“I’m going to dance the waltz for the first time,”
answered Emma, a becoming blush instantly staining her peach cheeks.
Sarah witnessed the flood of color and marveled at its cause. “Rubbish, you know very well that Roger has danced the waltz with both you and Lavinia. You make a handsome pair with your blond heads so close together.”
Not caring to explain yet again the difference between dancing the waltz with a relation and every other man
in the world, she simply said, “Well, it will be like the first time.”
Sarah stared at her with a familiar quizzical look. “You’re a strange child.”
At three and twenty, Emma was certainly no longer a child, but she did not take offense at this appellation. She’d been called a strange child ever since she had put her hair up.
The orchestra began a second waltz, and Emma began to fear that
the duke’s cousin was not going to show after all. She really wasn’t surprised, of course. Town life offered many delights and distractions to the unencumbered male, especially those just arrived from the wilds of Yorkshire, and a tedious ball with warm lemonade could not compare. Perhaps she should seek out the duchess and strike up a conversation. Surely the duchess would know if he was coming
or not. Now, if she could just see over this crowd…
“Well, now,” said Sarah in a contemplative tone, “this is an unexpected development.”
Emma wasn’t interested in Sarah’s unexpected developments but was well bred enough not to show it. “What’s unexpected?” she asked, her eyes straining to see something above the fluffy blond head in front of her.
“Your sister,” answered Sarah.
“My sister?”
Emma was unable to conceive of Lavinia doing anything unexpected.
“Yes, your sister is dancing with a duke, one with whom I didn’t know she was acquainted.”
Emma gasped with surprise and clapped her white-gloved hands. “Lavinia is waltzing with a real live duke? But that’s marvelous!” Instantly she was back on her tippy-toes, trying to get a clear view of the dance floor. Oh, why couldn’t
she be tall like Sarah? “Tell me. I can’t see. Is he handsome? Of course he is. All dukes are handsome in their finery,” she said before a thought struck her. “Oooh, is Sir Windbag here? Do tell me you see him! Wouldn’t that be above all things wonderful if she were to jilt Sir Windbag for a duke! Very proud of his heritage, is he? He doesn’t have anything on a duchy.”
Sarah sent her a quelling
look. “Emma, my dear, you must learn to be discreet and not quite so childish. Sir Waldo Windbourne is an excellent catch and a very nice feather in your sister’s cap.”
“Bah! One does not marry feathers.” Emma dismissed. She would not listen to a favorable word said on his behalf. “Just tell me if he’s here.”
Sarah used her height to advantage. “Yes, I can see him. He’s standing on the other
side of the dance floor and he looks none too pleased.”
Emma giggled. “Of course not. So much for his consequence.” Her balance was precarious, and when she felt herself begin to fall, she clutched Sarah’s arm—and accidentally elbowed the lady in front of her. Although Emma apologized charmingly, the woman took offense and haughtily walked away, leaving a clear view of the dance floor in her
wake. Greedily, Emma’s eye drank in the scene until she caught sight of her sister’s dancing partner. Then she paled.
“But, Sarah,” she said, her voice almost a whisper, “that’s not a duke.”
“I assure you, dear, that is a duke.”
She refused to accept this. “No, you must be mistaken.”
“Really, Emma, I’ve been out for almost ten years. Surely I know the Duke of Trent when I see him.”
CHAPTER TWO
Alexander Keswick, the
seventh Duke of Trent, watched the last guest of his mother tea party climb into her carriage before seeking out the duchess. He found her in the front parlor with note cards on her lap and wire frames perched charmingly on her nose. He sat down on the settee across and helped himself to a leftover scone.
“Don’t pick,” admonished his mother, putting the
pen down and removing her spectacles. “That has been sitting out for an age. If you’re famished, I’ll have Stuart prepare you a plate.” She pulled the bell and waited patiently for a servant to appear. “Stuart, a small morsel for the duke and a fresh pot of tea for me.”
Trent’s hunger was far from acute and the much-criticized scone served the situation very well, but he knew better than to
try to derail a plan of his mother’s. Once she got an idea in her head, it lodged itself firmly there. As the order of tea clearly demonstrated, she was about to embark yet again on her favorite topic: the marriage of her only son. The duke sighed and began thinking of ways to extricate himself from another long, fruitless coze with his single-minded mother. It would take more than a pot of tea to
convince him to get leg-shackled.
“How was your party?” he asked, picking at the scone despite his mother’s exhortations.
Although the dowager duchess could not be distracted, she didn’t mind a short-lived diversion. “Delightful. Mrs. Parker is redecorating her town house in the latest style, and she brought swatches of fabric with her in order to get my opinion. I was very flattered by her
consideration and did my best to steer her in the right direction.”
“Nonsense, madam. As the prevailing arbiter of style, you thought it was no less than her duty to ask your opinion. What did you tell her?”
“That the oriental fashion is just a passing fancy and the lavish splendor of the pavilion in Brighton is a poor example for a drawing room in London. She was a bit surprised by my fervor—although
how one can defend the charms of good old-fashioned English furniture without passion escapes me—but I’m confident that in the end she will be guided by my wisdom.”
Familiar with his mother’s vehemence, he could only assume that Mrs. Parker was even now ordering Gillow, Druce, and Cubit for her drawing room. “Excellent,” he said, as Stuart entered with a tray. He set a plate of fresh scones
and jam in front of the duke, then placed the pot of tea in front of the duchess. The duke watched her pour the tea. “I say, did I see the Harlow Hoyden leaving with her mother?” he asked with calculated casualness and her grace noticed nothing amiss.
“Yes, Margaret Harlow came with her younger daughter in tow. We’ve never met before and I must admit I was a bit cross at the notion of having
the Hoyden in my parlor, but she was everything that was well mannered and proper.” The duchess put the teapot down and spooned a small amount of sugar into her cup. “She sat so quietly in the corner that at times I could have sworn she wasn’t even here.”
At this statement, the duke smiled, but fortunately his usually observant mother did not noticed. She was too busy stirring her tea.
“She
was so well behaved that I begin to suspect that the tales of her exploits have been greatly exaggerated. Surely it is not possible for a gently bred young lady to drive four horses at breakneck speed along the Newmarket road.” Jane Keswick took a delicate sip of her tea and began shaking her head. “Now that I think upon it, I’m convinced it did not happen. If I recall the story correctly, her brother
was with her. I can only assume that he was the whipster and scandalmongers put her in the driver’s seat because it made a much better story. You know how people can be. The plain truth is never interesting enough.”
Having met the lady in question, Trent doubted very much that the widespread tale had done its subject a disservice. He had no trouble believing Miss Emma Harlow was in the driver’s
seat, and he could well imagine her taking offense at his mother’s conclusions. “Her mother is a great friend of yours?”
“Not a great friend, no, but certainly a good one. We went to school together an age ago, and she’s just recently returned to town.” The dowager duchess helped herself to a scone and generously applied strawberry jam. “She’s been rusticating in Derbyshire, although I believe
her husband remained in town. I can’t recall where the family seat is, but I trust it’s somewhere very provincial and dull. Nevertheless, her older daughter—I think her name is Lucy—managed to nab Windbourne. They are to be married early next year.”
“And the other daughter?”
“Emma? Oh, I would be very surprised if she had any eligible
partis
sniffing about. She’s very beautiful, of course,
and most likely unfairly maligned by society, but no man wants a hoyden for a wife.”
Recalling his encounter this afternoon, Trent thought that there were a great many things worst than finding oneself wed to the Harlow Hoyden.
“Since we are speaking of wives,” his mother said, causing the duke’s heart to sink in his chest. The topic of Miss Emma Harlow had so thoroughly distracted him that
he’d momentarily forgotten the disagreeable point of this coze. “Your sister and I are very concerned about you, Trent dear. You are not a boy any longer. You are, in fact, thirty and must start thinking of the succession. You know that it was your father’s dearest wish to see you happily wed to an amiable woman of upstanding birth equal to our own.”
The duke knew nothing of the sort. His father’s
wishes and desires were a complete mystery to him. Although a kind enough man, the previous duke was rarely at home, and the only contact he had with his son were the infrequent occasions when he bumped into him at the club. And then he’d only apologize for his clumsiness and walk away. It was his mother’s habit, when either backed into a corner or short on logic, to drag his father into the
discussion.
“The previous duke enjoyed the company of a certain type of woman, and it’s obvious to me that you are following close in his footsteps. That is fine. You’re men and you will behave as men have always done. However, it should not stand in the way of your forming a suitable connection.” The dowager duchess of Trent was nothing if not practical, and the finer emotions had little or
nothing to do with the decisions she made. “Your father thought highly of Portia Hedgley and believed the two of you would rub together very well. Miss Hedgley is a biddable girl, soft-spoken and well bred, and would make an excellent duchess. I have spoken to her mother and she’s assured me that her daughter would welcome your attentions. It was your father’s one regret, my dear,” she said, introducing
a well-placed note of tragedy into her voice, “that he couldn’t see you comfortably settled with Portia.”
The duke knew this was patently false. Portia Hedgley was a green miss just out of the schoolroom and could not have been above ten years old when his father died. He doubted very much that his father had been aware of her existence.
“I would love to linger, Mama, but I must leave you
to finish your tea alone,” he said, deciding it was time to make his escape. He was an agreeable and patient man who dealt with most situations with good-natured acceptance, but he would not marry to please his mother. “I have an appointment with Cousin Philip at my club, and I’m loathe to leave the boy waiting for too long. He is new to town and still wet behind the ears and seems game for all sort
of trouble. Please accept my apologies.”
His mother squinted her eyes in suspicion, but she didn’t try to detain him. She knew what it was like with willful men. His father had been the same way. “This is not over, Trent,” she said warningly, a hint of steel in her otherwise charming voice. “I will get my way.”
The duke left the front parlor quite determined that she would not.
Alex Keswick
arrived at the Bennington ball with Cousin Philip firmly in tow. The young cawker, a slim, gangly awkward boy who had yet to grow accustomed to his sudden height, didn’t take well to the constrictions of formal wear.
“Stop tugging at your cravat,” said the duke. “It took Stebbens a half hour to get it right, and I will not have you upsetting his work before the first waltz is played.”
“Devil
take it, sir, the damned thing is itchy,” the boy whined before giving the cravat a final pull and lowering his hand.
Morgan Pearson, an intimate of the duke’s for these ten years, listened to the exchange and smiled. He was not accustomed to seeing the Duke of Trent squiring around clumsy hayseeds and found the whole experience to be enlightening. As far as Morgan was concerned, the duke had
the patience of a saint. The entire carriage ride had been given over to Philip’s complaints. He didn’t want to go to the ball. He wanted to seek more manly pursuits like gaming and boxing. It was only after the duke promised to introduce his young cousin to Gentleman Jackson that they had any peace.
Although Philip was new in town and didn’t have many friends, he instantly spied an acquaintance
and excused himself. The duke watched him wander off with a faint smile. “The young cawker can’t even lie with any skill.”
Morgan, who had been examining the room for familiar faces, looked at his friend. “How so?”
“He doesn’t know anyone here,” Alex explained. “He just said that to get away from me.”
“What a novel experience for you, your grace. It’s usually the Duke of Trent who’s trying
to get away from the admiring young lads—and admiring women of all ages, for that matter.” Morgan nodded at a beautiful widow his friend was currently pursuing.
“It’s understandable, of course,” the duke said reasonably. “I suppose if I were nineteen, I wouldn’t want an old man telling me what to do.” Since his father never took an interest, he had no idea what it was like.
“Old man, Alex?
Doing it a bit brown. Thirty is hardly the age of senility. Surely you have three or four good years left.”