Beauty's Rose (Once Upon A Regency Book 4)

by Rebecca J. Greenwood

The sharp-eyed woman ran her gaze over Beauty critically, then she gave a nod of her head. The elder did not. Beauty realized the woman’s eyes were milky white and unfocused. She was blind.

  The other spoke to the blind lady. “Your Grace, here is our new guest, Miss Reynolds. Miss Reynolds, this is the Duchess of Rosden, mother to the current duke.”

  Beauty’s stomach clenched, but she executed a low curtsy. “It is an honor to meet you, Your Grace.”

  “And I am Lady Judith Horton, companion to the Duchess of Rosden.”

  Beauty curtsied again, with a murmured, “How do you do?”

  “You arrived today, young lady?” the white-haired, white-eyed woman asked.

  “Yes, soon after the noon hour.”

  The old woman held out her hand. It shook, but the command was clear. Beauty came closer and took the noblewoman’s hand in her gloved one.

  Beauty swallowed down nervous intimidation. Could the sensitive touch of the blind duchess perceive the roughness of Beauty’s hands through the gloves? Could just Beauty’s voice, or any unevenness in her manners, reveal to the duchess her visitor’s low origins?

  A wild worry that the duchess would pull off the glove and discover Beauty’s baseness—every callus and rough patch on Beauty’s hands—assailed her. The rough cuticles, short utilitarian nails. Beauty’s hands were the hands of a laboring woman—dishes, laundry, digging in the garden, caring for her family in every way she could.

  She steadied herself against irrational panic and forced herself to hold still.

  The duchess covered the top of Beauty’s hand with her ungloved ones, her skin thin and delicate, the veins showing her age. Even a duchess aged, and her hands showed the signs of it. A smile came over the duchess’s face, lighting her with a beauty that had nothing to do with her physical appearance, and all to do with kindness in her spirit within.

  “You are very welcome here, Miss Reynolds. It is good to meet you.”

  Her fingers squeezed Beauty’s, and a calm reassurance passed over Beauty at the gentleness in her words. Beauty’s shoulders relaxed, and the tension drained out of her. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  The duchess kept hold of her hand. “My son spoke to me of inviting a Beauty to visit with me. Are you she?”

  Beauty felt a blush rise on her cheeks. “My name is Isabelle, and my family does call me Beauty. A pet name.”

  “How sweet.” The duchess stroked her hand. “And what are your accomplishments, Beauty—shall I call you Beauty?”

  “As you desire, Your Grace.”

  “I thank you. What are your accomplishments, Beauty?”

  She forced herself to focus on the question. “I do have the general accomplishments, ma'am. Some French, some Italian. I have musical training, but I am sadly out of practice.”

  “What instrument?”

  “Pianoforte, and the harp. Though, again, quite out of practice.”

  “Do you sing?”

  “Yes. Middling skill, I would say.”

  “Hmm. And is she a beauty, to match her name?” The duchess raised her voice.

  “Oh, no, it could best be considered ironic—” Beauty’s face grew hot.

  “She is,” a deep voice said from behind her.

  Beauty looked up with surprise, and her hand slipped from the duchess’s grasp. A large man in dark evening clothes had entered without her notice.

  “Ah, my William, there you are.” The duchess held out her hands to him. The man approached, a slight limp in his step making his heavy tread uneven.

  Beauty let out a gasp.

  The duke was tall, his dark hair cropped and swept forward in a fashionably wild cut. His clothing was as immaculate as only an excellent valet could contrive, his neckcloth expertly tied.

  He was broad-shouldered and heavily built, a strong man. His jaw was heavy, his mouth wide, his brows low and thick, and his skin rough and pockmarked. Only one gray-colored eye was visible, the other covered by a black eyepatch.

  It was Will Grant.

  Gone were the rough clothes, and, as he greeted the duchess, the uneducated speech. The transformation of clothing and posture was extreme, but there was no denying it.

  Beauty gaped at him and backed away. She cast her eyes quickly at the blind duchess and her companion. Lady Judith frowned at her, but then she turned to Will Grant the duke and said, “Your Grace, a good evening to you.”

  “Good evening, Cousin Judith.” The duke gave a nod to her and took the duchess’s hands in his own. “How are you, Mother?” He bent and kissed her cheek. “Well, I trust?”

  “Very well, now that you are returned, William. Where did you go this time? I’m told you arrived at the crack of dawn, having ridden all night. You should not endanger yourself so.”

  “I had business to attend to. Just the usual sort, Mother. And I wanted to be home.”

  He turned to Beauty. “Miss Reynolds, it is a pleasure to see you again.” He bowed, his mouth up-ticked at one side.

  Her head was spinning, her nerves firing in alarm over her body. She could make neither heads nor tails of this situation. She backed another step, forced her mouth closed, and through her trembling nerves, said, “Your Grace?” She tilted her head up. “I do not believe we have been properly introduced.”

  Something she could not interpret flashed in his eye. “You are quite right.” He straightened, faced her, and bowed. “Forgive my forwardness, Miss Reynolds, but may I introduce myself to you? I am William, 6th Duke of Rosden, 15th Earl of Stanbridge, 16th Viscount Thornewick, and 24th Baron Grant.” He rose and kept his gaze on her face, looking down on her from his great height.

  She stared at him, her mind whirling.

  “William, why are you spouting your titles in such an odd way?” the duchess asked.

  Beauty forced her body to lower into a deep curtsey. “It is an honor to meet you, Your Grace. I am, as you know, Isabelle Reynolds.”

  “What is this strange conversation? I thought you invited her, William?”

  “Forgive us, Mother. Miss Reynolds and I have never formally met. I am, however, well acquainted with her father. We had business together in London, so much so that I invited him to stay at Rosden House while he was there.” The duke’s eye slid to Beauty, his voice remaining friendly, but his face watchful. Beauty stiffened.

  “But do not think ill of Miss Reynolds,” he continued. “We have met before, though quite informally, and I did not tell her all of who I was.”

  “She looks like she’s seen a ghost, so white she is,” Lady Judith said.

  “Not a ghost,” Beauty forced out. She shook her head. “But I am—” shocked, dismayed, aghast . . . She took in the company and only said—“surprised. I was not expecting . . .”

  She trailed off, at a loss to say what she expected of the beastly duke who threatened to destroy her father’s life over a rose.

  The man caught her eye and opened his mouth, his expression earnest. “Miss Reynolds, I—”

  The butler announced dinner, and what the duke—the duke!—was to say was lost in the bustle to escort the duchess in to dinner.

  Chapter 7

  The duchess sat at the head of the long table, the duke at her side. Beauty was seated at the other side of her, across from the duke. A position of honor, displacing the duchess’s companion, she was sure, by the woman’s displeased look.

  Beauty was a poor conversationalist this evening. She sat in silent confusion and stomach-clenched turmoil as conversation of Parliament, European politics, and people she was only familiar with from gossip columns swirled around her. Her shock-numbed mind did not follow. She picked at the food and forced herself not to stare across at Will Grant the duke.

  He was an entirely different man than she had thought him to be. She kept feeling the duke’s gaze on her, a prickling feeling that left her tense and breathless.

  She fought down tears of confusion and drank a little too much of t
he wine that a footman kept her supplied with.

  During the second course, the duchess turned to Beauty. “Now, Beauty, my dear, where are you from?”

  Beauty steeled herself to outward passivity. "I was raised in London, but lately my family has resided in North Lenton in Gloucestershire.”

  "Ah, I am familiar with that village. My dearly departed George had property near, and we spent a few happy summers at that estate. At Clayden Hall.”

  “Yes, we now live quite near Clayden Hall.”

  The duke spoke. “That is how we met, Mother. When I was visiting the Hall."

  “Ah, and how did you find it? And is Mr. Mitchell still steward there? A fine man.”

  “He is in retirement, and his son has taken on his duties as steward,” the duke answered. “There are some adjustments and ‘growing pains’ with the young Mr. Mitchell. But I’m sure all will soon be to rights.”

  Beauty frowned, turned to her plate, and tried to keep the frown from being a scowl. The young Mr. Mitchell left much to be desired.

  The duke did not mention to his mother how he had been dressed when he met Beauty near Clayden Hall. How he had not acted as a duke at all. How he had deceived her.

  Her head was spinning. She stopped herself from drinking any more.

  During the third course, the duchess turned her face in Beauty’s direction again. “Can we expect a performance from you this evening, Beauty? You play the pianoforte and sing, you said?”

  Beauty’s stomach roiled. She set her fork down with a clatter. “I—forgive me, Your Grace, but I assure you, I am far too out of practice—”

  “Tomorrow?” the duke interrupted. “Or the next day? Would you grace us with a performance? I can show you the instruments after supper, and you can reintroduce yourself to them tomorrow.”

  She forced her voice to be steady. “If I have adequate opportunity to practice, I suppose I may exhibit in two days’ time.”

  “Excellent!” The duchess smiled. “I will not forget, Beauty, so I do hope you will apply yourself these next two days. Dear Judith has not the ear for music, I’m afraid.”

  “No, I do not.” The woman sniffed.

  Beauty felt like sinking into her chair, but she kept herself upright. “I will be pleased to perform, if it would please you, Your Grace. In two days’ time.” She could re-master at least one piece in two days, could she not?

  ***

  Finally, the duchess stood to withdraw. Leaning on the arm of her footman attendant, she led the ladies to the drawing room, leaving the duke behind in the dining room.

  Beauty welcomed a few minutes’ reprieve from his presence, but she could not let down her guard. The duchess and her companion were formidable, and Beauty was perhaps in even more danger of misstepping in their company.

  “Sit near me, Beauty,” the duchess said. Beauty obeyed, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.

  “You have Noisette Carnée in your hair, do you not?”

  Beauty blinked in surprise. ”Pardon, Your Grace?”

  “The pink roses in your hair.” The duchess gestured with her hand.

  “Yes, ma’am, there are pink roses in my hair.” Beauty froze, anxiety sending a spike of unease through her. “The maid who attended me supplied them. I hope it is unobjectionable—”

  “Oh, yes, that is good.” She waved a hand. Beauty’s tension eased. “I recognize them by the smell.” She laid a finger beside her nose. “Those distinct notes of clove. Lovely. A recent acquisition from America. I know every rose grown in our gardens and greenhouses.”

  “To have such beautiful blossoms in March is quite remarkable,” Beauty said, hoping to prompt the duchess to elaborate. The more Beauty understood of the duke and roses, the better.

  “William ensures I have fragrant blossoms year round. My son is so kind to me.”

  “Are there a great many?”

  “Oh, yes, though they are still only blooming in the greenhouses. You must see them. Tomorrow, cousin Judith, will you give Beauty a tour of the house and grounds?”

  “As you wish, Your Grace.” Lady Judith’s face was not welcoming.

  Beauty sat back. “I do not wish to be a trouble.”

  “No trouble,” the duchess said. “Do you have an interest in reading, Beauty?” She turned the conversation.

  “Yes, Your Grace. I have a great love of reading, actually.”

  “Ah, then, will you read to me? Judith’s voice gives out much too soon. And often at the most important parts.” The duchess reached unerringly and patted Lady Judith’s hand with a smile.

  Lady Judith’s mouth twisted and she rolled her eyes.

  Beauty’s eyes darted between the two women, trying to gauge the dynamic between them. “I would be happy to, Your Grace.”

  “I do believe we are in the middle of Rob Roy. Do fetch it, Henry.”

  The dark-skinned footman moved to a sideboard where several books sat, chose one, and brought it to Beauty. She accepted it with a murmured thanks and examined the volume. Her heart lightened. The newest novel from the author of Waverley! She had longed to read it. And now, perhaps, she could? She would read to the duchess all day long and into the night, if she would have the opportunity to read the entirety.

  It was the second volume of the novel. She would not know what was going on, but no matter. She turned to the marked place in the book with eager fingers.

  “You aren’t pulling out one of your gothics, cousin?” Lady Judith said with dry amusement in her voice.

  “Let us discover how Beauty reads before I shock her too outrageously.”

  Beauty sat up tall and raised the book in front of her. “Shall I begin?”

  “Yes, my dear, begin.” The duchess gave a nod.

  Beauty read aloud. When a character’s speech indicated, she applied what she hoped was a passable Scottish brogue to the dialogue. She paused at the end of the page to gauge the duchess’s reaction.

  “Ah, very good. Keep going. Judith, my knitting?”

  Beauty waited as the duchess’s companion pulled out a ball of yarn and a set of knitting needles with a project in progress. Lady Judith placed the project in the duchess’s hands, and the ball of yarn in a pretty bowl on a side table, arranging the yarn for it to be easy for the duchess to draw out. The duchess ran her fingers over the stitches, picked up the needles, and began to knit. “Do go on, my girl.”

  “Oh, forgive me, I was just surprised.” Beauty’s finishing school classes had insisted that high-born ladies did not do handwork so prosaic and practical as knitting.

  “If you wait, I will soon present you with a scarf. Our tenants love to receive gifts knitted by a duchess.” The duchess gave a twinkling smile.

  Beauty could not help but grin. “That is a high honor indeed, Your Grace.”

  “Read, my girl, read.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  After several pages, a movement to her side caught her attention, and Beauty looked up from the story. It was the duke, and he watched her with an intent, inscrutable gaze.

  The next lines caught in Beauty’s throat.

  He stepped forward out of the shadows. “Do not let me interrupt, Miss Reynolds.”

  “Yes, my William, do not interrupt,” the duchess ordered with a teasing tone.

  Beauty flushed in confusion and turned her gaze back onto the page. Where had she been? The words swam before her eyes.

  The duchess spoke into Beauty’s long pause. “William, you did not linger long?”

  “I found solitary port less than interesting this evening. As I have managed to disrupt, forgive me and let me continue, as I have a gift for you, Mother. It is the next book to be read after this one is completed.”

  “Oh?”

  The duke walked past Beauty and placed three morocco-bound volumes into his mother’s hands. “A horrid novel, one to terrify you. All are talking about it in London.”

  Beauty could not h
elp but smile as the duchess examined the books with her fingers, a delighted grin on her face.

  The duke sat down in a chair near Beauty. His eye caught hers, and she cast her gaze back onto the book in her hands.

  “The rumor is,” he continued to his mother, “that it was written by a lady, though many are shocked by its contents.”

  “What is its title?”

  “Frankenstein; or, the Modern Prometheus. I read it in London and enjoyed it, if enjoyment is the right word for a tragedy.”

  “I think I have read about it in the papers,” his mother said. “I am excited to hear it. Is it appropriate for tender and young ears?”

  “Though horrid, if those ears are not too timid to be overcome, perhaps.”

  Beauty felt his eyes on her again.

  “What say you, Beauty? Are you willing to risk the horrors in this new novel?” the duchess asked.

  Beauty lifted her chin. “I would love to read it.”

  The duchess smiled. “Good. Ah, but I grow weary. It is time to stop for the night. I desire more of your time tomorrow, Beauty, to read to me.”

  “It would be an honor, Your Grace.”

  “After she practices, Mother, if she is to perform for us,” the duke said. He didn’t take his eyes off Beauty.

  Beauty’s heart tripped.

  “Yes, yes.” The duchess waved a hand. “I will not monopolize all her time. Goodnight, my son.”

  He rose and kissed his mother’s cheek. The company stood as the duchess’s footman assisted her out of her chair.

  “Goodnight, Judith,” she said as she exited, her nurse trailing behind.

  “I’ll be retiring later.” Lady Judith, glasses perched on her nose, raised her embroidery hoop and lifted her needle. She gave a pointed look to the duke.

  “Very good, cousin Judith,” the duke said. Then he approached Beauty, his gaze intent.

  Beauty clutched the volume of Rob Roy to her chest.

  “Let me show you the music room. You can practice there tomorrow.” He stopped before her. He was so big.

  “Oh, but I should—“ She eased away.

  “It is only through this door here.” He gestured toward a set of doors on the opposite wall from the dining room.