
“My dear Duchess,” Lady Rawson grabbed her hand and forced her to pivot. “Is this Paquin? She always manages to mask the most disfiguring blemishes of the figure.”

             
Before Amanda could reply to this cutting remark, Lady Rawson was off in a wave of smoke to terrorize another lady guest who dared to outshine her in attire.  She could only grimace in dismay, and turned to find a more congenial acquaintance. Cutty was directly behind her, and she gave him a fond smile as she approached.

             
“Hello Cutty,” She said. “I’m surprised to see you pried away from the bridge table.

             
“Demmed trumps,” Cutty tugged the ends of his drooping mustache and cleared his throat. “But the food is good here, excellent chef, from Paris if I’m not mistaken.”

             
“I believe Lady Rawson did mention this,”
About ten or twenty times…

             
“Right-ho. Glad to see you here too; do good for a gel like you to get out, meet people. Malvern don’t take you out much.”

             
“I enjoy Bledington,” Amanda said defensively. “We entertain there quite often.”

             
“Ursula,” Cutty raised a bristly eyebrow, his normally vague eyes sparkling with perceptiveness.

             
“Yes, Ursula entertains…but I have met a number of marvelous people—George Curzon, the dowager Duchess of Roxborough, the Provost of Oxford.”

             
“Young gel like you…bet you were the belle of your set in New York.”

             
“Not quite!” Amanda laughed at the thought. “But I appreciate the compliment. You aren’t as muttonheaded as you like people to think, Cutty.”

             
He blushed, tugging his mustache and clearing his throat again, but she could tell he was pleased. He looked over her head, and she turned to find Mr. Goddard making his way through the sprinkling of guests in the Great Hall. Mr. Goddard’s eyes met hers, and she squirmed uncomfortably beneath the broad smile he gave her before reaching her side.

             
“Your Grace,” He lifted her hand, which she did not offer, to his mouth in the Continental fashion.

             
“Mr. Goddard,” She said curtly, hoping her disinterest was apparent.

             
Either Julian Goddard was obtuse, or he preferred to ignore the signals she sent him, for he did not let go of her hand or leave her side.

             
“Might I offer a compliment on your attire? You look quite beautiful,”

             
“Thank you,” She pulled her hand from his grasp and gave him her back.

             
She spied Sylvia making a grand entrance down the staircase in a diaphanous sea green chiffon frock, and was rather relieved when she reached them to take her Mr. Goddard in hand.

             
“Is this a private tête-a-tête, or may I cut in to form a charming foursome?” Sylvia asked lightly.

             
“We were merely discussing Lady Rawson’s Parisian chef,” Amanda replied just as lightly. She recognized Sylvia was in one her dangerous moods, and the slightest movement—or word—could ignite her mostly harmless but volatile temper.

             
“La Rawson always keeps an excellent table, even when she cannot maintain her standards in other places, don’t you think, Julian?” Sylvia placed a hand on Mr. Goddard’s arm.             

             
“Trust you to insult your hostess even as you love to visit to eat her food,” Mr. Goddard said laughingly. “You don’t see the Duchess making such remarks.”

             
Sylvia answering laugh was sharp and deadly. “Are you insinuating, Mr. Goddard, that
Her Grace
has better manners than I?”

             
“He cannot in good faith compare the two of us, Sylvia,” Amanda said quickly. “He knows you quite well, and me not at all.”

             
“Quite so,” Sylvia laughed, but Amanda caught her mutter through clenched teeth:
And it shall remain that way.

             
Amanda nearly wept with relief when Lady Rawson’s butler sounded the dinner gong, and she rushed to join her host, Sir Ned, since she was the highest ranking woman in Rawson Manor. Sylvia was going to eviscerate her when they next met in private—it would be much worse than any remark of Lady Rawson’s, and she balled her fist in frustration before resting it normally on Sir Ned’s arm. She had done nothing to encourage Julian Goddard, and it seemed he did not even need encouragement to pursue her, which was the most angering part of the situation.

             
The false proximity forced by a country house party made a cut direct difficult, and it was not as though she could whack him over the head with a poker. Her only hope lay in Sylvia sinking her claws into Mr. Goddard so tightly, he could not move even if he chose to do so.

             
She also hoped Sylvia would not sink those claws into her!

              Maggie’s status of lady’s maid in Rawson Manor palled quickly. For one thing, the staff was not very nice or accommodating, and the ladies’ maids and valets belonging to the other guests upstairs spent more time jealously guarding their position than chatting. Matters were exacerbated by the fact that as a duchess’s lady’s maid, she ranked higher than everyone else, and because of her youth, this was isolating and alienating.

             
Fowler may bear a grudge against her, and some of the housemaids may consider her a jumped-up lady’s maid, but she knew them and Bledington Park like the back of her hand. Her only duty at Rawson Manor, in between running up and down the servants’ staircase to assist Her Grace in her interminable changes of clothing (at least six each day!), was to keep her mouth shut about Her Grace when the ladies’ maids and valets got a bit gossipy.

             
Her ears and her cheeks burned from the tales they could tell about their mistresses and masters, and of the houses they came from, and she was half-certain they were pulling her leg. Lords and Ladies, Sir This and Mrs. That jumping into bed with one another, and whatnot. Pure blarney, as Moira, the nursemaid at Bledington, would say. She set aside the copy of the
Daily Mirror
, which she was reading in the servants’ hall while awaiting Her Grace’s summons. Then she remembered that Her Grace had told her not to wait up. Maggie looked at the clock ticking beside the brass service bells: two o’clock. A few of the other ladies’ maids and valets dozed lightly at the table, waiting for their own mistresses and masters’ summonses, which Maggie supposed wouldn’t come until very late seeing how some of them upstairs could play bridge until the early morning.

             
She rose from her chair as quietly as possible, so as not to rouse them. Rawson’s regular staff had long since gone to bed, and the corridor leading to the servants’ staircase was cold and dark; even the staircase itself was gloomy. The housekeeper had showed her the way to the wing where Her Grace was placed and then impressed firmly upon her the need to stay away from the Bachelors’ Quarters. She saw a shadow move when she stepped from behind the green baize door, but dismissed it as a trick of the light. She walked softly down the hall to Her Grace’s room, and was about to walk in when she saw another shadow move.

             
She drew into the shallow alcove of the doorframe and was shocked, completely shocked, to see a gentleman in striped nightclothes and bare feet creep towards the first door. He paused, his hand on the doorknob, his face so close to the name plates his nose nearly touched the door, and then cleared his throat, straightened his shoulders, and went inside.

             
Maggie’s mouth dropped open in dismay: so it
was
true! She didn’t know whether to run back to the safety (and morality) of the servants’ hall or stay to see if any other gentlemen would do the same. She was ultimately rooted to the spot when another door down the way opened, and a
lady
stepped out of the bedroom, her hair loosened down her shoulders. This lady walked confidently towards another bedroom door and entered through it, closing the door softly behind her.

             
Maggie hastily opened the door to Her Grace’s room and slammed the door shut behind her. Thankfully, Her Grace was not inside…though a scandalous thought that perhaps Her Grace had already made a nocturnal visit crossed through her mind. She shook her head. Her Grace was kind and true despite her troubles with His Grace, and she moved about the room, clearing away the open cosmetic boxes, pushing Her Grace’s shoes into a neat row beside the bed, and putting some of the discarded clothes back into her trunk. She laid Her Grace’s nightrail and dressing gown on the bed and then sat on the chair beside the ornate wardrobe to doze a little herself.

             
She jerked awake when the door creaked open. It was Her Grace, who looked amused but weary as she removed her tiara from her hair and tucked it inside her jewelry box. She must have made a sound, for Her Grace spun around, blue eyes wide with anger that quickly faded.

             
“Maggie!” Her Grace said exasperatedly. “I thought I told you not to wait up for me.”

             
“It is my duty to dress you, Your Grace,” Maggie replied sternly. “How would it look to the other servants if you kept dismissing my assistance? They might get it into their heads that you are displeased with me and would search for another lady’s maid.”

             
“Duty.” Her Grace’s expression flattened. “But you are right as always Maggie. Come help me from this wretched gown, please.”

             
Maggie rose eagerly from the chair and helped Her Grace from her garments, cradling them carefully in her arms as she replaced them, piece by piece, in their respective compartments in the wardrobe trunk. She closed the trunk just as Her Grace was climbing into bed, having pulled on the nightrail in the meantime. Her Grace pulled the layers of blankets over her legs and began to unpin her hair.

             
“Hand me one of my brushes before you go to bed, Maggie,”

             
Maggie moved to the dressing table, where she had arranged Her Grace’s set of silver-backed brushes in a neat row earlier that morning. Her fingers hovered over them before she chose the largest brush, with the soft bristles. She had just lifted the brush from the dressing table when the doorknob twisted and the door was thrust open. Maggie stumbled back as a gentleman entered the bedroom, his eyes roving until they landed on Her Grace.