“Truly?” Light shimmered through Lady Caroline’s tears. “And to a gaming establishment?”
“Do not try my patience . . . Caro,” the viscount declared sternly. Then, taking pity on her—recalling it was less than ten years since he himself had been so young and nearly as naive—he added, “Believe me, you would find a gentlemen’s club exceedingly dull.”
Caroline sniffed, stuck up her chin. He could almost see her quick mind expanding his one small concession into a series of forbidden adventures.
Parson’s mousetrap. He could hear the snap of the deadly spring. Yet the bait was so enticing . . .
He was the heir . . . he had to marry sometime.
But not quite yet. Another ten years. Well . . . possibly, five.
The sun peeked out from behind a cloud, sparking golden lights in Caroline’s halo of blond curls. Her amber eyes were glowing with what looked all too much like satisfaction. Clearly, it was not going to be another dull Season among London’s finest.
~ * ~
Chapter Ten
While Caroline and Tony enjoyed their bit of badinage in the midst of Grosvenor Park, Jen’s purposeful steps entered her bedchamber, a room with which she was already familiar as she had contributed her opinions to the room’s redecoration. Yet she skidded to a halt as she threw open the door, for she was unprepared for the magnificence that had resulted from her few suggestions on color and design. Suggestions she now gave serious second thought. The furnishings, selected by the duke’s mother in the days before the French Revolution, were primarily Louis XVI, with an occasional English piece from the early days of the reign of poor mad George III. The tester above her bed was light and airy, painted in cream, gold, and pale green, as were two matching bedside cupboards and washstand. The tall cheval glass was also English, but the towering walnut and satinwood armoire was French, as were the fruitwood dressing table and the elegant roll-front desk with cabriole legs. The elaborate wood carving of the overmantel above the fireplace was in the style of Grinling Gibbons. An exquisite piece of workmanship. In truth, Jen thought, awed, it was entirely possible Gibbons had done the work himself, for Longville House was not newly built.
And to these furnishings, which were far too beautiful to discard, Jen had added a color scheme of pale green and peach, with occasional dashes of forest green and gold. The scenic wallpaper was in the delicate Chinese style. The coverlet, tester hangings, draperies, day bed, and side chairs were all done up in stripes or brocades of blending shades of green and peach. She liked those colors. And had thought replacing the cream and pale blue favored by the former duchess would be sufficient to make the room her own. It was not.
Jen grimaced. She had erred. It was still a blatantly feminine room. Not the room of a woman who had ridden at the tail of an army, been thankful for the shelter of an earthen-floored hut, the smoky warmth of a fire lit in the center of a room with no chimney.
Soft green and peach. Her wits must have gone begging. Had she thought such trappings would make the duke think her petite and fragile, as femininely graceful and lovely as the first Duchess of Longville? Sadly, Jen now knew how the poor bull felt when loose in the china shop. Nonetheless, she had quite literally made her bed, having chosen all these soft flowing silks, richly cut velvets and shimmering satins. She would, therefore, lie in that bed and live with what she had chosen. Jen heaved a sigh. Not only did the room not suit a great gawk, she could not picture the duke amidst all this femininity either, though surely this was where . . .
Jen’s thoughts shied from the begetting of her step-children. She experienced a sudden wave of nostalgia for that simple, single bedroom at Totten Court. A room into which she was quite certain the previous duchess had never set a dainty foot. Here in London, where the duke had his own bedchamber, she could not even be certain he would come to her—
Surely she was not expected to go to him? Jen cringed. Impossible, quite impossible.
What if he did not come at all? She had thought herself past the foolish fears of her wedding night. Yet she had seen his dismay over the unexpected activity in his pristine entry hall. The duke had lived too long alone; perhaps it suited him. Would he return to his old ways, to his mistresses and his clubs, leaving her to cope with his children as well as her own?
Was that not why he married her?
But, surely, not the only reason he had married her.
Certain memories from those nine days at Totten Court pulled Jen’s lips into a gentle smile. No, she no longer thought Marcus had married her solely for her ability to manage his children and his household. There was, perhaps, some small reason to hope for more from their marriage of convenience.
“Ah, there you are,” came the duke’s deep voice from the dressing room doorway. “Is Susan well settled?”
“Indeed . . . better than I had expected.”
“Then can you explain what Frayne was doing here? Those other scoundrels as well?”
“Scoundrels?” Jen laughed. “Surely not.”
“That Willoughby’s no better than he should be,” the duke grumbled.
“But Mr. Trimby-Ashford is quite unexceptional. And surely you are not calling Tony a scoundrel. Did he not just stand up with you at our wedding?”
The duke smoothed a wrinkle from the forest green jacket he had just donned over a complete change of linen. “Nonetheless, I would wish to know what they were doing here.”
Jenny found herself smiling, she could not help it. Marcus was scowling, fretful . . . and knew quite well what that bevy of young men had been doing here. She sauntered across her elegant bedroom, feeling a bit like an ox tramping through a field of butterflies. Stopping a scant foot short of his chest, she was once again aware of how delightful it was to find a man some three or four inches taller than herself.
“Marcus,” Jen said softly, “one of your children is now a young lady. A very beautiful young lady about to make her come-out.”
“She’s not out yet,” he barked.
“Tony is family,” she reminded him gently. Obviously, this was not the moment to mention her own suspicions.
“The others aren’t. And, besides, Frayne’s too . . . well . . . blast it, he’s got more town bronze on a single hair than Caroline will have if she lives to be ninety. He’s too old for her. Too . . . everything.” The duke stumbled to a disgruntled halt.
“He is simply being gracious,” Jen reassured her husband. “You cannot have wished Lady Caroline to sit at home for all the days we have been gone?”
“Of course I could! She was supposed to be refurbishing her wardrobe, polishing her manners with Miss Tompkins. Preparing for her come-out. She should not have been traipsing about town! Particularly with the likes of Tony Norville.”
Oh dear. “I’m told the children enjoyed their excursions immensely,” Jen ventured.
The Duke of Longville harrumphed, eyed his wife with considerable disapprobation. “You wish to see Caroline involved with her uncle?” he inquired in incredulous tones. “Is that not illegal?”
“Well, if it is, you have nothing to worry about, do you?” his wife responded, quite daringly reaching up to pat him on the cheek.
Jen had hoped for a softening in her husband’s attitude, perhaps even a hug. Instead, with another harrumph, he stalked back through the dressing room to his own bedroom.
Jen sighed. They had not been home an hour, and it seemed as if the world had already crushed the fragile bud of what she had begun to hope was a kindling romance.
“Come here, boy. Pray do not stand about like a lump.” With a scowl designed to curl the liver of the hardiest soul, the Dowager Duchess of Longville crooked a long claw-like finger at her grandson.
The Marquess of Huntley, though true-bred off the noble and arrogant Carlington block, hesitated. Above his head, his sister and his step-mother exchanged anxious glances, the first moment of rapport the two ladies had experienced since their first unfortunate meeting.
Lady Caroline eyed
her grandmother, on whom the duke, his duchess, his heir, and his daughter were paying a call. Although the dowager’s hair was white, her features belied her sixty-some years. Rather than an elderly lady, declining with the grace of a dove into gray gowns and soft words, the Dowager Duchess Georgiana was more like a hawk, her sweep of white hair topped by a royal purple turban that matched her gown, which was trimmed in black lace. Her nose was a prominent beak punctuated by deep-set gray eyes, alight with all the sharp eagerness of a predator. Her chin came close to V-ing into a point, above a slash of a mouth that looked as if it never smiled. No wonder, Caroline thought, that poor Laurence, brave as he was, did not wish to leave his position with his back hard against his father’s thigh.
“Sit, sit,” the dowager commanded, waving her guests toward the startling burgundy and gold satin stripes that adorned the two settees and several armchairs arranged before her drawing room’s fireplace. “Not you,” she barked at Laurence as he began to back away toward a small side chair nearly hidden by one of the settees. “You will come here where I can get a proper look at you.”
When her little brother’s lips thinned into a straight line, Caroline gasped. At that moment—there, around his mouth—he looked more like his intransigent grandmother than his father.
Laurence took a deep breath—which his father, sister, and step-mother feared sounded remarkably like a sigh—then strode forward, making a precise bow before his grandmother, who was seated on a throne-like chair in front of a fire that was far too warm for a sunny day in May. “Your Grace,” the child said, exactly as he had been instructed.
“Humph! Pity you got your mother’s eyes,” the dowager declared, examining her grandson from head to foot. “But I fear there’s no denying you’re the image of Longville at that age. I suppose you’ve heard about the Gainsborough?” she demanded.
“Yes, my lady. Your Grace,” Laurence hastily corrected as the dowager’s gray eyes shot fire.
“Really, Longville,” the elder duchess drawled, “I had not thought to have a country bumpkin for a grandchild.”
Laurence’s governess is among the finest, mama,” the duke replied evenly. “But until a few short weeks ago he thought himself the son of a mere Mr. Tennet. You must give him time to adjust.”
“Indeed, I trust he is not the son of a mere Mr. Tennet,” the dowager returned.
Three sets of shocked protest greeted the duchess’s remark.
“That is what is being said,” the dowager asserted, “and I cannot wonder at it. The circumstances are highly irregular, you must admit.”
Lady Caroline jumped up from the settee and wrapped her arms around her brother. “I cannot believe you would discuss this here and now,” she told her grandmother with considerable heat, even as she felt a quiver sweep through her little brother’s body.
“Indeed, I believe we will take tea another time,” the duke declared, standing and offering his hand to his bride. “Good-day,Your Grace.” His bow to his mother was the minimum required for filial respect. The others murmured equally stilted farewells.
“Nonsense!” The Dowager Duchess of Longville pounded her cane on the floor. “Can you wonder I have forgotten how to talk to children?” she cried, a betraying catch in her customary stentorian tones. “Caroline was snatched from me at a tender age, and now I am presented with this fait accompli—a seven-year-old image of the child I once bore.” She turned to Caroline, her face dissolving from autocratic grande dame to an old lady pleading for mercy.. “My friends pour poison into my ears. I know it is nonsense, but they have been with me all the years when you were not.”
The dowager clutched her cane, glared at her descendants and at her newly wed successor. “You will stay for tea,” she declared. “I wish to know my grandchildren . . . and my son’s new wife.” The deep-set gray eyes took on a knowing gleam. “I am certain,” she added, “that the boy can only benefit from my approval.”
Slowly, the duke uncurled his fingers from his wife’s arm, where they had been tight enough to bruise. The younger duchess watched him warily, even as she blessed her foresight in keeping Susan home from this duty call on the dowager. No child should have to endure behavior as outrageous as that exhibited by the Marcus’s mother. Caroline, Jen noted, was poised in flight, looking very much as if she wished to continue her grand exit. But Laurence was eyeing the tea tray with considerable interest, seemingly all too willing to forgive his grandmother in return for food.
The Dowager Duchess Georgiana had never been more aware that it was her son who was head of the family, not herself. Miserable man! Not only was she going to have to accept this grandson—whose resemblance to Marcus she could not doubt—, but she was going to have to give up the family jewels to that . . . army wife, that mountainous creature who had actually followed the drum. Amy, the silly fool, had not taken a single bauble when she darted off into the unknown, and the dowager had been enjoying the sumptuous Carlington collection of gems for many years now. But her son had asked for their return shortly after his betrothal. The jewelry, he had informed her, was to be at Longville House by the time he returned from his wedding journey.
Yet until this very moment the dowager had not really thought he meant it.
So be it. She would have the gems delivered before nightfall. Not that that great gawk of a female would ever do them justice. Oh, yes, she’d heard the tale. The entire ton had heard the tale.
As for the awkward moment at hand . . .
The duchess seized on the genuine hunger in her grandson’s eyes. Very well, it was a good moment for food. Not many faux pas could pass people’s lips when they were busy chewing and swallowing. The dowager gulped back sixty-odd years of pride and asked the new duchess to pour. Good! She detected a slight tremor in the great gawk’s hands. Imagine! Blotting the Carlington family escutcheon with such a lumpish creature.
Truthfully, only Laurence seemed to enjoy the Carlington family tea. At least he enjoyed the little cakes and apple tarts, but even he was not immune to the strained atmosphere. His natural exuberance was considerably subdued.
On the drive back to Longville House, Caroline held her brother close to her side, talking softly of the sights they had seen when out with Lord Frayne, of the picnic to Richmond Park that the viscount had suggested. The duke and duchess spoke not a word. The tension radiating from Longville’s set shoulders and grim expression was palpable. Yet it was only when the duke left his family standing in the entry hall, stalked down a short corridor, and—reaching the bookroom two steps ahead of a scurrying footman—slammed the heavy oak door behind him, that his duchess realized he was more than disturbed by his mother’s revelations. The duke was outraged. That anyone should dare question the affairs of the Duke of Longville . . .
Poor Marcus, Jen sighed. His smooth, if glittering, life was suffering from an astonishing number of blows of late.
~ * ~
Chapter Eleven
That night—the second of her married life at Longville House—Jen eyed the filmy nightwear her maid was proffering and shook her head. Now that she had full access to her wardrobe, perhaps she should wear something more suitable to a great gawk. Something she could hide behind—a proper long-sleeved white cotton that disguised, rather than revealed, her Junoesque proportions. Donning the gossamer silk Tess had selected was an admission that she expected a visit from her husband. Yet . . . if she wore it and he did not come, she would be crushingly embarrassed, because somehow the whole household would know that for a second night in a row the duke had not joined his bride.
Jen’s lips curled in speculation, with just a tad of defiance. What would Marcus think if she wore the voluminous white cotton gown adorned with nothing more than pale pink embroidery on the yoke and a lace-trimmed flounce? And topped it with her well-worn green wool robe?
Would he assume she was being missish instead of asserting her pride? Would he mistake her gesture of independence for rejection? After all, if she could not compete with the firs
t duchess—which she surely could not—was it not best to flaunt her true nature? Good, sensible, reliable Jen. Solid, dependable. Like the Rock of Gibraltar. And just about as exciting.
Or perhaps he would not notice, dismissing her nightwear as of no consequence to the great Duke of Longville? He had married a helmsman, had he not, instead of an ornamental figurehead?
Somehow she had to discover if a spark of personal interest could be found behind the ducal façade. Not that he had not demonstrated his interest in her as a female, but did he have any thoughts for Jenny? As unlikely as the possibility seemed, it was an avenue the new duchess wished to explore.
Once again, Jen shook her head, ignoring Tess’s disapproving frown as the maid went to fetch her mistress’s opaque cotton nightgown. As the duchess thrust her arms through the long sleeves and let the familiar oft-washed garment settle over the length of her, her face was grim. Last night, their first in London, Marcus had not come to her, sending word via Sims that he intended to visit his clubs and would return late. A message! Not delivered in person or via a hand-written note, but a verbal message delivered by the butler. The blushing bride had transformed back into the great gawk upon the instant. Strong as she was, the new duchess had shed more than a few tears into her pillow.
“A nightbraid, Tess,” Jen ordered as she seated herself at an ormolu and ebony dressing table decorated with porcelain ovals, an exquisite and delicate piece of furniture which, once again, made her feel like a bull in the china shop.
The stalwart, middle-aged woman who had gone to war with her mistress, paused in the midst of brushing the duchess’s hair. “Less than a fortnight married and you’re not leaving it free?” she demanded with the forthrightness of long service.
Jen blushed. “You know what a tangle it’s been each morning,” she murmured.
A Season for Love Page 10
