How to Deceive a Duke (4 page)

Chapter 5

“A
h, my dear mademoiselle, the pink silk is
parfait
for your coloring! It makes you glow, and that will make your bridegroom a very happy man!

The duchess’s modiste was very small and very French. She flew around the shop on tiptoes, gathering samples, snapping her fingers at her assistants like a magical fairy, and like magic, when she draped the length of pale pink silk over Meg’s shoulder, Meg was instantly transformed from plain to princess. Meg stared at her reflection in awe. The color brought out the golden glow of her skin, the rich red of her hair. It made her look dramatic, and, she almost dared to think it, beautiful.

“Who is the lucky gentleman?” the modiste asked, cocking her head and examining Meg in the mirror as she tucked and pinned the silk.

“The Duke of Temberlay,” Meg replied without thinking. Interest lit like a flame in the Frenchwoman’s eyes.

Flora’s face appeared over Meg’s other shoulder in the glass. “Would the color suit her as well if she were blond?”

The modiste pursed her lips. “My lady is thinking of herself, perhaps. I would suggest a deeper shade of pink for you.”

“Then make up the gown in the deeper shade,” Flora commanded.

The modiste squinted. “But the young lady is
magnifique
in the paler shade. To change the color would be a mistake.”

A bolder pink would pick up the color in Rose’s cheeks, the blue of her eyes, the sweetness of her lips. Meg pursed her own lips. If her sister had wanted to choose, she should not have run away.

“Where is Lady Rose this morning?” asked a voice behind them. Meg turned to find the Duchess of Temberlay standing behind her.

Flora gasped and laid a hand on her heart. The duchess ignored the reaction. She perched on a chair and regarded Meg.

Meg resisted the urge to raise her hands over her chest. She was clad only in a slip of muslin, held together with pins and marked with her measurements. She felt a blush rise over every exposed inch of her under the old lady’s scrutiny.

“Rose has a dreadful cold,” Meg managed the lie without flinching. “Since we are the same size, and there is so little time to get the wedding gown made, she asked me to attend this fitting for her.”

The duchess’s lips pouched. “She is still unwilling, then.”

“Not at all, Your Grace,” Flora gushed. “Rose is simply delighted to be marrying the duke now she’s had time to recover from the honor of your—his—proposal. Simply, utterly, completely—” Meg winced. Flora’s false smile was entirely too bright.

“So you’ve said, Countess.” The duchess turned her attention back to the modiste.

“Try green on her, Mathilde.” Three assistants rushed forward with a dozen bolts of green velvet, silk, and damask. “That one.” The duchess selected a mossy velvet. “Make a riding habit, something dramatic. Line it with russet, or scarlet. I’ll trust your suggestions on day gowns, but I want something splendid to go with the sapphires.”

Meg found herself surrounded by assistants, and swathed in luxurious cloth.

“Sapphires?” Flora asked.

“The famous Temberlay sapphires,” the duchess informed her. “The new duchess will wear them at the first ball she attends with Nicholas after the wedding.”

Mathilde draped Meg in ice blue satin. “I have seen the sapphires. They are
magnifique
!” she whispered, kissing her fingers and rolling her eyes dramatically.

“Such jewels will overwhelm poor Rose!” Flora murmured. “She is more suited to pearls and diamonds.”

“The yellow diamonds will bring out the hazel of her eyes,” the duchess mused.

“Rose’s eyes are blue, Your Grace,” Flora warbled. “Have you forgotten?”

“I have forgotten nothing, Countess.” She didn’t take her eyes off Meg for an instant. Meg grew indignant under the bold stare.

“Have you come for gowns of your own, Your Grace?” she asked, standing tall in the flood of shimmering blue satin. The color didn’t overwhelm
her.
It made her hair glow like embers, and turned her skin to rich cream.

“I have plenty of gowns. No one looks to see what I am wearing anymore. They’ll be watching the new Duchess of Temberlay. I expect her to make a grand impression.”

She slowly circled Meg, examining her from every angle. “Tell me, is your sister a brave woman, Lady Marguerite?”

Meg shrugged, and had to catch the slippery fabric as it slid off her shoulder. “I don’t see why—”

“Don’t shrug,” the duchess admonished. “It is an unbecoming mannerism.”

Meg’s chin came up at the correction. “Why would Rose need to be brave? She is getting married, not going into battle.”

The duchess’s cold obsidian eyes bored into Meg’s in the mirror. “She is marrying the most notorious rake in London. She might indeed find it a battle. She must appear on his arm in public and remain graceful and serene, no matter what scandals Nicholas throws in her face. Is she brave enough to do that?”

Meg lowered her gaze before the duchess could read the answer in her eyes. Rose had run away to avoid that very thing. Would pretty clothes and sapphires be enough to comfort Rose when her husband went to another woman—or a score of other women? Meg met the duchess’s eyes in the mirror, about to plead Rose’s innocence, but the smirk on her face goaded Meg.

“Of course she’s brave. Rose will make a magnificent duchess.”

The duchess let her gaze travel over Meg again. “And you, Marguerite Lynton, are you brave?”

“Surely my character is not at issue, Your Grace.”

The duchess leaned closer, her dark eyes boring into Meg’s. “I read the scandal sheets too. They say he is a powerful lover,” she whispered. “But not an easy one. He expects as good as he gives in bed.”

Meg’s eyes widened. She should be scandalized by the duchess’s boldness, but she clutched the blue satin against her breast and waited to hear more. The old lady stepped back and laughed. “What an interesting reaction from such a chaste young lady—you’re not shocked. You’re curious.”

“Marguerite!” Flora gasped. Meg dropped her gaze at once, and mortification heated the satin. She was shocked now. What an odd comment from Temberlay’s own grandmother—it was as if she were speaking of a stranger rather than a beloved grandson. She glanced at the old lady. The look in her eyes was cold, calculating. She gazed at Meg as one might examine a broodmare, contemplating the creature’s lines and her fitness as a match for the stallion. Meg’s breath caught in her throat.

The duchess turned away and pointed to a bolt of cloth. “That sheer silk, Mathilde. Make something wicked for the wedding night.”

“Is there something . . . thicker, perhaps?” Flora asked. “Rose takes cold easily.”

“The very reason she is not here today, I believe,” the duchess replied. “Make a pelisse in the blue-gray velvet, and a walking gown in that pewter brocade,” she continued directing the modiste, who flew around the shop collecting fabrics at the duchess’s nod. Soon Meg stood knee-deep in a rising tide of cloth.

“Wait—” Flora warbled, but the modiste grinned.

“Have no fear, Countess. Her Grace has exquisite taste. This young lady will make a lovely bride!”

Meg tried to step over the pile. “But I’m not—”

The duchess dropped her walking stick with a clatter. An assistant and Flora both bent to retrieve it, knocking their heads together with a cry of pain. Another shop assistant hurried forward to steady a pile of pattern books that threatened to topple as Flora staggered back.

Unperturbed by the chaos, the duchess picked up the stick herself.

“Yes, I think you must make up the wedding gown in the pale pink silk, Mathilde, not the darker shade. Good day, Marguerite. I have no doubt I will see you at the wedding.”

She swept out of the shop without a backward glance, and Meg’s stomach fluttered.

Poor, poor Rose.

Chapter 6

L
ord Bryant arrived home the night before the wedding, rumpled, exhausted, and unshaven from days of hard travel.

He came alone.

Meg read the defeat in his eyes as he entered the drawing room. A grim shake of his head sent Flora to the floor in a flood of noisy tears. Meg rang for the maid and bundled her mother upstairs with a reviving glass of sherry. The maid returned a few minutes later for the decanter.

“Did you find any sign of her at all?” Meg asked.

Hector sank into a chair as if it was the first rest he’d taken in days. “The Edwin you mentioned turned out to be Edwin Ramsey, a midshipman in the Royal Navy. He married last spring, and has not seen Rose since. He suggested I call on Peter Markham, a young army captain stationed in Devon. Captain Markham directed me to Lieutenant Phillips. It went on that way for some days.” He pushed a hand through his hair. “The trail simply ended. There was nowhere else to look. If she eloped to Scotland, then surely she’s married over the anvil by now. I didn’t have time to search there too. There are as many men in Scotland as England, and I fear most of them have probably written love letters to your sister at some point.”

Meg’s stomach knotted. “But the wedding is tomorrow!”

Hector shut his eyes. “I know.”

Meg poured him a glass of brandy, her hands shaking. They faced shame, scandal, and a return to penury somewhere. It wouldn’t be at Wycliffe Park.

Hector took the drink with a nod of thanks. “I’ll go and see Temberlay myself in the morning and try to explain.”

Meg sat on the edge of her chair. “Wycliffe will have to be sold at once.”

“That’s all you can say?” Hector frowned. “No anger over your sister’s betrayal? If she’d stayed, you wouldn’t be in this situation. I know you’re worried about her, and we knew she was a silly, vain creature, but now—”

“It won’t bring her back!” Meg said.

Hector shut his eyes, rubbed them with a thumb and forefinger. “You have a cousin in Kent. You could go there, perhaps.”

“Her family is not wealthy. She couldn’t afford to keep all of them,” Meg replied.

“You never include yourself, do you? You’re facing the necessity of going out to earn your bread, and probably theirs as well, and you aren’t angry?”

“Of course I’m angry!” Meg said, rising to her feet. “I wish that Rose had done the right thing, and stayed, but she did not. There’s Mama and the girls to think of now.”

“If your father had not been so blindly stupid—”

Meg held up her hand to stop him. Papa was dead, and that’s all there was to it. She couldn’t think of that now, couldn’t let the sadness overwhelm her. She felt the sting of tears behind her eyes, and forced them away as she always did when she thought of him. There was no time to cry, and hadn’t been since the day he’d—
no!
She swallowed the rise of her stomach. “The duchess is sending her coach tomorrow at eleven o’clock to take Mama and Rose to the church,” she said, changing the subject.

Hector’s face twisted. “I said I’d see to it in the morning!” he said harshly, then his face fell. “God, I’m sorry, Meg. It’s not your fault. Go to bed and try not to worry.”

She sent up a prayer for her sister as she climbed the stairs, wished her safe. She passed her mother’s door, heard her sobbing. She paused with her hand on the latch. Flora was about to lose everything yet again. First she had faced her husband’s death, followed by the discovery that he had left his family penniless. Then Rose had disappeared, and left her family to face the scandal.

Anger flared, and she let go of the latch and stepped away. What was there to say? Flora would be inconsolable for days. She cursed her sister’s inconsiderate behavior. What did it matter that Temberlay wasn’t to Rose’s taste, that he wasn’t a fawning young officer willing to fall at her feet in adoration? His money would have gone a long way to make him bearable. Rose would only have had to put up with him long enough to give him an heir, and how long could that take? After that, well, husbands and wives lived apart all the time in fashionable circles. Rose could have lived her own life, chosen her own amusements, and had the full enjoyment of Temberlay’s vast wealth.

She went into the bedroom that had been prepared for Rose. The wedding gown was hanging up so it wouldn’t get creased, and in the pale light shining in from the street outside, the dress greeted her like Rose’s ghost. She crossed and touched it, and the silk warmed under her fingers like living flesh. The dress was lovely, a confection. Madame Mathilde had outdone herself. How sad that no one would ever wear it.

She took it down and held it against her chest, and looked into the mirror. In the dim light, the transformation was remarkable. She might have been Rose, if her hair was blond. How often had her father despaired that she was not like the rest of his perfect blossoms? She was the wildflower among roses. But in this moment, she looked like a bride.

She wondered what it would feel like to be
his
bride.

She would probably never wed. She faced a future as a spinster, governess to other women’s children.

Fiercely, she stripped to her shift, and put on the gown. The silk sighed as it slid over her body.

She lit a candle, and turned to the mirror again. It fit like it had been made for her. A wry smile twisted her lips. It
had
been made for her. It wasn’t Rose’s dress—she had never even seen it. Would she have changed her mind about marrying Temberlay if she had?

Meg gathered her hair and piled it atop her head, arching her neck, pursing her lips, posing. On a whim, she picked up one of the lacy negligees the maid hadn’t packed yet, and draped it over her head. The scalloped hem dipped over her eyes, and only her lips showed.

Meg’s heart stopped. She blinked. The layers of white lace slipped from her fingers, and her hair tumbled around her shoulders. She stared into her own eyes in the mirror.

Did she dare?

If she were caught, the scandal would be even worse. But if she succeeded . . .

She found pins, fixed the makeshift veil more firmly in place, and looked again.

Chapter 7

“W
here is he, St. James?”

Sebastian St. James shook his head to clear it as he faced Nicholas’s grandmother. It was like being cornered by a tiger, the man-eating kind that didn’t bother with niceties like “good morning” before devouring a chap whole.

“Isn’t he here?” he squeaked, and cleared his throat. He’d just arrived at Hartley Place to accompany Nicholas to his wedding. Although it was nearly eleven o’clock, it was far earlier than Sebastian usually rose, especially after a night of hard drinking. Finding the dread Duchess of Temberlay seated in a chair in the middle of the entrance hall brought on the shakes. He licked his lips, plucked his hat off his head, and held it over the vital parts of his anatomy like a shield.

“You know very well he is not here. Where is he?”

His lips moved, and his jaw flapped like a trout’s, but no sound came out. He tried to think of a polite excuse, but there wasn’t one. “He was out celebrating the, um, happy occasion last night. He gave me his word that he would be on time this morning . . .” It was obvious that she didn’t believe a word, and he let the falsehoods trail off.

He shifted his feet like a disgraced schoolboy, and tried to think of a better explanation for Nicholas’s absence, but his head was pounding. They’d visited three parties, and it had been well past four when Sebastian had tumbled into the nearest coach and ordered the driver to take him home. He’d woken in his own bed this morning, so it must have been his coach. He assumed that Nicholas had gone on without him. The man had the constitution of a warhorse.

“He will be late for his wedding if he does not walk through that door in the next five minutes,” the duchess snapped. “Do you know where to look for him? With that actress, perhaps?”

Sebastian blushed. The old lady was remarkably well informed. Of course, she didn’t like her younger grandson, and probably believed every scandalous tale about him out of sheer spite. “Oh, I don’t think he would—”

She banged her walking stick on the marble tiles, and the sound echoed through the cavernous hall. Sebastian winced. “Don’t be a fool! I can read, and I can hear perfectly well. Temberlay’s habits are the talk of every fashionable salon in London, and a good many disreputable ones as well. Go and find him.”

“Your pardon?” he squeaked again.

“Find him! Drag him to the church in whatever condition you find him, drunk or sober, naked, if necessary,” she bellowed, and the echo rang in his head like a hammer blow. He began to back toward the door, trying to bow and escape at the same time.

The door opened before he could reach it.

“St. James, there you are! I was afraid you’d be late.” Nick’s companionable slap on the back nearly floored him, and Sebastian wheezed. Nicholas was tousled and unkempt, still in evening clothes, his cravat loose, his waistcoat missing a button, looking every inch like a man who had spent the night reveling in every manner of debauchery. He grinned at his grandmother. It was a smile Sebastian knew well, the one he saved for charming the most difficult of female conquests. The duchess glared back malevolently, completely unaffected.

“You fool! You have only minutes to bathe, shave, and dress. You will not be late for your wedding, Temberlay.”

Nicholas bowed over her hand, but she snatched it out of his grip.

“I’ll be there, Granddame. If I’m not, you and Daisy may start without me.”

Sebastian almost smiled at his daring and his fortitude, but it hurt too much. Nicholas took the stairs two at a time, calling for his valet.

Sebastian followed more gingerly.

“You will make sure he’s on time, St. James. Is that clear?” the duchess called after him. “The wedding is at eleven.” She rose, and swept him with a look of disdain. “Perhaps I’d better see to it myself that he gets there,” she said. Sebastian tried Nicholas’s rogue’s grin. It felt like death’s grimace.

“Please, Your Grace, I’ll see that he arrives on time. He’ll want to ride, and the fresh air will do him a world of good.” Or it would make Nicholas’s own hangover all the more painful, Sebastian hoped.

“He has fifteen minutes, or I will go upstairs and drag him down, d’you hear?”

Her words thundered around the domed ceiling and smacked him across the head.

“Perfectly, Your Grace. I’ll go up and hurry him along.” He fled before she could threaten castration if he failed, probably his, since she wanted heirs.

S
ebastian shut the door of his friend’s chamber and leaned on it. Nicholas’s hair was wet from a hasty bath, and his valet was preparing to shave him. “Lord, Devil, your grandmother is a dragon!”

“She’s a woman like any other. You just need to know how to charm her, manage her,” Nicholas said.

“Oh? And if you know how to handle her, then why do we find you about to hang in the parson’s noose this fine morning? It seems she’s the one who has managed you right into matrimony.”

Nicholas sobered. “Let’s give her the full joy of it, shall we?” He crossed the room to sip the coffee awaiting him on a tray.

Sebastian looked at his watch and grimaced. “I need to rush you along, old chap, or no one will have any joy at all. Her Grace will have my head boiled and served at the wedding breakfast if you’re late.” He strode to the wardrobe and threw open the mahogany doors. “What coat will you wear?”

“What do you suggest, Partridge?” Nicholas asked his valet.

“Dark blue or gray would be most appropriate, Your Grace. Something elegant and dignified.”

Nicholas set his cup down and grinned. “D’you hear that, Seb? In that case, I’ll take the green one. Pair it with the red striped waistcoat.”

Sebastian winced as Partridge took the items out of the wardrobe. The coat was a vivid shade of emerald, more suited to an afternoon at the races, and even there it would be pushing the limits of good taste. “You’re quite certain this is the coat you meant, sir?” Partridge asked.

“The very one,” Nicholas replied. “With black breeches and boots. What do you think of that?”

“You’ll knock her eye out, Your Grace,” Partridge intoned soberly.

“That’s the very idea. Like a good horse, she needs to know who’s riding her, who holds the whip. I mean to show her that from the very start.”

Sebastian wondered how the god-awful outfit was meant to accomplish that, but there wasn’t time to discuss it. He watched the clock as Partridge tied Nicholas’s cravat with his usual precision, and helped his master into the nauseatingly bright waistcoat. The coat was almost a blessing, since it hid some of the stripes.

Nicholas took his top hat from Partridge and turned to go, going down the stairs at a run. Mercifully, the duchess had left her post.

“Her name is Rose,” Sebastian panted. “Not Daisy.”

A footman opened the front door and Nicholas sailed through it. “Rose,” he repeated in a wicked drawl.

“Rose,” Sebastian confirmed, and squinted at the merciless midday sun. Nicholas was grinning his Devil grin, and Sebastian felt his stomach lurch. He almost pitied the bride.

She was in for one hell of a day.