My Last Duchess

by James, Eloisa

  Hugo wore a sober coat of dark blue, enlivened by a sumptuous apricot waistcoat. He was standing, since ladies were visiting their box. Two women remained seated: Lady Woolhastings and Lady Knowe, who was wearing a gown à la française that made Ophelia feel a flash of pure jealousy.

  “I would never wear that gown at her age,” Lady Arden said.

  “You wouldn’t?” Ophelia breathed. “I think the blue is exquisite.”

  “Oh, that,” Lady Arden cried. “Not that. Everyone knows that Lady Knowe orders all her fabric from France. No, that sack gown that Lady Woolhastings is wearing.” She shivered.

  Ophelia deliberately hadn’t looked closely at Lady Woolhastings, the woman whom Hugo had chosen to replace her. That sounded bitter, and she had no right to bitterness, given her refusal of his proposal.

  She forced herself to look at Lady Woolhastings as if yesterday’s trip to the Frost Fair had never happened, as if the lady were a stranger. She was wearing a neat, small wig that covered her head with organized rows of curls, and she had a quite pretty face.

  “That’s a very close wig. Do you think that she’s shaved her head?” Lady Arden whispered. “Ladies of my mother’s generation often do so.”

  Ophelia raised her shoulders in a hopeless shrug. Hugo had adored her hair. She couldn’t imagine him in bed with a bald woman.

  “But that dress,” Lady Arden moaned. “Lady Woolhastings is going to be a duchess, and she is wearing a dress that airs her entire bosom to the theater, at her age?”

  The gown in question was fashioned from silk patterned with stripes of red flowers, and horizontal ruffles across the front. Almost none of that cloth appeared above the waist: the lady was flaunting oceans of creamy skin, with only a small ruffle keeping her nipples from open view.

  “Of course, His Grace doesn’t care about her bosom,” Lady Arden said. “He’s interested in her maternal side.”

  Ophelia tormented herself by asking another question. “Her daughters are well married, are they not?”

  “Yes, she’ll be a good mother to his children,” Lady Arden agreed. “Though not even she could marry off his youngest, given the child’s illegitimacy.”

  Ophelia raised a startled eyebrow. Generally, she avoided gossip of this sort, but that was precisely why she was talking to Lady Arden, of course. If she believed in Maddie’s confinement, then everyone would.

  “I hear that the youngest is the spitting image of the Prussian whom his wife ran off with,” Lady Arden whispered, her eyes alight. “Golden hair and a Prussian nose.”

  “I’m certain there is golden hair in the Lindow family line,” Ophelia said firmly, avoiding even the faintest tone of indignation. It never did to show emotion in these situations. “I can hardly imagine a two-year-old with a Prussian nose! I expect it is as stubby and round as my own daughter’s.”

  “You are so good-natured,” Lady Arden said. “It’s a pity that the duke didn’t look to you, my dear. Everyone knows what an excellent mother you are. What’s more, you wouldn’t make such an obvious faux pas. A duchess oughtn’t to expose her bosom to the world.”

  “I couldn’t wear that dress,” Ophelia said with a sigh. “No modiste could manage to confine my bosom with such a small amount of fabric.”

  “Perhaps you would be able to marry off the child of the Prussian, but Lady Woolhastings will not, mark my words. She won’t be a powerful duchess, if you understand what I mean.”

  Ophelia did understand.

  She herself had married above her station when she became espoused to Peter. Luckily, she’d had a relatively smooth introduction to polite society. Peter was an excellent tutor, and she learned a great deal from observation.

  Lady Woolhastings was comfortably used to being among the highest in the land. She was a lady-in-waiting to the queen, for goodness’ sake. She didn’t care what other women said about the inadvisability of wearing a low-cut gown at her age.

  All that didn’t mean she was prepared to negotiate the thicket of scandalmongers.

  No gossip about Lady Woolhastings had ever circulated. Ophelia, on the other hand, had faced rancorous disapproval from some who had considered her uppish and called her a night mushroom because her father had been a mere esquire. They pronounced the marriage a misalliance, eyed her waist for signs of pregnancy, and felt free to speculate about how she might have tricked Peter into proposing.

  In Ophelia’s opinion, Lady Woolhastings likely had no idea how vicious “polite” society could be.

  Thankfully, the end of intermission was signaled by a loud trumpet, and Lady Arden rose to return to her seat.

  “I saw you talking to Lady Arden,” Maddie whispered, once the play began again. “Everyone else was happy for me, but I find her a bit frightening. Did you convince her of my child?”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” Ophelia said.

  But she was thinking.

  And watching the box across the way from under her lashes.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Lady Fernby’s supper after the opera was a small, informal affair.

  “I’m so sorry to have disrupted your numbers,” Ophelia said, curtsying to their hostess.

  Lady Fernby manifestly didn’t mind; she was a jolly woman who rushed to meet them at the door of her drawing room, genuinely thrilled by the news of Maddie’s condition.

  “This shall be my last public outing,” Maddie announced. “But I would be most happy if you paid me a morning call, Lady Fernby. I expect these last months will be endlessly tedious, although I will be lucky enough to have my dear cousin’s company.”

  “Of course, you must go into confinement,” Lady Fernby agreed, nodding. “You’re already showing, my dear. One does not wish to leave society with an unpleasant memory of one’s enlarged waist.”

  Personally, Ophelia thought this was absurd. If she ever carried a child again—which she would not, obviously—she would do exactly as she wished, no matter her size.

  “I agree,” Maddie exclaimed, smiling as proudly as if she were truly carrying a child.

  “Toward the end of my first confinement, I resembled a whale,” Lady Fernby said. “Have you seen images of that sea beast?”

  Maddie shuddered.

  Who would have thought that her cousin would be such a good actress? Ophelia followed her hostess across the drawing room, silently shoring up her resolve to treat Hugo as she might any other gentleman whom she’d met once or twice.

  He rose as they walked toward him, and Ophelia was unable to look away. Wearing pink silk had had a civilizing effect. But now? In sober navy?

  Without a glittering, silky veneer, Hugo was all man. He looked massive and powerful, like a man whose ancestors commanded large armies and built a country. A man who could direct a horse with his knees, the better to use his hands to wield a lance or a sword.

  Did he say that he was judge for the shire? He looked like a judge.

  Not his expression, though.

  She shivered, despite herself. He was staring at her, just as he had in the ballroom when she first saw him. And this time, she had no trouble deciphering his emotions. Hugo was burning with need and desire. There was an unmistakable intimacy in his eyes as well.

  Beside her, Maddie whispered, “Phee! Did you forget to tell me something?”

  They reached the group, and sank into curtsies for a round of greetings.

  “We’ve met,” Maddie said, smiling at the Duke of Lindow mischievously. “You remember, don’t you, Your Grace? It was at a ball some weeks ago. You were asking me . . .” She tapped her chin with a finger. “Now why can’t I remember what it was you were inquiring about?”

  “A woman’s memory is often affected by carrying a child,” Lady Woolhastings commented.

  “May I offer my congratulations on your happy state, Lady Penshallow?” Lady Knowe asked.

  “Thank you,” Maddie said sweetly. “I am very excited. My husband and I have been married for some years without being blessed with fruit o
f our union, so this is a true joy.”

  Something flashed through Lady Knowe’s eyes and Ophelia realized that she knew. Somehow this lady knew that Maddie had a roll of cotton tied around her waist. But one glance at her face told Ophelia that Lady Knowe would never engage in cruel gossip or divulge such an important secret.

  All the same, she had better inform the world that Maddie was confined to bed for the last weeks of her pregnancy. She could handle morning calls herself, just in case more women had the same intuitive grasp of the truth as the duke’s sister.

  “It is a pleasure to see you again, Lady Woolhastings,” Ophelia said, dropping into another curtsy. “I hope you are well?”

  “Absolutely,” the lady said.

  Hugo didn’t say a word, just kissed Ophelia’s hand. But there was something about the intensity with which he looked at her . . .

  Lady Woolhastings showed no signs of feeling possessive, or even particularly happy about the fact that she and Hugo were attending the supper together. And yet they were betrothed.

  Strange. If Hugo were her fiancé . . .

  “Lady Fernby,” Ophelia said, pulling her hand back from Hugo’s, as he showed no sign of letting it go. “Don’t you have a collection of miniatures? I would dearly love to admire it.”

  “Of course!” Their hostess bustled over to the side of the room, where a glass-topped cabinet presumably held her treasures. “Lady Woolhastings, do come look at the darling miniature I have of the queen!”

  Hugo watched as Ophelia walked away without a backward glance.

  Her features were pleasant, whereas her cousin Maddie had the cheekbones of an aristocrat. Ophelia’s figure was round, and her hair—even powdered—unfashionably red.

  But . . . she was the only woman for him.

  She hadn’t looked at him in the theater. She had been seated opposite him, in the front of the Penshallow box, laughing and talking as if he didn’t exist. It was appalling to recognize what happened to him during the five acts of the bloody play—none of which he remembered.

  He had entered the theater a calm, mature man. The moment Ophelia walked into the box opposite his, arm around her pregnant cousin, not even glancing in his direction . . .

  It all changed. He changed.

  By the intermission, a raging river had taken over his blood. She was his, and he loved her, and if she didn’t want him, he would wait forever.

  Bloody forever.

  The mere idea of Edith, Duchess of Lindow, was anathema.

  “Steady,” his sister said, low in his ear.

  He turned to her, unable to say a word.

  She smiled at him with the kind of exuberant, effortless joy with which she had warmed both their lives. “You lucky bastard,” she whispered.

  “I am, aren’t I?”

  “You still have to win her.”

  She walked away, going to look at the miniatures. Hugo stood stock-still, letting the truth sink into his bones.

  Deep down, with a ferociousness that came from loving a woman to her core, he believed that Phee could learn to love him—and that a life with love was better than the most exquisite house in all London.

  He already loved her, because that was simply the way it was for him.

  In fact, he had a firm belief that it was better to be loved in a messy, huge castle than be unloved in the prettiest house in the world.

  He thought he was doing a pretty good job of appearing unemotional . . . until he met the dancing eyes of Ophelia’s cousin, Maddie Penshallow.

  “Good evening,” she said. “I collect that you have come to a conclusion, Your Grace.”

  “I have.”

  “If you don’t mind the impertinence, I agree with your sister; you are a very lucky man.” Without waiting for an answer, she turned in the general direction of the rest of the guests. “Oh, no,” she cried. “’Tis the fault of the child I carry, but I forgot my handkerchief in my pelisse. Ophelia, dearest, won’t you fetch it for me?”

  “I can send a—” Lady Fernby began.

  “Never!” Maddie cut her off with a shudder. “I cannot allow a stranger to touch such an intimate possession. Please forgive me, my lady.”

  “I completely understand,” Hugo’s sister chimed in. “Duke, please accompany Lady Astley to the entry. She may lose her way.”

  She may lose her way?

  Hugo didn’t snort, but it was a near thing.

  After the way Ophelia managed not to see him at the theater, he would have expected her to refuse, but instead she gave him a small smile. “I would be most grateful for your company, Your Grace.”

  “It isn’t very far,” Lady Fernby said, clearly uncertain whether the structure of her house, or possibly her household, was being insulted. “This drawing room is in the back of the house, but . . .”

  “I have a terrible sense of direction,” Ophelia said. “His Grace and I shall return with your handkerchief in a minute or two, Maddie.”

  As they walked toward the door, Hugo heard Maddie ask Lady Woolhastings if she’d met his “horde of children.”

  Before Lady Woolhastings could respond, she added in a horror-laden voice, “I understand there are ten or eleven of them.”

  “Lady Penshallow is your cousin, Phee,” Hugo said, once they left the chamber. “It seems she wants you to be a duchess. In fact, it could be that my sister and your cousin will unite to warn off Lady Woolhastings.”

  Ophelia stopped short. “What?” She looked stupefied.

  “Did you mind?” Hugo asked, catching her hands in his. “You refused me, after all.”

  “Of course, I mind!” she said tartly. “No lady likes to think that she can be replaced in a gentleman’s affections within a matter of hours.” She gave him a wry look. “It is a blow to one’s self-esteem.”

  Ophelia’s red hair gleamed through the light powder she wore. She was perfect, from her deep lower lip to her pointed chin. “Do you know what I realized at the Frost Fair?” Hugo asked. “I remembered you as so beautiful that I thought perhaps I had imagined it; you couldn’t have been as lovely as I believed. But you were.”

  She looked up at him, utter shock on her face. “I’m not beautiful! I’m nice enough looking. Maddie is beautiful.”

  Hugo shook his head. They were standing in a corridor that led to the front of the house. They couldn’t stay here; the butler would appear in a moment with refreshments.

  He pushed open the door directly across the corridor and discovered a small morning room, probably Lady Fernby’s private refuge, given the basket of knitting and the gossip sheets lying to the side of a comfortable chair.

  “My lady?” he said, walking inside and holding the door open.

  Ophelia bit her lip.

  He smiled at her, letting the deep joy he felt show on his face. His mind was racing. Kisses wouldn’t be enough to convince Ophelia to marry him. He had to woo her. Court her, the way a future duchess deserved.

  But on the other hand, he . . .

  She walked inside and turned about to face him. To him, she was already a duchess: utterly composed even in moments of deep impropriety, as now.

  “May I kiss you?” Hugo asked, shutting the door and putting on the latch as well.

  She looked rather amused. “That wouldn’t be a good idea,” she observed. “You accompanied another woman to this supper, Hugo. One whom you have asked to marry you.”

  At least she was calling him Hugo.

  “I can’t marry Lady Woolhastings,” he said flatly. “And by the way, I never proposed to her; she seems to have misunderstood. I considered it, and then I saw you in the theater and realized that if I can’t have you, I’d rather be alone.”

  A soundless breath came from her mouth. “Truly?”

  He nodded, his throat tight. “Truly.”

  “But I’m not beautiful, not that kind of beauty, the kind that would inspire a man to—to turn down marriage if he can’t have me. I’m . . . I’m ordinary.”

  “You
are not at all ordinary.” He said it with the confidence of a man who had always trusted his own opinion above that of others. “I’m not the only one to think so, but in any case, I’m not in love with your beauty alone. My sister told me of your first marriage. She rarely comes to London, but she has a vast number of correspondents.”

  “I see,” Ophelia said. She folded her hands before her. She was wearing a gown that he recognized, thanks to Louisa, as being à la française. His sister wore monstrous petticoats this evening, with a silk gown embroidered with birds of paradise.

  Hugo found he vastly preferred a simple rose stripe, albeit decorated with silver-edged ruffles.

  “Sir Peter was lucky enough to be introduced to you during your first foray into society,” he said now. “He was smart enough to know what he had in front of him, and he snatched you up before another gentleman had a chance.”

  She shook her head. “It wasn’t like that. My parents knew his parents . . .”

  “Your parents’ only mistake was that they underestimated your charms,” Hugo said deliberately. “Sir Peter saw you, an intelligent, gorgeous, and sensual woman, and he knew he’d found gold. I wouldn’t be surprised if he proposed to you during your second dance.”

  She blinked. “Over supper following our second dance.”

  “Had he waited until the next day, he wouldn’t have been able to afford you,” Hugo said. “Polite society is a ruthless marketplace. I saw you during your first entry into society after widowhood. I knew that I had no time, so I followed you into a snowstorm. Why do you suppose that was?”

  A smile was easing the corners of her lips. “Could we simply agree that you and Peter were slightly mad, and leave it at that?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t want to win you under false pretenses. I think you could likely have any bachelor of your choice in all London, Phee.”

  She was laughing now. “Including the twenty-year-olds, just leaving Oxford?”

  “Those too.” He meant it. “London is full of women who are brittle, angry, or—like my second wife—dissatisfied. You look like a person who knows how to be happy.”