Once a Duchess (9 page)

Marshall feared one or two of the fellows were on the verge of offering for her. He dreaded the moment, as he would have to dash someone’s hopes. He’d determined to refuse all offers for her this year. Naomi’s debut had been delayed a year because of Marshall’s own reluctance to see her sweet, open nature tossed to the society wolves to be torn apart and changed into something cynical and cold.

Naomi tossed her head back and laughed gaily at something her partner said. She looked lovely in her demure peach gown, which brought out the strawberry undertones in her hair.

She had her whole life to be someone’s wife. This year, she would enjoy herself. She could set her cap after a husband next Season, if she liked, or the year after. He was in no hurry to push his beloved sister into matrimony.

“Rarely have I seen a man,” said a male voice beside him, “so hawkishly observe his intended.”

“Hmm?” Marshall turned to see his friend Jordan Atherton, Viscount Freese beside him. The two men had been friends since their Eton days. Jordan had sown his wild oats rather more zealously than Marshall in their youth, but that same unbridled lust for life had also led Jordan to volunteer for some of the fiercest campaigns in Spain.

One memorable incident had left them both scarred. While Jordan was about some clandestine business in a small village, French infantry attacked. Marshall and his men, along with a band of plucky Spanish peasants armed with farming implements, defended the village from French plundering.

During the action, Marshall was shot in his side. His parents fretted over losing their heir, and insisted he come home. So Marshall sold out and returned to England to recuperate.

When he saw Jordan many months later, his friend’s handsome face had been changed forever. A long scar left by a French saber slashed through his right cheek.

Despite the prominent mark, the ladies returned Jordan’s regard in equal measure. He was the only man Marshall knew who could turn such a visible disfigurement to an advantage, but somehow Jordan wore the scar so that it seemed a part of his ensemble as much as the diamond stickpin in his cravat. His hair was as dark as Marshall’s, but where Marshall’s was merely wavy, Jordan’s curls were barely restrained by an abundance of pomade, and threatened to sprout loose at the slightest provocation.

“I don’t take your meaning,” Marshall said.

Jordan’s eyebrows waggled sinuously. He cut his blue eyes to the dance floor. “Were you not observing Lucy Jamison?”

“I was keeping an eye on Naomi,” Marshall replied with a laugh.

He followed his friend’s gaze away from his sibling to where the lady in question danced close to Naomi. Whereas his sister looked like a proper, unassuming young lady in her first Season, Lucy Jamison was sheathed in a daring, topaz-colored gown, which scarcely concealed her various attributes. The color suited her to perfection, flattering her sable hair and matching her eyes. She was considered a beauty, and Marshall couldn’t argue the title; she was a fine specimen of anatomical achievement.

Lady Lucy had a fortune to go along with her pretty face, and a corresponding ample share of hopeful beaux. It was no secret that she’d set her sights high, upon the vacated position of Duchess of Monthwaite.

When he’d met her last year, Marshall had initially been put off by her calculated smiles, though they drove half the men in the
ton
to distraction. There was something to be said for persistence and ambition, however, and she seemed to possess the qualities he sought in his future duchess. If nothing else, Lady Lucy would relish the prestige that marrying Marshall would bring. He felt confident that, once attained, she would not do anything to jeopardize her social standing.

Quite unlike Isabelle,
he thought. For that matter, Lucy Jamison was unlike his former wife in almost every way. If he wished to steer clear of another calamitous marriage, choosing a wife wholly dissimilar to his first seemed prudent.

As the dance ended, Lucy curtsied to her bowing partner, her neck bent in an elegant curve. When she rose, her eyes met Marshall’s. Her lashes lowered demurely, though her lips turned up in a knowing smile.

“You’re as scrupulous with Lady Naomi as a duenna,” Jordan said. Together, they observed Lucy’s slender form as she moved to the side of the ballroom to join a group of friends. Jordan clapped him on the shoulder. “Go take her for a twirl. I’ll watch over Naomi, if it will make you feel better. No blackguard will spirit her away under my watch; I swear it.” He clicked his heels together in a mocking salute.

Marshall turned from his friend and swept his gaze over the assembly to pick Lucy out of the throng. In the light of ten thousand candles, the Peel’s ballroom teemed with color and life. The women with their coifs and gowns, slippers and scents, seemed to meld together in a single mass of femininity. The men wearing dark clothes, such as Marshall and Jordan, vanished behind the women, serving as a backdrop for their plumage. A few gentlemen stood out, mostly older men who still favored the gaudy satins of their own youths.

Marshall barked a laugh. “The thought of you keeping an eye on my sister is enough to send me to an early grave.”

Bidding his friend adieu, he made his way around the perimeter of the crowded ballroom. He neared the group of acquaintances where he’d last seen Lucy, but she was no longer with them. Frowning, he looked to see if she was among the couples gathering on the floor for the supper waltz.

A rap on his forearm brought his attention to the beautiful female who’d materialized at his side.

“I declare, Monty,” Lucy Jamison said, “you’ve quite neglected me this evening.”

He arched a brow. “Have I?”

She nodded, sending ribbons of light dancing across her shining blue-black hair. “I began to despair of having a set with you, even though I promised you one at the park today.” She pouted in flirtatious petulance.

“You have not lacked for partners,” Marshall pointed out. “I was merely biding my time, hoping for a chance. Dare I hope my turn’s come ’round?”

Lucy lowered her lashes in calculated demureness.

“Shall we?” Marshall asked, offering his arm.

The woman smiled like a cat with a saucerful of cream as she placed a hand on his arm. On the dance floor, the other couples swept them up into the waltz. Briefly, he looked over the head of his companion at the other ball goers, wondering where Naomi had gotten herself off to. He finally spotted her standing next to Caro, with a few of her friends and young men in the group.

Content with his charge’s well-being, he let the music wash over him, soothing his tired mind. Despite being early into the Season, the social whirl already wore on him. He distracted himself by thinking about some cuttings he wanted to make at Bensbury, his house outside of town. Much to his chagrin, propagation had never been a personal strong suit of his, but there was a fern he would like to try the pinning method on …

“You certainly know how to make a lady feel the center of the universe,” Lucy chastised.

Marshall accepted the rebuke with good grace. “I apologize. Chaperoning an eighteen-year old girl is more taxing than I’d imagined.”

Lucy tilted her head sympathetically. “How unfortunate your father is not here to look after Lady Naomi’s interests. Still, she is well launched — she’s quite a success, Monty. I’m sure you’ll have her off your hands before the Season’s out.”

“Thank you, but there’s no hurry to get Naomi to the altar.”

Lady Lucy’s smile faltered under his glowering expression. “On the subject of spouses,” she said abruptly, “I’ve had an interesting tidbit from my father.”

Marshall had no interest in gossip, but he struggled to attend. “Oh?” he asked, his mind already drifting back to the ferns waiting for him in his greenhouse.

“Yes,” she said. “He attended supper at the home of a political acquaintance of his in Commons, a Mr. Bachman.”

Marshall nodded. “I’m acquainted with the family.” Would copper pins be better than steel, he wondered. Or maybe twine? If he just held the fern to the soil with twine stretched across the stem, there would be no risk of injury to the developing roots beneath the surface …

“Their guest for the Season is the Duchess of Monthwaite,” Lucy said in an impatient tone.

His eyes flew to her face. One side of her mouth turned up in a smug, satisfied smile at capturing his attention.

So, his letter to Alexander Fairfax had done its job.

“Isn’t that interesting?” Lucy pressed. “No one has seen her in over a year, and suddenly she reappears in town. Why is she here, I wonder?”

“I do not make a habit of conjecturing as to the motivations of people with whom I am not personally involved.” His words held a tone of scolding. It was badly done of him, he knew, but her aspersions against Isabelle, however vague, were despicable. If they were to wed, she would have to learn to hold her tongue on the matter of his previous marriage. It was none of her concern.

Lucy’s mouth opened in a startled O. “I — ” she began.

“Tell me, Lady Lucy,” Marshall said abruptly, “do you cook?”

She laughed nervously. “Cook? Certainly not! Are you funning me, Monty?”

He shook his head. “I recently learned that a lady of my acquaintance is an excellent cook, a fact that had previously escaped my notice. It led me to wonder how many of our young ladies secretly harbor culinary ambitions.”

Her brows furrowed. “I have all the proper accomplishments, of course,” she said. “I speak French fluently. My drawing master was always pleased with my work. I’ve been told that my playing at the pianoforte is wonderful.”

The waltz ended. Marshall patted her hand as he led her from the floor. “Don’t trouble yourself, Lady Lucy. I’m sure you are perfectly adequate in every way.”

Her mouth set in a hard line, but then she favored him with a sparkling smile. “Thank you, Monty,” she said, as though he’d bestowed the highest compliment.

She’ll do,
Marshall thought. He gave her a small smile, satisfied at having so easily concluded his wife hunt. All that remained was an appropriate period of courtship and engagement. Neither Lucy’s mind nor personality particularly captivated him, but they didn’t have to. All he needed was a duchess and mother to his children. As to that, she was certainly attractive.

It was then Marshall realized he’d not paid the least bit of attention to her abundant physical charms so amply on display. And now that he did notice them, it was only to think that as becoming as Lucy looked in her fashionable gown, the only dress that had made an impression on him in recent months was woolen cook’s garb with no pretension of shape and a splatter of grease on the sleeve. Its owner still made it look better than Lucy Jamison did her flimsy frock.

• • •

Naomi’s hands swayed to the music as she watched her brother lead Lucy Jamison in the waltz. The swirling couples seemed to float on clouds, gliding in smooth circles, bobbing up and down ever so slightly. “Such a romantic dance,” she commented to her friend Emily, who stood beside her on the outskirts of the ballroom. “Is it as marvelous to perform as it is to watch? Not that I’m in a hurry to try,” Naomi hastily added. “The Lady Patronesses will grant me permission soon enough, I’m sure.”

“I certainly hope so, for your sake,” Emily stated. “The row Her Grace had with Lady Castlereagh was enough to get a lesser lady blackballed altogether.”

Caro’s tiff with the redoubtable
grande dame
had put the slightest damper on Naomi’s Season. Lady Jersey granted Naomi her voucher to Almack’s Assembly Rooms, but not even that formidable Patroness could persuade Lady Castlereagh to allow Naomi the waltz.

“His Grace and Lady Lucy are a fine looking couple,” Emily observed, her attention turned to the dancers. “I suppose there will be an announcement quite soon.”

Noami’s hands froze in midair and she wrinkled her nose. “An announcement?” She lowered her voice, careful to make sure no flapping ears overheard. “Surely you don’t mean an engagement?”

Emily giggled. “What a funny thing you are! Of course I mean an engagement. What other sort of announcement could there be?”

Frowning, Naomi looked back at her eldest sibling and the elegant woman in his arms. “I wasn’t trying to be funny. What makes you think they’ll marry?” she inquired of her friend.

“Well,” Emily said in a low, gossipy whisper. “Everyone knows they have an understanding.”

“
I
don’t know that,” Naomi said. “No one has mentioned any such thing to me.”

“Of course not; you’re His Grace’s sister.” Emily shook her head and looked at Naomi as though she was the veriest goose. “Last year,” the other young lady continued, “the duke only danced with hostesses and dowagers — never with eligible young ladies. But this year, he’s danced with Lady Lucy at least once at every ball — sometimes twice, which
must
mean there’s an understanding.”

On the dance floor, Lucy said something to Marshall. Behind her cold smile, there was a hard glint in her eyes that Naomi could not care for. An uneasiness crept up her spine.

“Just because they’ve danced — ” she began.

“The wedding will certainly be an elegant affair — the event of the year!” Emily looked toward the blazing chandelier and sighed dreamily. “You’ll make sure I have an invitation, I hope?”

All this talk of weddings made Naomi decidedly uncomfortable. “Marshall already married,” she said flatly. Heat flushed her cheeks, as happened whenever she sidled up against the shameful topic of the divorce.

“But he has to marry again,” Emily countered. “There must be an heir.”

That had not occurred to Naomi; it was unexpectedly upsetting. Tears pricked the backs of her eyes. “The waltz is a wretched dance,” she declared bitterly. “Spinning round and round in circles must be the stupidest, most tedious thing in the world, and would certainly make me dizzy.”

At the final chords, the dancers all fell into bows and curtsies — Marshall and Lucy included. They came off the dance floor, headed right toward them.

“I believe I am sick, just from watching all that foolish spinning,” she told Emily. Before her brother and his lovely companion reached her, Naomi whirled and ran to the withdrawing room as fast as her slippered feet could carry her.