“It’s not the quarters that concern me, Your Grace,” she said once he got his breath back.
“My dear, we will need to move a bit faster if we’re going to board this ship.” At the speed of their approach, the bloody thing could sail to England and back by the time they made it to the ramp.
As if in possession of some alchemist’s talent, a slight adjustment to her posture modified her natural quiet grace into something regal and elegant. Amazed, he glanced around the feminine gewgaws that decorated her hat to see her face, wondering if a change had occurred there as well.
Her eyes were closed, and her lips murmured something that sounded remarkably like “just smile and nod.” Her lips lifted in a smug tilt, her eyes opened in something akin to a blank stare. She planted the parasol that expressly matched her dress by her feet with purpose and determination, and she moved forward, breaking free of his clasp.
“My God,” he said to himself. In the space of a heartbeat, she replaced the warm, inviting companion who relayed stories with childlike glee with the cold, distant, aloof society lady that had exchanged vows with him before God and the congregation. She had the look of a perfect duchess, and yet something was missing. And already he felt its loss.
She hooked her parasol on her arm and lifted her skirts slightly to manage the narrow steps that would take them up to the first-class deck. He followed behind her, placing both hands on the railings and thus eliminating her means of turning back, should she harbor such a plan. Her amply decorated derriere swayed seductively in front of him, reminding him of the price he was paying to establish paternity. Panels of white-trimmed, blue-striped fabric with large white buttons dangled enticingly over her rump for no practical purpose that he could fathom, other than to call the viewer’s attention to this particular area.
And pay attention, he did. The short train of her outfit slid lightly over two risers immediately behind her. In order not to step on her skirts he stayed several risers back which placed the rhythmic swinging panels in direct line with his nose. It took all his control to keep his hands on the rail and not place them on her very tempting bottom. He offered a silent prayer that his brother would enlighten him on some telltale aspect of a woman’s pregnancy that would eliminate the need to wait the necessary month or so before her belly would yield her secrets. If he had to wait long before he could slake this thirst, he’d go insane.
They reached the first-class deck where a man in the nautical cap of an officer greeted them and welcomed them aboard. Francesca, he noted, smiled and nodded. The officer handed William a key to their staterooms and assured him their luggage would be delivered directly. After noting the room’s location, he passed the key on to Hodgins, who labored up the steps a distance behind them, then escorted Francesca to the promenade deck.
“Shouldn’t we see to our rooms?” Francesca asked, with a backward glance at the retreating Hodgins.
“Mary and Hodgins will see to the luggage. That is their responsibility. Ours is to be seen.” He guided her up the short flight of steps to the open air deck where fashionable men and well-turned ladies strolled arm in arm near the railings. “The other first-class passengers are here, thus we should be as well.”
Her eyes widened a moment as she scanned the crowd on the deck. Her voice dropped to hushed tones. “Will it always be this way?”
“My dear, we have an obligation, an image to uphold.” It would be impossible to explain to her the lessons of image and responsibility that had been burned into him at an early age. He had prepared for this his entire life. The promenade deck was a far cry from Mayfair, but only the best of society could travel to London first class. One never knew who would be sharing the trip with them.
So he shouldn’t have been surprised to see Twiddlebody and his wife. And yet he was.
“Fancy seeing you again, Your Grace, and is this the new missus?”
William made the introductions. Francesca nodded and smiled.
“I read about the nuptials in the papers.” He winked at William. “I’m glad this trip was a profitable one. A chip off the old man’s block, don’t you know. Guess I won’t have to rush to your brother after all.” He tipped his hat to Francesca. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Your Grace.”
“That is an odious man,” William said, watching the couple depart.
Francesca just continued to smile and nod. He didn’t hear a word from her lips as they greeted several other well-connected couples. They joined the others at the rails as the massive ropes that secured the steamer to the docks were thrown clear. The engines rumbled, people shouted. Francesca smiled and nodded. She didn’t show deference to anyone even though it was apparent through their appearance that some couples were of greater social prominence than others. She ignored all equally.
Perhaps this was how things were done in America, but then he remembered how her mother had catered to certain esteemed guests at the wedding luncheon. There was a definite social strata in attendance at that gathering, just as there would have been in London. Her mother knew how to play the strings. But the daughter . . . he glanced over at her glazed expression . . . would probably smile and nod at one from steerage as she did to the first-class passengers. Did she even recognize the difference?
He recalled her behavior on the night of their engagement, when she quickly disappeared after their engagement was announced. He recalled her behavior at the wedding luncheon when he caught her talking to walls. He recalled as well his threat to lock her in the attic. Perhaps not one of his finer moments, he reflected. He had thought it was an empty threat at the time, now he wasn’t as sure.
A harbinger of doubt started to form. He had assumed based on his observation of the mother that the daughter would be able to assume her proper role in society, once she understood the proper delineations notated in the lineage volume. However, if she hadn’t the appreciation of the respect those titles carried, would she be suitable? Would her lack of acumen make him a laughingstock?
He hooked a finger around his chin, letting his fist and arm support the weight of his heavy thoughts. What of Bertie’s impending visit? The abbey wasn’t ready, but his new financial status should ensure ready artisans and laborers to make the needed modifications. He’d already purchased sufficient items during his month in New York to mask his recent efforts to keep the estate afloat. What kind of modifications would Francesca require to be acceptable for the highest of society? Now that he had the means to pay his father’s debts and salvage the family assets from embarrassing ruin, was his wife to become an albatross to hang heavy around his neck?
He stared out at the water gently slapping the sides of the
Republic
far below him. How would she react to the role she’d be expected to play? At least he still had his aunt to help her with the basics.
Fran glanced at her husband. She would have expected him to be pleased to be on his way home, instead he looked as if he were contemplating jumping over the rail. Indeed, with her own homeland receding in the distance, and a dismal, bleak future in a land of strangers as an immediate future, she should be the morose one, not him.
“Is something wrong, Your Grace?” she asked.
He glanced at her as if startled, then squinted as if he could still make out details on the distant land. “Your country has many interesting qualities, but I don’t think I could ever be truly happy there.” His brow creased. He shifted his gaze back to her. “It makes me wonder if you’ll be happy living in England?” He lifted a brow in her direction.
Her heart expanded a little for his concern. He was the first to seem to care about her feelings, though it was a bit late to change the course of events as a result. However tempted she was to truthfully speak of her fears and anxieties, her mother’s precautions to never disclose her true feelings held her back.
“I admit I am leery of living among strangers.” She glanced down at her parasol. “But my needs are few. I will do my best to be happy there.”
He turned and leaned his back against the rail, crossing his arms in front of him. “I would like to think you consider me more than a stranger.”
Her cheeks warmed under his regard. Ever since their quiet conversation yesterday on the train, she considered him less and less as a stranger. When they had first met, she thought he was an extremely attractive means to end a very unwanted engagement. Then he became a difficult though attractive means to create a passage back home. When he wasn’t an ogre spouting decrees about social responsibilities, she had begun to think that a quiet life shared with him in front of a warm hearth might not be difficult.
“The more we learn about each other, the more I consider you a friend,” she said, declining to admit she hoped to become more than a friend.
A smile teased his eyes and cheeks. Black hair flitted across his forehead, pushed by an ocean breeze. He looked like a repentant child. “I suppose we didn’t have the best start, but we can rectify that on our trip to England. By the time we set foot in Southampton, we’ll be the closest of friends.”
She was about to respond that she would like that very much when he patted his jacket pockets with a sort of urgency.
“Blast. I’d almost forgotten.” He produced a small box from one of the pockets and held it out to her. “I should have presented this to you earlier. Go ahead. It’s a gift.”
She reluctantly took the box from his outstretched hand. Although it was customary for the groom to present the bride with an intimate gift on the occurrence of their wedding, that precluded that the bride and groom actually knew each other. She hadn’t anticipated anything from him and certainly hadn’t had the foresight to purchase something for him in return. Her lips pulled in a tight smile. She should check with Mary; perhaps her mother had the foresight to purchase a groom’s gift, although she suspected the lacy negligee qualified.
“Open it,” he encouraged.
She slipped the lid from the box. “It’s a locket,” she said. Her words to Mary describing a gift from Bedford haunted her with its accuracy. “And a rather large locket at that.”
“Yes. My aunt had it designed just for you.” His voice echoed with pride. “That’s an etching of the abbey on the casing. She wanted to welcome you into the family.”
His aunt’s enthusiasm apparently overshadowed her sense of taste. The size was more appropriate for a pocket watch than for something one wore around a fragile neck. Mill-stones might weigh less.
“Deerfeld Abbey has been the ducal seat of my family for centuries. I’m sure you will find it appropriate for a duchess.” If Bedford was a peacock, he’d have his brilliant plumage on full display. She hid her smile at the image, but glanced back at the etching on the locket.
The house was impressive in size if the miniature did it justice. Much larger than her parents’ New York and Newport residences. Surely, it would be possible to find a quiet spot to translate her stories. That thought warmed her. It wasn’t a quiet barrister’s estate in the country, but she could carve a quiet secluded life there. Perhaps life in England would not be as difficult as she imagined.
“The estate suffered neglect recently, but nothing that can’t be remedied,” he said. “Workmen are currently employed to set it to rights. We shall entertain Bertie in the manner that is expected.”
Her pleasant thoughts evaporated, replaced with a low panic. “In the manner that is expected?”
“Of course.” He still beamed, apparently blind to her sudden distress. “There are social obligations that go with the title. Bertie’s reception is only the first. We will host dignitaries, sponsor balls, dinner parties . . .” He finally glanced at her face. “But don’t worry. Trust me. I’ll be there to tell you what to do every step of the way.”
Her eyes widened. Just the thought of what he was proposing . . . she felt dizzy, light-headed. Appropriate words wouldn’t come to her aid. She didn’t want to glance up for fear he would read the panic in her face. Her mother’s warning sounded in her ears. Don’t let them know how you feel. She fidgeted with the locket clasp to hide her thoughts and the golden lid flipped open.
“That’s my sister, Arianne, on the right and my aunt, Lady Rosalyn, on the left.”
She stared at the pictures, as if the two faces would suddenly come to life and offer a solution to her looming dilemma.
“Lady Rosalyn, in particular, should prove of great assistance to you. She has been responsible for the running of Deerfeld Abbey for some time. She’s familiar, of course, with the ton and their strict requirements. The first few dinner parties may prove awkward”—his lips turned up in a smile—“but she’ll shape you into a proper English wife in no time.”
“I’m not an English wife.” Did she say that? Her words sounded so quiet and weak, as if she dreamed she’d spoken. Could this be a dream? A cruel sort of nightmare?
“I realize that, but now you’ll have to become one.” He smiled as if he were bestowing some honor upon her. “Of course, you may have to refrain from some of your colorful American attributes. English society is one of decorum and place.”
Shape! Parties! Strict requirements! He might as well sentence her to a torture chamber. They had those in these old estates, didn’t they? She clenched her teeth to keep her lips from trembling. That action did nothing, though, to still the shaking that moved to her hand. The heavy chain tapped against the housing.
“It’s just a locket. You can put another’s likeness in it if you like.” He sounded unsure, uncomfortable, as well he should, for what he was asking of her. Awkward silence settled between them.
“You’re looking pale,” he said. “Perhaps we should return to the stateroom so you can rest. A woman in your condition—”
“My condition?” She glanced up to meet his concerned gaze. “What condition would that be?”