Yesterday, at least, he’d been poor but not in debt.
Today, he was titled and the holder of more than one house, yet the law could come for him. The irony wasn’t lost upon him. It was keenly unfair that, ordinarily, dukes were untouchable, so commanding that they were not generally held to consequences for their actions. Thomas had truly ruined that for him.
“All right,” said Lee. “When shall I go to him?”
“I had an appointment with him tomorrow at three in the afternoon, but I shall give it to you.”
“Oh?”
“You need his services far more than I do.”
That was true. Paul’s wardrobe was the envy of any dandy. “I suppose I do.”
This Kilgrave needed to make him look like a duke, because he certainly did not feel like one. He doubted he ever would.
Chapter Three
Miss Theodora Driffield would never have wished for her family to be poor. To do so would be ignorant and, she thought, crass and unfeeling. It was quite a privilege to even think that her life before having means was actually more enjoyable than it now was. But she was fast learning that having a fortune, however new it was compared to others’ fortunes, meant she now had to adhere to certain social protocols that her older sister never had to meet.
Her older sister, the widowed and worldly woman whose existence seemed, on the whole, slightly less complex and loaded than Teddie’s.
Teddie could be jealous of that, specifically, but she could not be angry with Emma.
“Theodora, you have to see sense,” Emma said, without a hint of superciliousness, from her perch on the window seat in Teddie’s bedroom. She was just trying to help.
Like Teddie, she had to veritably cram herself into the little seat. Both sisters had grown from coltish girls into tall, solid women. Unlike Teddie’s almost garish red hair and freckles, though, all of Emma’s features were quiet shades of warm sable.
Teddie scowled. Not that she wanted to be so displeased with Emma. She wasn’t; it was just a contentious topic of conversation. “You only call me Theodora when you are vexed with me. I see nothing sensible about being dragged to a ball or musicale and paraded about like some kind of prized heifer waiting to be auctioned off.”
“Think of it this way,” said Emma, “at least you are not on the verge of being destitute. Mother and Father may want you married, but it is not as though they cannot afford to support you.”
“They can afford it, indeed,” Teddie said.
That was, to her mind, rather the problem. She knew enough girls and women had no choice but to get married as quickly as they possibly could or risk family censure, the loss of their funds, or general ridicule. It was ridiculous. If she calmed herself enough to admit it, she knew that she was highly fortunate in that most basic regard. Her mother might project herself as far too gauche for Teddie’s taste, but she and Father had never said they would stop supporting her if she did not find a husband immediately—or as close to immediately as a human being could feasibly manage.
Still, until Father had managed to build himself a small empire thanks to, of all things, shawls and textiles, no one had made her scrub to within an inch of her life. Or truss up in the latest fashions.
Forget a heifer; she felt like a fat, Christmas goose given pride of place on the table.
Pride, that was what this was.
Wealth had changed her mother and, to a lesser extent, her father. It wouldn’t do, in their minds, for their Teddie to secure a husband unworthy of her station. Their new station. Mother had always been rather overbearing, but now she regarded Teddie as a symbol of status and bargaining. Or so she felt. There could have been more innocent motivations to it.
It was too late for them to use Emma, who was a decade Teddie’s senior and had already married. And been widowed. She was still within her first year of mourning, though somehow managed to make her mourning garments look elegant and serene. Besides, thought Teddie with an enormous amount of sympathy for her sister, Emma was most likely unable to have children if her married years were any indication. Though she and her late husband had seemed untroubled by the discovery, Mother was displeased.
Someone had to have an heir who could inherit all of this.
In a roundabout way, that seemed to be another motivation behind her parents’ fervor to find a suitable husband for their unmarried daughter. Teddie, who had just turned one and twenty, was not past a marriageable age.
With a huff, she eyed the dress that Bess, her lady’s maid, had left on her bed. It was a pale shade of blue, the color of the summer sky after a clear sunrise. It would doubtless set off her hair, which was more of a bright ginger than the auburn supposedly beloved by poets and painters. When she’d been a child, she’d been mercilessly teased by other children who mocked her freckles and the hair that went with them.
Only a few years ago, men had rarely paid her any attention. They thought she was too tall, too big, too freckled, too outspoken—too much.
How things had changed since her come out last year.
Now, there were men—largely brought forth by her mother at public functions—who took great care to praise her coloring and her educated opinions. She wagered that if she ever let them, they might praise her ample bosom, too, which had never been praised before in her life.
Emma said, her tone softening, “Teddie. It will be all right. You may be surprised.”
“How? How will it be all right?”
“Well, what if you meet someone you want to get to know?”
“I’m sure it will be someone unsuitable. A footman, perhaps.”
That would be her luck. But she did not really believe in love. It seemed to be the stuff of fanciful stories that people told women to fill their heads with nonsense so that they would not have an eye to accomplishing anything bigger than having a family.
But, she especially did not want to be bound to someone odious for the rest of her life or his. Flinching, she thought again of bearing children, this time wondering if she ever would. Maybe like Emma, she couldn’t. That would not be so terrible. Childbirth deeply frightened her. She would not go through that for someone she only regarded as mildly acceptable, even and especially if it was what her parents wanted.
Yet—she thought ruefully, wondering about her state of mind—despite its more superficial connotations, her more immediate concern was the customary sniping of the ton. Seeing as the Driffields were not an old family and certainly not of the peerage or aristocracy, they were subject to all kinds of judgment and gossip. Do not delude yourself, Teddie. They would gossip even if you were titled, she told herself.
“Don’t be difficult,” Emma said, shifting a little chuckle into a cough. Between the two of them, she was more reserved, though she was not a mouse.
“I am not being difficult. Unless the truth is difficult.”
Often, Teddie got the sense that Emma only tried to speak neutrally about their parents because she was the older sister and felt it was her duty to keep the peace. Or at least to keep the civility. Peace was not an easy thing to maintain in the Driffield household.
“Promise me you will give it a try.”
“Give what a try?” Suspicious, Teddie turned her attention more fully to Emma.
“Tonight, when you go to the Sutherlands’ ball, please promise that you will not verbally spar with every man to whom you are introduced. I am certain that some will be pleasant if you give them the opportunity.”
A little sheepish, Teddie shrugged. “Only for you.” Emma was correct: she was prone to subtly goading every man she met simply to see how far she could take the sport. The pity was, many did not realize that she was playing with them, which did not convince her that men were intelligent creatures in general. There must be some clever ones, somewhere, but she had not yet met them.
If they did understand what she was about, they became ruffled, and it did not say much about their characters in her estimation.
Maybe Emma was
right.
Maybe tonight would be different. She doubted it would.
But she could try to have some faith that things would work out better than she was currently dreading.
*
Sticklers might point out that he should be in mourning for his brother, but he had deeper concerns at the moment than mourning someone who’d been consistently horrible to him. For all that Lee could be sympathetic in regards to their upbringing and Father’s distant, calculating ways, the fact remained that Thomas could have stood up for Lee and never did. On top of that, he’d left an immense tangle for Lee to get through. It was a Gordian knot of the most epic proportions. But Lee had no sword.
It was impressive in a dismal way just how thoroughly the recently deceased Duke of Welburn managed to decimate every aspect of stability they’d had.
He looked ahead, smoothing the scowl from his countenance. The Sutherlands’ titanic ballroom, packed with well-heeled members of the ton, bordered with gilt and mirrors that multiplied bodies into a dizzying barrage of colors, blurs, and movement, was as daunting as any battlefield he cared to remember. This was Lee’s first appearance at such an event in years, and it was his first appearance as the Duke of Welburn anywhere at all.
At least he had the clothes for the occasion, he thought, looking at his coat and its magnificent cobalt hue. Mr. Kilgrave had managed to make him appear a duke, and as it usually did, his cravat still covered the scarring on his throat. Although he had almost forgotten about what it looked like or perhaps had just gotten used to it, strangers could find it distracting. Not that he blamed them. The thing hadn’t healed to be small and unobtrusive; it was quite an obvious jagged line of white flesh the shade of a dead fish’s belly.
Now he had only to act like a duke. He’d had tutoring, of course, and learned the rules of comportment. What he had not learned was the bearing he assumed they possessed naturally. Father always said Thomas had it, not Lee.
Fortunately, he was an actor. An expert at copying and improvising. Taking a long breath, he continued to step through the room which, unlike the foyer where his arrival had been announced, did not seem to pay him any special mind.
There had been an eddy of curious looks accompanied by an excited hum not unlike that which permeated the pit before an opening night. If Lee just pretended he was about to take the stage, he reckoned he could manage his anxiety.
For as soon as he belied any of his nerves, he would be done for. It would not do.
Firstly, because ladies did not want a nervous man, and secondly, because he would give no satisfaction to the buzzards who now circled the landscape of his mysterious life, waiting for the carcasses of old secrets to become vulnerable.
No, he would not give them anything on which to feed.
The interest was no doubt inspired by both his brother’s habits and the vague circumstances of his death. While it had taken some doing, he, Clyde, and Thomas’ physician had managed to keep the realities of the latter out of the papers. As far as he knew.
And until the news of the new Duke of Welburn’s presence had filtered through the foyer and into the main crowd of attendees, he was shrouded from too much attention. Men and especially women registered his arrival. He was an unknown entity even if the title was not. However, what kept their interest was that he appeared as wealthy as a duke ought.
That was completely intentional.
He had used the last of his available funds to procure this attire and could only hope that it would pay off in the end.
He had been in crowds before. Smaller than this, but indubitably rowdier. The trouble was, in spite of the collected and comparatively calm nature of the attendees, things were feeling very close and very tight. He could see no one he knew or even vaguely knew.
Since panic wasn’t an option, he went for the periphery of the grand room and searched for the nearest doorway leading out of it. He didn’t much mind where it would take him, but the comfort of having an exit available was necessary.
As he tried to make himself relax, he could not help but notice a tall, young woman exchanging terse, rushed words with an older lady next to her. They stood only a few feet away from Lee and, unless he missed his guess, they must have been mother and daughter, or otherwise closely related. The older lady had a darker complexion and more auburn hair than the younger’s, who was thoroughly freckled and boasted a mane of locks that was all but orange. Lee thought it would have been a challenge to mix such a shade of paint.
Intrigued, he tried to listen without appearing as though he were eavesdropping.
“Theodora, you will make a horrid name for yourself!”
That was the older of the two speaking.
Theodora, who now blushed a red whose opacity rivaled that of her hair, crossed her arms and glared. “Mother, you shall give yourself a nosebleed if you don’t calm down.”
“I am being calm, my dear,” snapped Theodora’s mother. “You do not wish to see me lose my temper. Rest assured, I will not do so here, but I will be more than capable to resume this discussion later and behind closed doors. You were an absolute harridan to Lord Macbeth.”
“Well, seeing as he is from Glasgow, I assume he is used to spirited ladies. I have never heard of a Scottish girl praised for her docility, and do you know what? I envy them immensely.”
Her words made Lee smirk. He knew that it was not true for every woman from Scotland. How could it be? The English so often assumed it that the fiery Scottish lass had become something of a fable. At least, he’d been in several productions where the female lead had been obliged to play such a part. Wee Sue confirmed that she’d often been cast in such roles and caricatured her own accent for Londoners’ amusement. Most of them didn’t know any better, she said.
Theodora’s mother’s brown eyes bulged in indignation. “Where he is from does not matter! What matters is your stubborn refusal to act with any gentility whatsoever. Do you wish for people to criticize you? To say that everything they have heard about the common set is true?”
“Even if I were a princess of the blood, I should think this lot would find something to criticize about me. Look at me—I tower over all the dainty things here and, if I had my guess, I’d wager I’m probably twice as heavy.”
“Do not say such things where anyone can overhear them!”
Lee didn’t think anyone, save him, could. And he didn’t think she was ugly. Quite the opposite, in fact. She was captivating.
“Perhaps I shall marry Lord Macbeth after all, and relocate to the north, where I doubt anyone will pick at me the way that you do.”
“At the rate you are snubbing men, even the north may not be an option.”
Coolly, Theodora blinked at her mother and said, “If you will excuse me, Mother, I shall take some air to compose myself and endeavor to return a lady worth showing off to the next lecherous old man. This gown has been quite a success, but even you must admit that it is because of how it showcases my breasts. Men are such base creatures that I should not be surprised at where their eyes wander.”
Lee had to obscure a laugh behind his hand, both at Theodora’s frankness and her mother’s look of horrified shock that she’d dared to utter the word breasts in such a public space. It was too bad he could not marry a woman who had the courage to say things like that in this genteel context. Then, at least, he might stand a chance of liking her. He wondered what Theodora had said to this Lord Macbeth.
But from the sound of things, she faced a similar conundrum to his own.
She must have needed a husband who could provide for her.
Chancing a quick, covert look at her aforementioned bosom, he silently agreed with her that the gown did display the assets most splendidly. He couldn’t imagine the majority of men being blind to them.
She was, thought Lee, Amazonian. Statuesque. And her coloring certainly commanded attention, too.
A perfect Titania, perhaps? he asked himself.
When Theodora walked out of the ballroom
and through the door nearest them, she spared him little more than a passing glance, but he saw that her face was still red with displeasure and frustration. She did not look like the type to cry, but she was still blushing furiously under the heavy mantle of her freckles. He lingered where he was. This was not the world of the theater; he could hardly go after a woman to whom he was not introduced, even if all he wanted to do was speak with her.
It was a warm evening and he knew that there would be other people, probably couples, on the terrace that no doubt the door led to. So long as she was not accompanied by a strange man, no one would assume she was trying to get away with anything untoward.
Not for the first time, he wished Paul had come with him. The man always had an uncanny ability for putting people at ease. In this case, Lee needed to be put at ease. And his friend always knew how to conduct himself, even if the rake chose to disregard his knowledge in choice scenarios.
Yes, Lord Paul Hareden would have known how to begin speaking to someone. Anyone.
Lord Emilian Valencourt, Duke of Welburn, only knew how to do that outside of this insufferable room. He was at home with the most disparaged denizens of London. This glowing world of cold smiles and glinting eyes just confused him.
Right now, he was essentially a wallflower. He didn’t want undue attention. But he had come here to make some kind of headway toward a goal. How was he to do it if he felt so out of his depths? The feeling that the walls and mirrors and gold and ornate floral arrangements in their vases were all crashing in around him redoubled.
Before he really thought better of it, he went out the same door that Theodora had used to escape her mother.
A short corridor led through to the terrace as he’d thought it might and, soon enough, he was outside and under a dark sky cloaked in fog and clouds. He steadied his nerves, clenching his fists, before he looked around. There were the individuals he’d expected, the courting couples and the little clusters of older matrons.
Duke of Misfortune Page 7
