The Seduction of a Duke (2 page)

“I’ve been translating children’s stories for some time,” Fran responded. “They may not be the most difficult of translations, but I enjoy—”

The teacher held up her hand to indicate enough. “I may have something that might help you. My husband procures journals for a gentleman with certain . . . proclivities. Recently, he uncovered the personal diary of a well-known courtesan.”

Fran’s breath caught. Her eyes widened. A properly reared daughter should not know that such women existed, but, of course, a properly reared daughter probably lived with less discord than she.

“The diary reveals her methods to attract and encourage the men who might purchase her services.”

“How do you know this?” Fran asked. Polite society never acknowledged that other world. That a diary should exist . . .

A smile played about the corners of Madame’s mouth. “Even though one is married, one still maintains a certain curiosity.”

Madame stood, smoothing the wrinkles from her plain skirts. “Antoine cares more about the price fetched for the journal than the one who pays for it.”

“The price should not be a problem,” Fran said, eager to see the secrets the diary might contain.

“I thought not,” Madame said with a slight smile. “The book is in our private quarters. It will take me a few moments to locate it. While you wait . . .” She glanced about the room, her gaze resting on a white box on a counter. “Perhaps you can begin to encourage your young man by sending him a letter.”

“I have been writing to him.” Fran protested. “I’ve told him about the places we’ve visited, and the weather—”

“Not that kind of letter, my dear.” The teacher retrieved the stationery box, complete with writing implements. “You need to tell your Randolph how you feel about him.” She pulled a sheet of fine vellum from the box. “Tell him how you long to feel his arms around you. Tell him that you await his kiss.”

Fran’s mouth dried to the consistency of paper. She’d never mentioned those things to Randolph. “Won’t he think that such language is . . . improper?”

“The battle for a gentleman’s heart is rarely won with proper etiquette. Study the lessons in the diary and you’ll have him begging for a glimpse of your lips. Try your hand with the letter and I shall find the book.”

Madame started down the aisle toward the staircase that led to the living quarters, but stopped midway. “Francesca, you probably should keep this book well hidden from your
maman
. I doubt she will approve.”

“Maman has little interest in my reading material. I doubt she will even notice the addition of a journal.”

“Be wary and do not underestimate your
maman
,” the tutor cautioned. “There’s not much that she misses. Her eyes and ears are sharper than her tongue, and she has honed that instrument to a fine cutting edge.” Her eyes narrowed and all humor fled her somber face. “Be very careful.”

WITH ALL THE MALICE SHE COULD MUSTER, FRANCESCA Winthrop whacked the wooden croquet ball beneath her foot, sending her mother’s ball careening across the manicured lawn, over the edge of the Newport cliffs, and possibly into the blue gray waters of the Atlantic Ocean. Pity, it wasn’t her mother’s head.

“Really, Francesca, that show of spirit was entirely unnecessary.” Alva Winthrop signaled one of the dozen servants standing about for just such an occasion to search for her ball at the rocky base of the cliff, before feigning laughter for the benefit of the other society matriarchs watching the match. “Most women would be positively thrilled to learn they were about to marry a duke.”

“Most women have at least met the man they are to marry, or had a say in the selection,” Fran replied, careful to keep her voice low and her smile in place.
Never show emotion, or else risk the scorn that follows.
She’d been fed those words in infancy along with her pabulum. An only child, raised in a lonely edifice to enormous wealth, she learned her lessons well. A tear, a stutter in public earned her a slap across the face from her mother in private. Thus to the others in the game, Francesca Winthrop maintained a calm façade. Deep inside, however, she screamed her protest.

“I won’t do this, Maman.” She glanced away, bracing herself for her mother’s anticipated reprimand. “I’m . . . I’m in love with someone else.”

“Nonsense.” Alva smoothed her hands over her white muslin skirts. “Love has little to do with the stewardship of great families. You’ve known since birth that your destiny was to bring a title to the Winthrops. With your father’s money and your new husband’s title, you’ll be received into the best households on both continents.”

“No, Maman, with the influence of your new son-in-law,
you’ll
be the one received in those
best
households,” Fran said, trying to ignore the stabbing pain caused by her mother’s lack of consideration. Yet, it had always been that way. Her opinion in matters of her own future were . . . insignificant. Reality constricted her throat, making words difficult. “I shall be the one tied to a man I don’t know and whom I don’t love.”

“We all make sacrifices, dear. You’ll learn to adapt. He’ll arrive in two days. We’ll announce your engagement at the costume ball this Saturday.”

Three days! Her mother had been planning that ball for two months, and Fran had been dreading it for at least as long. Now she would not only have to find the fortitude to face a room full of people but an unfamiliar fiancé as well. Dread, as hard and as solid as one of her painted croquet balls, fisted into a tight knot in her stomach.

An errant honeybee buzzed Alva’s hat, perhaps mistaking one of the silk roses for the real thing. Alva waved a gloved hand to chase it away. “I don’t know why you insist on maintaining those ridiculous beehives. I certainly won’t miss them when you move to London.”

London! Fran hadn’t quite digested news of her imminent engagement before encountering this second cannon volley. She’d have to move to London and live among total strangers. The comfortable solitude that she’d maintained her entire life would vanish. The knot in her stomach leapt to her rib cage, inhibiting breath. She was dizzy, light-headed.

Alva squinted disapproval toward Fran for a moment, then shifted her gaze, her face brightening. “Look, Simpson has found my ball. I’ll just go see to its proper placement.”

Fran forced words past her constricted throat. They emerged in a harsh whisper, a testament to the unexpected blow dealt to her future. “Why now, Maman? You must have known of this earlier. Why not wait to tell me in private?”

Alva Winthrop stopped and turned, her glance stern and sharp. “Do try to aim for the wickets, dear. It’s the winning that matters, not the course one takes to get there.”

Fran stood paralyzed. For a moment, she contemplated hitting her bonus ball directly toward her mother’s heel. The resulting injury might give her pause over the injury she was causing her daughter. In her saddened heart, however, she knew that it would be a worthless gesture. Her mother was impervious to another’s concern.

Not only had her mother not asked about her love interest, she hadn’t even acknowledged the difficulty and reluctance Fran had experienced in sharing that information. Obviously, her only daughter’s personal desires were of less import than the advantageous placement of a croquet ball.

Fran gazed beyond the lawn to the familiar tranquil Atlantic. A few sails billowed in their escape from Narragansett Harbor. The Fall River steamer, a tiny spot on the deep blue horizon, chugged along on its daily foray between Newport and Long Island.

“Randolph,” she whispered with all the yearning in her heart. “Where are you? Why haven’t you written?” If ever she needed his comfort and advice, now was the time. In the brief interval between her return from Paris and his departure for Germany, they had managed to share two hasty kisses and several long precious glances filled with yearning and desire. He had promised to write every day while he traveled on behalf of her father’s business. Yet not one envelope had arrived since his departure three months ago. Now she would be pitted against her mother over plans for her future without even the written assurance of his devotion. Did he even know what Maman had concocted? If only she could go to Randolph, speak to him directly.

Facing the vast expanse of the ocean, even her father’s gift of height failed to protect her from feeling small, insignificant, and utterly alone. Three days! What if she couldn’t abide the Englishman? Her mother might not have cared about such things, but this was not her mother’s life. She must take action. She must formulate a plan.

“Francesca, stop dawdling. We’re all waiting on you,” her mother called from the lawn boundary.

For the sake of her mother and appearances, Fran composed her expression, then turned back toward the game. Leaning over her mallet, she did as she was told and aimed her ball for the wickets, but her thoughts focused far away, on the other side of the ocean.

 

 

WILLIAM CHAMBERS, MARQUESS OF ENON AND MOST recently Duke of Bedford, sat beneath a potted palm in the eloquent parlor of the Fall River steamer anticipating imminent death. After all, death would put an end to the turbulent discord in his stomach, fueled by every rise and fall of the steamer’s hull. The eight-day trip across the Atlantic Ocean had proved less than comfortable, but to add insult, he was ushered aboard this steamer with no time for recovery. His stomach rolled again, bringing the taste of bile to his throat. Could any woman, even one as rich as Midas, be worth this hell on water?

“Chambers. Chambers, old fellow, is that you?”

William forced one resistant eye open to focus on the opulent form of Henry Twiddlebody. Just when he thought he had sunk to the bottom of the barrel, life provided assurances in the form of Twiddlebodys of the further depths possible. Hesitant to move, for fear it would encourage the vile mixture in his innards to vacate its contained premises, William simply nodded to Henry. Unfortunately, the fool apparently assumed the gesture to be an invitation as he pulled a chair practically to William’s knees.

“I say, old fellow, you’re looking a bit green about the gills. I take it you’ve never held a commission in Her majesty’s fleet, ey?”

Damnation! Trapped by a Twiddlebody and too ill to make an exit. Life couldn’t get worse. William pressed his lips tightly together while the man chuckled at his own wit.

“I’m sorry to hear about the passing of your father, my boy. He was a good man.” He looked askance at William, a smile tilting his lips under a full, wily mustache. “I guess I should be calling you ‘Your Grace’ now that you head up the estate.”

William could almost feel what was coming next. Ever since he had discovered how his father had hopelessly squandered the family’s estates with gambling debts, the most unsavory characters had found reason to approach him for an audience.

“I hadn’t thought to see you this far from London, but it is fortunate indeed.” Twiddlebody shifted his corpulent mass in the groaning chair to sidle closer to William’s ear. “I hold some of your father’s paper, you know. I wouldn’t mention it normally, but as the old Duke has gone on to his just rewards, I thought perhaps you could redeem the marker. It’s my missus, you see; she’s been feeling poorly and—”

“Enough,” William interrupted. “My solicitors have assured me all debts will be resolved shortly. I’m sure once you return to London, the matter will be settled.”

Twiddlebody drew back, his eyes round with surprise. “You’ve uncovered some money then. I was led to believe . . .” His eyes narrowed and he leaned in closer, spewing a foul breath in William’s face.

“Just what are you doing so far from home, Your Grace? You’re not planning on ducking out of your father’s responsibilities, are you?”

Anger bubbled up from William’s gut, blacker than the poison churning in his innards. Perhaps his face reflected a bit of his fury, as Twiddlebody pulled back, a bit of horror reflected on his face as well.

“I apologize, Your Grace, I didn’t mean to imply . . . I mean to say, there isn’t a more honorable man in London than yourself, a gentleman in every sense of the word, a member of the Jockey Club, a man known for his charitable support. Even your father admitted as much. If you say the debt will be paid, then I’m as sure as I’m an Englishman that it will be.”

If the steamer hadn’t taken that moment to pitch suddenly to the left, William would have chanced his uncertain legs to carry him away from the insulting bugger. But if he stood, he was liable to be tossed into Twiddlebody’s lap, a more demeaning hell he could not imagine.

“Which brings me back to the issue of why you’ve ventured out on the high seas,” Twiddlebody continued. “You say there’ll be sufficient funds to cover your father’s . . . er . . . misfortunes.” He hid his mouth beneath his hand as if in deep thought, which William believed was highly unlikely. “This steamer is headed to Newport, a known vacation spot for the rich, and away from New York City, the American business capital.” Twiddlebody’s eyes lit up, and he sat back, a grand smile spreading from ear to ear. “Why, you’re going to catch yourself a wealthy bride, aren’t you?”