Duchess Diaries [2] How to Pursue a Princess

by Karen Hawkins

  He nodded. “Lady Charlotte can tell you, for she is wearing some now.”

  Lady Charlotte touched her lace collar. “Oh yes. It’s very expensive, but worth every penny. I bought a yard of it and it cost me dearly, but the detail is exquisite.”

  “It is settled, then. You shall have a shop in Oxenburg.” When Lily didn’t respond, he added, “If you want one on Bond Street, too, I shall buy you one there, as well.”

  “But . . . Wulf, you can’t buy me a shop.”

  “Pah!” Wulf’s grandmother said. “I cannot believe she thinks a prince cannot afford to pay for his own wife! If Wulf says he will buy you a shop, he will. Two might be excessive, but”—the grand duchess shrugged—“the funds are his to do with as he wishes.”

  “Funds? But . . .” Lily looked up at Wulf. “You have ‘funds’?”

  He hesitated. “Lily, my love, there is something I must tell you.”

  “But . . . you said you were poor.”

  “Ha!” his grandmother said. “A poor prince!”

  “There are poor princes all over Europe,” the duchess pointed out.

  “Not in Oxenburg.” His grandmother looked at Wulf. “Tell her. There should be no secrets.”

  Wulf sighed. “Lily, I never said I was poor. I said I was poorer than my brothers, which is true.”

  Lily pulled away. “You live in a cottage.”

  “For years, women have pursued me—or rather, my bank accounts. I did not wish anyone to marry me for money, so I came here where I am unknown and bought the cottage—”

  “And the manse on the hill,” his grandmother added. “It is a lovely house. Better than this one.”

  The duchess stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”

  Lily’s attention never left Wulf. “And so your brothers . . .”

  “They are very wealthy. Very, very wealthy.”

  “That is true,” his grandmother said. “Meanwhile Wulf has only four houses and one hunting lodge. His brothers all have many more.”

  “See?” Wulf said, a twinkle in his green eyes. “I am a very modest prince.”

  “You—how dare you tell me—and when I was so honest with you!”

  “Moya, I am sorry. I didn’t mean to trick you, but I had to know that you’d come to me for one reason only: that you loved me.”

  She frowned, wanting to be angry, but her sense of fairness poked her firmly between the shoulder blades. “I suppose I didn’t really give you much choice, after I announced I had to marry a man of wealth.”

  “You had no choice. Or you didn’t believe you did. But from the moment I saw you, I knew you were the one for me. And now, you will marry me and we will deal with these problems together, you and I.”

  “Together.”

  “Forever. For richer or poorer, in sickness and in health.” He placed a finger under her chin and lifted her face to his. “Moya, I am yours no matter the circumstances.”

  Her lips quivered. “You haven’t yet asked me.”

  He tugged her close. “I will ask you when we are alone. I know ways to make you say yes.”

  The duchess cleared her throat. “I believe that’s close enough.” She stood. “If it were me, I’d marry him just to spite him.”

  “I’m willing.” Wulf grinned down at Lily. “But if you wish to be asked, then ask I shall. Lily, my love, will you marry me so that I may shower you from head to foot with gifts, hang upon your every word with breathless attention, smother you with kisses from head to toe, and—”

  “—make a fool of yourself,” his grandmother added. “For the love of God, answer the man so that we may leave this room and eat. I starve.”

  “I’m hungry, too,” Lady Charlotte said.

  Lily had to laugh. “Yes, then. Yes, I will marry you. And we’ll talk about my modiste’s shop at another time, for I very much wish to have one.”

  “Good! That is done.” The duchess walked toward the door. “And we now have our marriage to announce. If anyone saw Huntley and Miss Emma before, they will think they mistook their eyes and that it was really the prince.”

  “They are both quite tall,” Lady Charlotte said helpfully.

  “Very true. Dinner must be ready by now and I—Oh, we forgot Huntley. Someone call Miss Gordon. I’m sure he’d be glad to see her face on waking.”

  “Most assuredly,” Lily murmured, tucking her hand into the crook of Wulf’s arm. “You really are a wealthy prince?”

  “I have enough.”

  “Four houses?”

  “Five. Tata forgot one. And the hunting lodge. I will show them to you.” He led Lily to the dining hall. “Now, tell me more about these gowns you wish to make. I am the poorest of my brothers, after all, and if we could open enough modiste shops, we could overcome their wealth, which would be most delicious revenge for all of the teasing I’ve endured over the years. . . .”

  Epilogue

  From the Diary of the Duchess of Roxburghe I will never again include insects as decorations. While the release of the butterflies into the gardens at the onset of the ball caused the collective gasp of delight I’d envisioned, the creatures quickly lost their appeal. Who knew butterflies like to cling? And cling they did, to gowns and hair and glasses of orgeat. They landed in plates of cake, and one poor thing even caught on fire from straying too close to a candle and then chased Lady Lansdowne about a gardenia bush before thankfully expiring.

  But the worst part of the evening was, sadly, my beloved pugs. Although they were adorably dressed as butterflies—thanks, I later learned, to Miss Balfour’s skillful needle—they had no compunction in seeing the masses of butterflies as some sort of game, which involved snapping at the nearest insect and eating it. And so they scrambled about, trying to eat all of the butterflies they could, while dressed like butterflies themselves. The entire scene had a macabre, cannibalistic feel to it. . . .

  Early in the wee hours of the morning, Lady Charlotte had just settled her nightcap upon her head when a knock came at her door. Recognizing the duchess’s brisk rap, she hopped from bed and hurried to the door.

  The duchess swept into the room, a vision in her deep blue dressing gown, belted with a white sash, her red wig still pinned atop her head. “Ah, I was afraid you’d be abed.”

  Charlotte kept herself from glancing longingly at her bed. “No, no. I was just sitting by the fire. Would you like to join me?”

  Margaret took a chair by the fireplace and Charlotte did the same. “My mind was too full to sleep.”

  “It was quite an eventful evening,” Charlotte agreed.

  “The poor pugs are quite worn-out.”

  “And full. They must have eaten twenty or thirty butterflies apiece.”

  Margaret shuddered. “Please do not remind me.”

  “I’m sorry I mentioned it.” Lady Charlotte plopped her feet on a low stool that faced the fire, smiling when the duchess followed suit. “At least Miss Balfour’s engagement to the prince drew the proper response. Everyone was quite aflutter over it.”

  “Aflutter?” Margaret threw up a hand. “Must you keep bringing up those damned butterflies?”

  “I’m sorry,” Charlotte said meekly. While the butterflies hadn’t elevated the ball to the fairy tale–like event they’d wished, she’d been quite fascinated with the entire thing. Such beautiful creatures and yet so dangerous. Who would have thought?

  “About the prince and Miss Balfour.” The duchess sighed, a note of contentment in her tone. “Such a lovely announcement. No one could doubt they were deeply in love.”

  Charlotte smiled at the satisfaction in Margaret’s voice. “So they are.” It had been a lovely moment, hopefully one that the guests would remember more vividly than the butterfly debacle. “Everyone is talking about how you did it yet again, bringing about a magnificent match under your roof.”

  Margaret sighed happily. “I know. It would have been nice if we could have announced Huntley and Miss Gordon’s good news, too, but they refused.”

 
; “The world will know soon enough.” Charlotte wiggled her toes at the crackling fire. A moment later she said, “I hope you don’t mind if I ask a question. One that’s been vexing me for quite some time.”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s about Lord Kirk, who made that horrid loan with Lily’s father.”

  Margaret’s smile grew sly. “Ah, yes. Lord Kirk.”

  “He’s one of your godsons.” The duchess had too many godchildren to count, but as Charlotte wrote most of the duchess’s correspondence, she knew them all, perhaps better than the duchess.

  “Kirk’s one of the first children I agreed to be a godmother to,” Margaret said thoughtfully. “His mother was a very dear friend of mine. It’s a pity he was injured. His life has not been happy.”

  Lord Kirk had once been a startlingly handsome man, but a horrid accident had left him scarred and reclusive. The man rarely ventured out, so it had been a surprise to see his carriage in the duchess’s drive several months ago. “He is quite abrupt.”

  “He has no manners at all,” Margaret agreed. “We’ll have to work on that. If we’re given the chance, of course.”

  “Margaret, you’re up to something. It’s a bit odd that Kirk should visit you, and then, shortly thereafter, Miss Balfour should arrive in desperate need of funds because of Lord Kirk’s sudden actions.”

  “Odd?” Margaret’s smile was that of the cat with the cream. “I would call it fortuitous.”

  “It did bring us Lily. But then tonight you told Lily that you planned on asking her youngest sister, Dahlia, to join us for the Christmas Ball. I saw that list yesterday, Margaret, and you’ve added Lord Kirk to it, too.”

  “I owe him a favor.” Margaret yawned and stretched. “A very special favor.”

  “Does it involve Dahlia Balfour?”

  “Perhaps.” Margaret sighed happily and wiggled her toes before the fire as well. “We’ve much to do before the Christmas Ball, but it may be our biggest triumph yet.”

  Charlotte wanted to ask more questions, but then thought better of it. Perhaps in time Margaret would reveal her plans. And if not, it would at least be entertaining to watch them unfold. “Very well, Margaret. Then I shall look forward to the Christmas Ball.”

  “We all will, my dear. We all will.”

  Turn the page for a sneak peek at the next delightful novel in New York Times bestselling author KAREN HAWKINS’S Duchess Diaries series

  How to Entice

  an Enchantress

  Available October 2013 from Pocket Books

  One

  From the Diary of the Duchess of Roxburghe Ah, the burdens of fame! I am now known throughout the length and breadth of Scotland (and, indeed, most reaches of the kingdom) as the most talented of all matchmakers, a veritable Queen of Hearts. It is a burden that goes against every principle of my character, for intruding upon the private lives of others is anathema to me. And yet, because of my vastly successful entertainments and my uncanny ability to spot potential matches between the most unlikely people, I’m credited for assisting a number of unmarried men and women make brilliant matches.

  And so now, whenever I so much as mention having a house party or a dance, I am positively inundated with hints, suggestions, and pleas for invitations.

  Those who know me realize the truth, of course, which is that I never get involved in the affairs of others. Still, once in a great, great while, I am moved to reach past my natural reserve and, with the most delicate of touches, assist nature. But only with very, very few, and very, very special cases. In fact, one such case—the most challenging I’ve ever faced—is even now awaiting me in the blue salon. . . .

  The Duchess of Roxburghe sailed down the stairs, her red wig firmly pinned upon her head. Her morning gown of pale blue silk swished as her pugs bounded after her, two of them trying to catch the fluttering ribbons of the tie at her waist.

  There were six pugs in all—Feenie, Meenie, Teenie, Weenie, Beenie, and Randolph. Randolph was the oldest pug by several years. Graying and usually dignified, of late he’d refused to scramble down the steps after the younger pugs, but stood at the top step, looking so forlorn that her grace had assigned a footman to carry the pudgy pug.

  Her butler, MacDougal, who even now stood at the bottom of the staircase watching the footman carry the pug, thought the measure extreme. Judging by the relative ease with which Randolph could bound up and down stairs when tempted with a tidbit, MacDougal thought her grace was being played the fool. Not that he would ever suggest such a thing aloud. He’d been with the duchess far too long not to know that while it was perfectly fine to allude to her grace’s pugs being stubborn, unmannerly, and unruly, they were never to be accused of trickery or sloth.

  Her grace reached the bottom step and the footman, Angus, stooped to place Randolph with the other pugs panting at her feet. “That’s a good boy,” cooed her grace.

  “Thank ye.” A proud expression bloomed on Angus’s freckled face.

  MacDougal locked a stern gaze on the young footman. “Her grace was talkin’ to the dog, ye blatherin’ fool.”

  Angus flushed. “Och, I’m sorry, yer grace.”

  “I was getting to you next,” she said graciously. “You did a fine job carrying Randolph.”

  Angus couldn’t have looked more pleased. “Thank ye, yer grace!” He sent a superior look to the butler, who scowled back so fiercely that the footman’s grin disappeared.

  Satisfied that he had quelled the upstart, MacDougal turned to the duchess and offered a pleasant smile. “Yer grace, yer guest is in the blue salon, as ye requested, but we dinna ken where Lady Charlotte might be.”

  “Perhaps she fell asleep in a corner somewhere. She’s gotten very bad about that since she’s taken to reading novels at all times of the night.”

  MacDougal nodded thoughtfully. “Verrah good, yer grace. I’ll send someone to look upon every settee in the castle.” He cast his eye toward the hapless Angus. “Off wit’ ye, and dinna miss a single settee until ye find Lady Charlotte.”

  “Aye, sir!” Angus hurried off.

  Her grace glanced at the doors leading to the blue salon. “I hope you made our guest comfortable.”

  “Aye, yer grace, we did wha’ we could, but—” The butler sighed. “ ’Tis no’ me place to say naught o’ yer visitors, but this one is a bit—” He scrunched his nose, searching for the word. Finally, his brow cleared. “Abrupt.”

  “You mean rude,” she said in a dry tone.

  “I would ne’er say such a thing aboot one o’ yer guests, yer grace.”

  “I would. ’Tis a well-known fact that Lord Kirk is rude and growls at everyone in sight. He has beastly manners.”

  “Tha’ might well be understandable considerin’—” The butler glanced about the empty hallway before he tapped his cheek.

  “Because of his scars.”

  “Jus’ so, yer grace. ’Tis a horrid sight. He’s a handsome man except fer tha’, which makes it all the worse. He limps, too, so he may well be missin’ a limb fer all we know. If I had all o’ those problems—scars and limps and wha’ no’—I might be a bit rude meself.”

  “I’d hope not,” the duchess said impatiently. “There’s no excuse for bad manners.”

  “Verrah true, yer grace. I dinna suppose he’s here fer yer help findin’ a match? Tha’ might be a tall order.”

  “Of course that’s why he’s here. He’s my godson, and Lady Charlotte and I are quite aware of the challenge he presents. His mother—God rest her soul—was a dear, dear friend.” She looked at the doors and straightened her shoulders. “And now, to begin. Please send Charlotte as soon as you find her.” Much like a general marching into battle, the duchess crossed to the blue salon, the pugs waddling after her.

  As soon as the door closed behind her, Margaret eyed her guest. Tall and broad shouldered, Lord Kirk stood by the wide windows that overlooked the front lawn. The bright morning sunlight bathed his skin with gold. His dark brown hair was longer than fas
hion dictated and curled over his collar, a streak of gray at his temple. In profile, he was starkly beautiful but bold, a statue of a Greek god of the sea.

  At the rustle of her skirts, his expression tightened and, with a lingering look at the sun-splashed lawn, he turned.

  Though she knew what to expect, she had to fight the urge to exclaim in dismay. One side of his face was scarred by a thick, horrid slash that separated his eyebrow halfway across, skipped over one eye, and then slashed down his cheek, touching the corner of his mouth and ending on his chin. It had been a clean cut, but whoever had stitched it together had done so with such crudeness that it made her heart ache.

  Had he been in the hands of an accomplished surgeon, Margaret had little doubt that his scar, though still long, would not be so puckered or drawn. But Kirk had been at sea when he’d obtained his injury and thus was left to whatever “doctor” was available aboard the ship.

  He inclined his head now, barely bowing, the stiffness of his gesture emphasized by the thick, gold-handled cane he held in one hand.

  Margaret realized with an inward grimace that she’d been staring and silently castigated herself. The pugs danced about her feet as she swept forward. “Lord Kirk, how are you?”

  “I’m as well as one can be when carrying a scar that causes even society’s most stalwart hostess to gasp in horror.”

  “I might have stared, but I’m certain I didn’t gasp,” she returned firmly. “I cannot see your scar without wishing I could have put my own physician to it. His stitching is superb.”

  Kirk’s smile was more of a sneer. “I assure you that I am quite used to stares.”

  “Yes, well, it was rude of me and few people have cause to call me such.” She gestured to the chairs before the fireplace. “Shall we?” The pugs followed as she made her way to the seats.

  Elderly Randolph paused by Lord Kirk to give his shoes a friendly sniff. The man didn’t spare the dog a glance, but brushed past him, completely ignoring the poor creature.