The Famous Heroine/The Plumed Bonnet (45 page)

In the duchess’s private sitting room, where they often sat for long stretches of time stitching away at their embroidery—Stephanie preferred that to the endless piles of mending and darning with which she had been expected to occupy her evenings at the Burnabys’—she listened and learned about the
ton
, about Society manners and morals. She learned all the small details that would help her avoid embarrassment and awkwardness—like the fact that at a ball she must dance with the same gentleman, even her betrothed, no more than twice in one evening, or that the sort of curtsy with which she might greet a lady or gentleman of no title must differ from the one with which she would show respect to a dowager countess or duchess. And her curtsies now, when she was merely Miss Stephanie Gray, must be more deferential to all than they would be when she became the Duchess of Bridgwater.

She learned that after her marriage she must expect to see little of her husband. It would be considered bad
ton
if they lived in each other’s pocket. Men had their own pursuits and did not appreciate clinging, possessive wives. If her husband chose to keep a mistress after his marriage—Her Grace spoke about it quite as matter-of-factly
as she had spoken about everything else—then she must pretend not to know. It was ill-bred to be jealous. And if she chose to take a lover, it must be done with the utmost discretion and only
after
she had presented the duke with a son.

“It is my hope, of course,” Her Grace added, “that Alistair will be faithful to you. But he is a grown man and head of this family. He will make his own decisions. I say these things only so that you will understand the rules, Stephanie. It is of the utmost importance that you know the rules and abide by them.”

She learned the rules, carefully and meticulously committing them all to memory so that she would not make any gauche blunders when she appeared in Society herself. She would not make mistakes. She would not shame him.

He did not call upon her again during that week. Neither did anyone else. Apart from the two lengthy visits to Bond Street and Her Grace’s modiste, she spent the week inside the duchess’s home, seeing no one except Her Grace and the servants.

But the day finally came when a staggeringly large number of parcels was delivered to the house and the modiste arrived at the same time. Stephanie’s new wardrobe was ready. She had to try on every one of the clothes while the duchess and the dressmaker looked critically at them and a few minor adjustments were made.

Stephanie, it seemed, was ready to meet the
ton
. There was to be a ball the following evening at the home of the Marquess of Hayden. It was a ball being given in honor of the Duke of Bridgwater’s betrothal to Miss Stephanie Gray.

The Marchioness of Hayden, Stephanie remembered belatedly, was the duke’s sister.

“I could have wished for some smaller, quieter entertainment
for your first appearance, Stephanie,” Her Grace said. “But it is as well to start this way, perhaps. And you are quite ready, my dear. I have seen during the past week that you learn fast and that you have made every effort to learn. I am very pleased with you. Alistair will be equally delighted. He will come tomorrow to escort us to Hayden’s for dinner and the ball to follow it.”

Stephanie drew a slow breath. She would not disgrace him, she thought. He would look at her and be pleased. He would watch her through the evening and be satisfied.

Oh, she hoped she would not disgrace him. She owed him so very much. She must repay him at least in this very small way.

The thought of seeing him again set her stomach to fluttering. It was neither a wholly pleasant nor a wholly unpleasant feeling.

IS MOTHER HAD WORKED MIRACLES IN THE COURSE
of a week. That was the Duke of Bridgwater’s first reaction when he saw Stephanie on the evening of the Marchioness of Hayden’s ball.

He was standing in the hall of his mother’s house. He had been told that the ladies were almost ready to leave and had waited for them to come downstairs. His mother came first, looking her usual almost regal self in purple satin with matching plumed turban. He took her hands in his and kissed her on both cheeks.

“As usual, Mama,” he said in all sincerity, “you look far too young and far too beautiful to be my mother.”

“But,” she said, “only a son of mine would have learned so to flatter me, Alistair.”

She had come down ahead of Stephanie Gray, he knew, so that all his attention could rest on his betrothed as she descended the staircase. He looked up now to watch her come. And yes, he thought, definitely a miracle had been wrought.

She wore pale green. The underdress was cut low at the bosom and was high-waisted, with one deep flounce at the hem. The overdress was of fine lace. She wore pearls at her throat and about one gloved wrist. Her hair was dressed smoothly at the front and sides, though curled tendrils at her temples and neck softened any suggestion
of severity. He could see elaborate curls at the back, even though he had as yet only a mainly frontal view of her.

He could recognize his mother’s superb taste in both the deceptive simplicity of the gown and the style of her hair. She looked impeccable and elegant. She would far outshine any of those ladies at the ball—and there would be many of them—who would think to draw attention and admiration by the fussiness of their appearance.

But it was not just the hair and the clothes that made him think of miracles. There was something about
her
that had transformed her from a governess to a duke’s fiancée. He had never thought of her as having poor posture, yet there was something now about the set of her shoulders and the straightness of her back that suggested almost a regality—like his mother. And she held her chin high in an expression of pride that stopped well short of conceit.

Her posture and her gown combined emphasized all that was best in her appearance—her tall slimness, her swanlike neck, her long slim legs, clearly outlined as she walked.

“Miss Gray.” He waited for her to reach the hall before taking a few steps toward her and stretching out his right hand. When she placed her own in it and curtsied, he bowed over it and raised it to his lips. “I almost did not recognize you.” He turned to look at his mother. “You have performed a miracle, Mama.”

“Stephanie has been the easiest pupil any teacher could wish for,” his mother said. “It is no miracle, Alistair. Hard work has done it.”

He looked back to his betrothed. “You are nervous about tonight?” he asked her. She had been half smiling as she descended the stairs. The smile had vanished now.

“A little, I suppose,” she admitted.

He squeezed her hand, which he had not yet released.
“You need not be,” he said. “You look magnificent, as I am sure your glass and my mother have both informed you. If you remember everything that I am sure she has told you during the past week, you will do very well this evening. If you feel a little uncertain at any time, remember who you are. Remember that you are my betrothed and that soon you will be the Duchess of Bridgwater.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” she said. “I will remember.”

But he knew that she was still nervous. Her eyes had lost some of the sparkle they had had a minute before. Her face looked paler. He felt an unexpected rush of sympathy for her and of protectiveness too. This must all be very difficult for her. He did not doubt that the closest she had ever come to a grand ball was a country assembly when she had still been living at the parsonage. He hoped his mother had thought to brush up on her dancing skills. But he was sure she would not have forgotten something quite so elemental.

His mother led the way out to the carriage while he followed with Miss Gray, her arm resting along the top of his own. He looked reassuringly at her. “Do not fear,” he said. “No one seeing you tonight would ever guess that until three weeks ago you were a governess. My sisters will be amazed and delighted by the transformation in you.”

She looked up at him briefly before he handed her into the carriage, but she said nothing.

He would have to be careful, he thought. He knew that the temptation would be to hover over her all evening, to try to protect her from the ordeal he knew she would be facing. He must not do it. Nothing would be more certain to make her appear like a gauche rustic who had neither the manners nor the conversation required by the role she was about to assume in Society. He must not ask Elizabeth to seat him next to her at dinner. He must dance with her only twice, and he must not
take up his place at her side between sets more than once or twice.

He must trust his mother to see to it that she got through the evening unscathed.

He listened to his mother talk as the carriage made its way through the streets of Mayfair and to Stephanie Gray replying more briefly. She addressed his mother as “Mother,” he was interested to note. He did not himself participate in the conversation. He was feeling nervous about the coming evening, he realized—and just a trifle depressed. Why was it that good manners always ensured that one kept one’s distance from the very people with whom one would most like to spend most of one’s time?

He was surprised to find that in some ways he was beginning to look forward to being married. They seemed to be able to relax a little more when they were alone together than they could when in company with others. He wanted to hear her talk again as she had talked to him in his carriage. He wanted to get to know her. And—the thought seemed strangest of all—he wanted her to get to know him. He had always been a very private person. Nobody, he felt, really knew him. And he had liked it that way—until now.

The carriage slowed outside the doors of his brother-in-law’s mansion on Berkeley Square.

T
HE EVENING WAS
going well. She had not yet set even one foot wrong, so to speak. She had done nothing to embarrass herself and nothing to shame either the Duke of Bridgwater or his mother. She had sat next to the Marquess of Hayden at the head of the table at dinner; her future brother-in-law, older than his wife by at least ten or fifteen years, was a man with an enormous sense of his own consequence. She had stood in the receiving
line between the marchioness and the duke, since the ball was in honor of her betrothal, and had smiled and curtsied and tried to memorize the names of a seemingly endless stream of guests. She had danced the opening quadrille with the duke and every set thereafter with a different gentleman. She had remembered the steps of every dance and had executed them without mishap. Between sets she had stood with the duchess and a number of other ladies and gentlemen. She had never once been alone.

It was going well. Or so Her Grace assured her. The duchess was pleased with her. She was taking well, it seemed. She looked quite strikingly beautiful—Her Grace’s words—and she looked poised and confident without in any way appearing conceited. It did not matter, the duchess assured her, that she had little conversation. The important thing was that she smiled at those who spoke to her and encouraged them with polite questions and responses. Shyness, provided it did not border in any way on muteness or sullenness, was no disadvantage at all in a lady. Quite the contrary. Everyone would know, after all, that she was being elevated on the social scale by her betrothal to Bridgwater. Her shyness would be considered becoming modesty.

All was going well. Except that she was not enjoying herself. She tried, whenever the demands of conversation were not occupying her mind, to understand why this was so. Did she feel uncomfortable? No more than was to be expected. In fact, she was finding that she need behave not very differently from the way she had behaved throughout her years as a governess. Quiet dignity, self-containment, the ability to listen while saying little—these had been a way of life to her for six years. Did she fear that she had failed, then, that she had somehow let the Duke of Bridgwater down? No, she did not feel it. And if she did, she could not disbelieve what his
mother told her. Her Grace would have been fast enough to point out any glaring shortcoming.

Everyone had been polite to her. Many had been kind and even friendly. She had not been a wallflower as she had feared she might. She had not lacked for company between sets. No one had treated her with contempt or even noticeable condescension.

The ballroom, with its many mirrors and chandeliers, with its numerous floral decorations, was beautiful. It was filled with elegant, beautiful people. It was the perfect scene she had always dreamed of—the sort of setting she had always imagined for Cinderella’s ball. And in many ways she was the personification of the fairytale heroine.

Why, then, was she not quite enjoying herself? Was it because after the first set the Duke of Bridgwater had not danced with her again or come near her between sets or even shown any sign that he was aware of her presence in the ballroom? He danced every set. He mingled easily with the company, conversing with people whose identities she had forgotten. He looked thoroughly at home in this, his own environment. And he looked exquisitely elegant and handsome in black evening clothes with gleaming white linen.