Kathryn, The Kitten

by Lavinia Kent

  The Real Duchesses of London

  KATHRYN, THE KITTEN

  LAVINIA KENT

  Contents

  The Real Duchesses of London

  The Maids

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  The Maids

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  The Maids

  Linnette

  About the Author

  Also by Lavinia Kent

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  The Real Duchesses of London*

  Kathryn, The Duchess of Harrington

  “I am the perfect duchess. I am beautiful, rich, well read, well spoken, and have a civilized relationship with the duke. What more could a woman want?”

  Elizabeth, The Countess of Westhampton

  “I may not be a duchess, but I am more of a lady than any of them. You’ll never see me in the scandal sheets. Mind you, I am not saying I haven’t ever been scandalous—just that you’ll never know.”

  Georgianna, Lady Richard Tennant

  “My son will be a duke. It doesn’t matter if I get to be a duchess as long as I know my son will inherit from his uncle, will hold the title. My husband may have broken many of his promises to me, but that one is absolute.”

  Linnette, The Dowager Duchess of Doveshire

  “I have no intention of giving up what is mine. I’ve run the house and the estates for years. Why would I ever give them up now? I don’t care who the new duke is.”

  Annabelle, The Marchioness of Tattingstong

  “They say that, because I am American, I have no taste, no grace, no style, no refinement. I have every intention of showing them just how wrong they are—and when the time comes, I will be the perfect duchess.”

  *All quotes as relayed to Miss Jane White, more or perhaps less accurately, by Miss Mary White, lady’s maid for the Duchess of Harrington

  The Maids

  “Oh lordy, do you think they really look like that? Like a cross between angels and fence posts?” Abby asked, reaching out to trace the print in the apothecary’s window with a finger, her cheeks pink with interest. The street was not yet crowded at this early morning hour and it was possible to stop and stare at the crowded display on the glass.

  “You’re smudging the window, but you do have the most vivid imagination. I would never have thought angels and fence posts could have any relationship, but you are correct. That is exactly what they look like in the print,” Jane White answered as she inched up on her toes to stare more closely at the black-and-white print hanging among the cartoons in the window, turning her back on her fellow maid. She stared at the tall, dark-haired woman in the center of the print. Her hair was caught up in a mass of curls and pearls shone at her throat. “I do know that is what the Duchess of Harrington looks like. My sister has recently found employment in her house and I saw the duchess last week when I was visiting. I was making my way to the back when her carriage pulled up in front. Of course, I had to stay and watch her come out. You’ve never seen such a fine lady—and yes, her back was just like a fence post. I don’t know how anyone can stand so straight.”

  “Maybe she wears an old corset. My mother always spoke of ones that could stand up by themselves.” Abby peered up at the drawing, wrinkling her brow. “I’d forgotten that was where Mary had found a position. She always did do well for herself, that sister of yours—and she does have a knack with hair. I bet she’s even a lady’s maid—not stuck down in the kitchens like me or even a parlor maid like you. But why does the title say ‘The Real Duchesses of London’? If they’re duchesses, they’re duchesses, why say real? I will never understand the upstairs lot.”

  Jane came down off her toes and turned to Abby. “I think it says real duchesses because they’re not all actually duchesses—not that that makes any sense either. I know that one, the one in the hat with all the feathers, is the Marchioness of Tattingstong. She was in the cartoons when she married the marquess. Don’t you remember the ones where she was holding out a fishing rod with a bucket of money on the end? She’s American and it was most shocking when Lord Tattingstong came back from his travels with her. Of course, he was only a second son when he became engaged. Can you imagine how his father, the duke, felt?”

  “That’s her? You’re right, it is. I should have recognized her profile.”

  “Profile? I don’t see why— Oh, you mean her whole profile. She does have remarkable bosoms. Normally they show them sticking out even further with an American flag between them.”

  “There’s no flag this time. Do you think she really wears one? I always thought it was just a bit of humor.”

  “I am sure that she doesn’t wear one all the time—if at all. I think it’s not in this one because it’s not really a cartoon. I imagine they really look like this.”

  Jane stepped back and considered the print. The five women were so similar and so distinctly different at the same time. They all looked as if they knew some secret that every other woman in the world wanted to know. It was hard to say what gave that impression. Their gowns were certainly fine and Jane could not have paid for one of those bonnets with a year’s salary. The jewels that adorned their ears, and wrists, and necks were probably even more dear, but the print failed to capture the full sparkle and glory of the gems.

  But it was none of this that gave the duchesses their secret look. It was something in their eyes or perhaps their mouths. Was it that slight up-tilt of lip? The way they held their chins, angled the barest fraction higher than the rest of humanity? Perhaps it was their shoulders? Jane had seen plenty of aristocrats, but none who held themselves with such perfection of bearing. These women were queens and they knew it.

  For a moment she wondered if it could be the artist’s imagination, if he’d added a little something extra to them as he’d drawn them. No, when she’d seen Her Grace of Harrington, she’d had that exact look as she’d glided into the house.

  Jane leaned even closer, trying to understand the secret.

  “Be careful or you’ll go right through the window,” Abby cautioned.

  Jane stepped back. “I am trying to understand what makes them so special.”

  “It’s all the gowns and money. That’s an easy one to answer. Give me a gown like that and I would fit right in.” Abby thrust her nose in the air, pulled her shoulders back, and spun in a circle.

  Jane suppressed her giggle. Abby was a dear friend and it would not do to hurt her feelings, but the image of her as a duchess, with her frizz of brown hair and button nose, was impossible. And that was not even considering the angle of her front teeth.

  No, there was something else about the women. She glanced at her own reflection in the glass, lifted her chest, turned her body to the side, tilted her chin just slightly, imitating the pose of the Duchess of Harrington. She tried to imagine herself dressed in emerald silk—somehow she just knew the duchess’s dress was green—diamonds flashing at her ears and neck, a handsome duke waiting to escort her.

  This time she could not hold back her laugh. The thought of her barely five-foot frame draped in silk was too much to imagine—and that was without even imagining the six-foot-plus Duke of Harrington coming her way.

  Abby looked up at the print again. “You’ve pointed out the Duchess of Harrington and the Marchioness of Tattingstong, but who are the others?”

  “I am not really sure. That one looks a little like the Dowager Duchess of Doveshire. I’ve never seen her but there were drawings when her husband died and she kept
running the duchy and the new duke stayed in India—and then he died too. I wonder if there’s a new duke?”

  Abby gave a cheeky smile. “It seems like there should be a limerick about that. You must be able to do something with two dead dukes.”

  “Stop that, Abby, if you’re not careful, you’ll slip and say something in the kitchen and you know how Cook will react. She hates it when we joke about our betters. And we’d best be getting on our way. We were sent out to search for more flowers not to . . .”

  Abby reached out and traced the Marchioness’s feathers with her fingers one last time. “I normally hate that term—betters. But, there is something about them. What was the word you used—special? There is something special about them. You are right, though, we’d best be on our way.”

  Jane turned her head to look at the print one last time. It stood out clearly among the many others. Then, turning away from the glass, she smiled at Abby. “I suppose I’ll never know what makes them different, special—but you know, they don’t actually look altogether happy.”

  Chapter One

  Kathryn Cottsworth, Duchess of Harrington, looked down at the lush gown spread across her bed and pursed her lips. The heavy green silk with the rich cream lace was one of her favorites. She’d worn it to three balls and a dinner and didn’t care. It suited her perfectly and what was the point in being a duchess if one couldn’t wear what one wished—even if she had worn it before?

  She glanced at the copy of the print that on the table. This, though, this was too much. The print was up in shop windows! She’d never had such an experience before and didn’t relish it now. It wasn’t a horrible cartoon, but her mother had always been clear that a lady avoided publicity. She should only be in the papers for her birth, her wedding announcement, and her death—anything more was vulgar.

  A print in the apothecary’s window wasn’t the papers, but she had a feeling her mother would have thought it was worse. Only women with scandalous reputations appeared in cartoons. This, however, wasn’t a cartoon, she told herself again. It looked almost like the drawings she’d done as schoolgirl of her mother and her aunts. Although this artist was clearly more talented, she could almost hear conversation as she glanced at the paper. And she’d never even been together with these women in one group.

  She ran a finger over the silk dress again. It was cool and sleek beneath her touch, so comfortable no matter how hot the summer grew.

  She wished she knew some appropriate curses. “Bloody hell” might be suitable, but she could never let such words pass her lips—at least not when she was observed. Her gaze shifted to her new lady’s maid, Mary. “I suppose you can take the dress and dispose of it in whatever manner you see fit.” She caught Mary’s eyes and stared hard. “As long as I never see or hear of it again.”

  “As you wish, your grace.” Mary dropped her gaze and nodded. It was clear she’d also heard the unfortunate story of the Countess of Nevilles, who’d arrived at the opera to discover her husband’s mistress attired in one of her old gowns. The story had passed from lip to lip for weeks.

  Not that Robert would ever do such a thing to her. He was much too civil—and discreet. She wasn’t even sure that he had a mistress. She imagined that he must, a man like Robert had women chasing him wherever he went. He’d had a mistress before they were wed, even if she didn’t know whom. Robert might be civil, but he was still a man and men had needs—and he certainly wasn’t meeting them with her—at least not very often.

  A soft sigh escaped her lips, as she again brushed a finger across the silk.

  Early in their marriage she’d welcomed him to her bed twice a week, or even more often, unless she was indisposed, but since the tragedy, she was lucky if she even saw him in private that often. Her hand dropped to her belly and she forced it away. She would not think of that—of what could never be.

  She turned back to Mary and watched as she folded the silk with care. It would fetch a pretty penny at some market stall or wherever it was maids took such things.

  Walking toward the window, she stared out at the scene below, perfect gardens, perfect street, perfect square across the way. Her gaze dropped lower to the pale stones that made up the house’s exterior wall. Perfect house, perfect vines, perfect window. She spun back to the room, to all the elegant furniture and fine appointments. She’d had it redone in the softest blue this past year and it too was perfect. Not a wrinkle marked the coverlet, not a speck of dust on any surface, every pane of glass, crystal goblet, or mirror sparkling. The single bud that Robert had brought to her each morning a solitary bright spot of crimson.

  She walked across the room and stared into the mirror. Rich, dark hair piled high with only two gold and pearl combs visible. Neck held so straight and narrow she sometimes wondered if it still remembered how to bend. Breasts softly curved, but well covered given the time of day. A simple cameo and one strand of pearls adorned her high-waisted wool dress, the deep blue of the fabric a perfect match for the room. Her gaze swept down the dress, stopping at her waist, just as narrow as it had been before—no, she had already decided not to think of that. Her skirts, like the coverlet, were still without wrinkle or crease despite the hours she’d been wearing them, her slippers invisible beneath her hems.

  Yes, she too was perfect.

  She bent forward, staring at rosebud lips and cheeks, pale skin beneath eyes the color of darkest chocolate. She’d been the reigning beauty the year she’d come out, despite being almost on the shelf, and the year after that as well. No one had come close to touching her.

  The daughter of a duke, the granddaughter of two dukes, she’d snared another for a husband.

  Perfect, simply perfect.

  Except she wasn’t.

  With great deliberation she placed both hands on her flat stomach.

  She didn’t want to think of it, but she had to—there was no other way to get what she wanted, what she needed.

  The duke needed an heir and she had not managed to deliver, her one great task in life and she had failed.

  She closed her eyes at the memory of the pain, of the blood, of the pale, unbreathing flesh, of Robert turning away without a word.

  He’d never said anything about it. Every trace of the expected child had vanished before she was out of bed and not a word had been said by anyone—except the physician who told her brusquely that after a few months she could try again.

  That had been well over a year ago.

  She opened her eyes and batted her lashes quickly against the tears that threatened, that had threatened for well over a year now.

  A perfect duchess did not cry.

  And they had tried again, she and Robert, not as often as those first months, but with some, if ever decreasing, regularity. And nothing had happened. Nothing.

  Nothing. A word that seemed to fill her life.

  It had happened so fast that first time. Could something inside her be damaged?

  She pressed her hands harder against her empty belly.

  It had been almost three months since her husband had come to her at night.

  Pulling in a deep breath, she met her own gaze.

  It could not continue. Robert was the duke. She was the duchess.

  The task must be completed.

  “I hear that old Freddy is expecting his tenth. I can’t even imagine how his wife makes it past his belly.”

  The sotto voce whisper filled the dark comfort of the club and Robert froze, refusing to betray by even a single blink that he found the words disturbing. He turned his full attention to his newspaper, ignoring the even more ribald comments that followed. He did not want to think about other men and their children. In fact, he didn’t want to think at all.

  He forced his eyes to focus on the paper in front of him, sinking behind the wings of his chair, seeking something to draw his attention. France was still moaning about the death of Napoleon. Oh, they phrased it differently, but he knew a moan when he heard one. Mexico was still attempting to
fight Spain for independence. He knew that already and was frankly tired of reading about war. There was a new exhibition at the Royal Academe. He read a brief description of the show. It didn’t sound interesting to him. He thought of himself as a modern man in most ways, but he liked the art his father and his grandfather had liked—good solid portraits, people and horses. His wife would probably like these, though. Kathryn had always enjoyed the edge of something new. He should mention the exhibition to her.

  Maybe it was time to get her portrait painted. She’d been his duchess for over two years now. He’d always planned to have her painted with their first child in her . . .

  Damnation, he was thinking about children again—about children and Kathryn. He’d spent the last year working hard to think about neither—although the harder he worked at not thinking about his duchess, the more he seemed to dream about her, about her velvet skin, her sweet smile, the way she curled up in her bed like a kitten, a soft, purring kitten and he dreamed of the gentle hands he’d always longed to have . . .

  He folded the paper and placed it neatly on the table beside him. Almost before he’d finished the movement, Smits, the club’s steward, appeared, decanter in hand. “Would you care for some brandy, your grace?”

  Robert hesitated. He never drank this early in the day. He’d seen with his father just how easy it was for a single glass to turn into ten far too many times. “Yes, I’ll have one.”

  The amber liquid flowed into the glass, the reassuring sweet odor burning his nostrils. He lifted the glass and stared at it, waving Smits away. It would be easy to lose himself in it. There were, however, responsibilities awaiting him that could not be put off for another day. If he didn’t decide between a canal and a newfangled railroad soon he’d lose his chance to persuade the Dowager Duchess of Doveshire to join him in creating a new way of getting all their goods to market. He had sway with Linnette, she was easy to persuade—if the new duke were found, first things would be considerably more complicated and delayed.