The Duke and the Vicomtesse: (Clean & Wholesome Regency Romance Book)

by Grace Fletcher

  But tonight she had better make her peace with it, plaster a fake smile on her face and endure boring small talk about someone’s estate and another’s inheritance. Smile and titter and fan herself until the magic hour came when they could hightail it home.

  She stood up, glancing for just a moment at her reflection. A slight woman with dark curls, brown eyes and a snub nose stared back at her. Deceivingly petite, for Marie-Therese knew she had more internal strength than a million Minnie’s and her ilk, with their weak English countenances.

  She was the daughter of a vicomte after all. A vicomtesse. Named after one of the princesses of France.

  She straightened her shoulders. A vicomtesse. So she would keep telling herself as she suffered the putdowns, the social iciness when people realized she was impoverished and of little importance.

  She knew who she really was, inside. It made the boring evenings tolerable, at least.

  She opened the door and walked to the foyer, knowing Minnie would be there, hopping from foot to foot impatiently. It was time to put on her vicomtesse mask and suffer through the evening.

  Chapter 3

  The Duke’s

  Tragedy

  I n George Riven Hall, the Duke of Marlborough surveyed the proceedings with a bored eye, scanning over the assembled company and gaining their measure in an instant.

  The usual crowd. He had not been to London in two years, and it seemed nothing had changed in that time. The same ladies, simpering. The same dandies, puffed up full of their own importance. The same dowager matrons, sitting back and watching the proceedings as if they were puppet masters and everyone else were marionettes on strings.

  It was always the same. The players might change, but the play never did. He chided himself that he had been persuaded to come here, at all. That was Kitty’s fault, of course. His sister had insisted, had traveled to his estate in Oxfordshire with the express purpose of dragging him to London.

  “It is time, brother of mine,” she had said one evening, after dinner. “You have locked yourself away in the country for far too long. I must insist. It will do you a world of good.”

  He had protested, naturally. He had no desire to go gallivanting around the London social scene. He was content in the country, with his hounds and his horses. And with Charles, of course. Charles needed his father after what had happened to Verity.

  Marlborough scolded himself. It was not the time or the place, in this busy social environment, to be remembering. And yet, he couldn’t stop it. The memory barged its way into his mind, so that the chatting receded and the dancers seemed to morph into tops spinning on a nursery floor…

  She had been laboring for days. He had been pacing the floor, ragged.

  Eventually, he had heard the squawk of a baby. At last! She was delivered. He bounded the staircase to the room, ready to knock the door down.

  But the doctor had stepped out at that moment, a frown puckering his brow. He started when he saw the Duke.

  “Your Grace,” the man stammered. “I did everything that I could. But the babe would not come for so long, it tired her beyond endurance. Her Grace has passed, I am forlorn to inform you.”

  “What did you say, man?” He couldn’t believe it. Verity, dead?

  “She passed not a minute ago,” the doctor continued. “But you have a son. A fine boy.”

  Marlborough had staggered away, pushing against the walls, unwilling to accept the news.

  All was lost. His beloved Verity, gone forever.

  He drank himself into oblivion for weeks. But eventually, he had recovered.

  He had to after all. There was his newborn son, whom he had named Charles, to consider.

  But he had holed himself up in Blenheim Palace with the boy ever since. He had no desire to see people, ever again.

  “Marlborough!”

  He shook the memory away, with difficulty. Kitty was in front of him, waving her fan in front of his face. By her side was her best friend Lady Hawksbridge. Both women were impeccably coiffed, their dresses and jewels leaving no doubt as to their superior social status.

  “You looked like you were away with the fairies,” Kitty laughed. “You really have been too long in the country, my brother. You have forgotten how to act in society.”

  “I fear you are correct,” Marlborough answered. “I have little patience for such things. I find them exceedingly tiresome at my age.”

  “You are hardly an old man,” Kitty continued. “It does you good to socialize, after…” She looked at him, not knowing what to say.

  Phoebe coughed delicately. “We will talk no more of it! Can I persuade you to a game of whist, Your Grace?”

  Marlborough looked at her. He had known Phoebe forever. She was a handsome woman, her superior breeding obvious in her bearing and demeanour. But she had always just been his little sister’s best friend. He had never considered her in any other light.

  “Thank you, Lady Hawksbridge,” he replied. “Perhaps later I can be persuaded to the card table. At the moment, I am quite happy standing observing the dance.”

  He didn’t care about the dance, at all. But he didn’t want to go to the card table, not yet. People would fawn over him, and he couldn’t tolerate it in his present mood. The memory of Verity’s last hour had ruined any vague notion he had had of enjoying the evening.

  He looked at the dancers now, more to give credence to his last comment than out of genuine interest. They were dancing a quadrille. He skimmed his eyes over the assembled, knowing most and finding them tiresome, as always.

  One young woman, ready to dance, suddenly grabbed another passing lady, imploring her to dance. The second lady shook her head imploringly, but the young woman insisted.

  “Marie-Therese, I simply insist,” the young woman, whom Marlborough didn’t recognize, was saying.

  The lady called Marie-Therese smiled brightly and conceded. “Of course, dear cousin,” she said. Marlborough could see she wasn’t pleased, but had decided to make the best of it.

  She walked into the circle of dancers and curtseyed. She was a petite woman, with dark curls. She wore a simple lavender colored gown, and her jewels were understated. Not a woman given to ostentation like most here, thought Marlborough.

  The dance commenced. She weaved gracefully amongst the dancers, the same bright smile plastered to her face. Marlborough recognized that smile all too well. It was the smile of someone who was not enjoying themselves but had to look the part.

  He had been smiling in a very similar way himself since he had been in London.

  “Who is that young lady?” he turned to his sister, pointing discreetly at the young woman.

  “Which?” Kitty was straining her head to see. “Oh, you mean Miss Deauchamps?”

  “Deauchamps?” Marlborough questioned. “Is she French, then?”

  Kitty rolled her eyes. “Yes, one of the many impoverished former aristocrats who fled France during the revolution. They are a dime a dozen, nowadays.” She smiled, her small teeth displayed in a half smile.

  “Indeed.” He watched the lady again. “Who does she live with?”

  “Distant relations—second cousins, I think. She is the companion of Miss Minerva Bloom. Daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Bloom.”

  Marlborough frowned. “Oh, yes, the family on Regent Street, I do believe?”

  “The very one,” Kitty said. “Wealthy enough, I think, but I have rarely acknowledged them. A bit below us, I would think.”

  Marlborough nodded slightly, acknowledging this. He studied the lady for a moment longer. Graceful, with a certain Gallic air about her. She didn’t seem English to him anymore, now that he had been told, and whatever had caught his interest for a moment had vanished. She wasn’t worthy of consideration, on any level. Doomed French aristocrats didn’t impress him, and her circumstances with the Blooms were hardly ideal.

  He turned to his sister and Phoebe. “Shall we join the whist table?” he asked, offering his arm to Phoebe.

&
nbsp; She smiled deeply, delighted to have been singled out by the Duke. “Of course, Your Grace,” she breathed, fluttering her eyelids at him.

  Kitty smiled, too. Her plan was traveling along very nicely.

  Her brother needed a bit of livening up. It had been three years since Verity’s death, after all, three years since he had holed himself up at Bleinheim Palace like a hermit. Phoebe is just the antidote he needed, Kitty thought smugly.

  Chapter 4

  The Luncheon

  &

  Lord Byron

  T he next day, Marie-Therese sat with her aunt Celine in her rooms, recounting the evening to the old lady. It gave her aging aunt a thrill to hear about the gentlemen and ladies.

  “Tell me again about the ladies’ gowns, ma chérie,” the old lady whispered, clutching her niece’s hand.

  Marie-Therese frowned, trying to remember details of the intricate gowns the ladies wore. It was hard; she never cared for such things. Minnie was better at this sort of thing. She tried to repeat what Minnie had said in the carriage afterwards, aglow from the evening.

  Celine smiled, tremulously, her eyes clouding over. “Ah, chérie, you should have seen the ballrooms in Paris, back when I was young!” She tightened her grip on Marie-Therese’s hand. “Such elegance! I once attended a ball at Versailles where the Queen, Marie-Antoinette, was in attendance! Her gown was the most magnificent I had ever seen.”

  Marie-Therese smiled indulgently, but inside she wasn’t impressed. If Marie-Antoinette had been less concerned about her magnificent gowns, the revolution might never have occurred. The queen had been known and hated for her extravagance.

  She patted her aunt’s hand. “Dear Aunt Celine, I am glad you had such happiness when you were young,” she said. She meant it. Regardless of her own views about balls and gowns, she was always glad to hear that her aunt had been happy once.

  The door opened, and Minnie entered. She looked distracted. “I am sorry to disturb you, but I must speak with you, Marie-Therese,” she breathed, clearly trying to hold in her excitement

  “Of course,” Marie-Therese rose. “What is it, Minnie?”

  “It is simply wonderful, cousin!” Minnie was clutching a letter to her chest. “We have received an invitation to luncheon at Lady Clarence’s! This very day!” She spun around daintily.

  “How wonderful! Enjoy, dear cousin,” Marie-Therese said with a warm smile. She sat back down at her aunt’s side.

  Minnie frowned. “Marie-Therese, you are being impossible, as always! The invitation is for both of us. From the hand of Lady Clarence herself!”

  At this, Celine clapped her hands together. “Oh, you must go, Marie-Therese! Such an honor! Your dear mother and father would be so proud of you.” She dabbed her eyes delicately with her lace handkerchief. “Go for me, dear one. I so enjoy your descriptions of these events.”

  Marie-Therese sighed deeply. “As you wish.”

  “I have heard that the Duke of Marlborough will be in attendance,” Minnie whispered. “Do you think it possible?”

  “The Duke? Wasn’t he at the ball last night?” Marie-Therese frowned. She remembered a tall, dark gentleman watching the dancing. He had seemed to stare at her awhile. He looked very haughty as well he might. His ancestral home was a palace, no less.

  “He was,” Minnie nodded. “The first London season he has attended since the Duchess died. It was astounding that he attended, but to sit down with him at luncheon is even more unusual. Such a handsome and impressive man, do you not agree, cousin?”

  “I don’t think he smiled once,” Marie-Therese sniffed. “He watched everyone like a hawk and made no attempt to join in. An arrogant man, I fear.”

  Minnie looked at her, astonished. “He is a duke, cousin! He does not need to confer with his inferiors unless it please him.” She turned to the door. “The carriage will be ready in an hour.”

  Marie-Therese sighed. “I should pretty myself up, then.” She leaned over and kissed her aunt on the cheek. Celine looked up at her adoringly, trailing her hand over her niece’s face.

  Another tiresome social engagement, Marie-Therese thought. She shouldn’t be surprised; it was the season after all. She would endure it for Minnie and her aunt’s sake.

  As she left the room, her thoughts turned to the haughty duke. She hoped he wouldn’t be too insufferable at the table.

  ***

  Marie-Therese found her place at the long table, sitting down with a sigh.

  The duke was indeed here, as was his sister and her close companion, Lady Hawksbridge. They were at the head of the table, surrounded by people of higher social standing than she and Minnie. Really, for how poorly we’ve been placed we might just as well have been sent to dine with the servants, Marie-Therese thought.

  She watched the duke covertly. Yes, Minnie was correct. He was handsome. He had a chiseled face, and dark hair. A widower, left with a small child after his wife had died. But Marie-Therese’s impressions of him from last night held true today—he never smiled, and his eyes were cold as they surveyed the table.

  The meal commenced. Lady Clarence had outdone herself, each course arriving on cue and of superior quality.

  Marie-Therese turned to the man sitting beside her, a Mr. Erskine: a nervy fellow, pleasant enough if one found talk of hunting partridges exciting. Marie-Therese did not. She grew bored and recklessly changed the topic of conversation, which she knew would be frowned upon.

  “Have you read the latest works of Lord Byron?” she enquired to him. The table hushed for a moment. Mr. Erskine looked nervous.

  “I would never condescend to read the work of such a rake,” Mr. Erskine opined, his eyes flitting nervously across the table. “Such a scoundrel! No Christian in all good conscience should consider it.”

  “Lord Byron’s personal life is scandalous,” Marie-Therese answered. “But I judge good literature on the merit of the pen. I do not think that his work should be judged by his character, however flawed.”

  “Do you not?” The Duke’s voice boomed across the table. Marie-Therese looked up in surprise. She had no idea he was listening in!

  “I do not,” she said, squaring her shoulders as she addressed him. Then, almost as an afterthought: “Your Grace.”

  Minnie shifted uncomfortably, glaring at Marie-Therese. The other attendees looked bewildered.

  “I find that a man’s moral character informs his work,” the Duke continued, “to the point that it is impossible to separate the man from what he produces.” Everyone at the table nodded to each other in agreement.

  “How so, Your Grace?” Marie-Therese looked at him boldly. “I find it quite the opposite. I believe that suffering and hardship can bring a certain pathos to works of art. Apart from that, the man is a literary genius. His talent is undeniable. One cannot disallow that, even if one finds his character reprehensible.”

  “I find your opinions intriguing,” Marlborough answered, slowly. “Considering the man is a famous revolutionary, desiring the destruction of our good society. How can you tolerate such attitudes, considering what happened in your native land?”

  The assembled company gasped. But Marie-Therese didn’t falter. “A pertinent point, Your Grace,” she continued. “I do find such revolutionary leanings intolerable, especially given my own circumstances. But I can separate his politics from his genius. I think anyone who is a genuine lover of great literature must be able to do so.”

  Marlborough looked at her, his eyes widening. An uncomfortable silence stretched on.

  “Such silliness!” Kitty, the Duke’s sister, broke in. “I, for one, cannot tell Lord Byron from any other. Ladies should be above such nonsense. My own mother said she always found ladies who read intolerable.” She looked at Marie-Therese disdainfully.

  “Dessert is coming,” Lady Clarence said, a tad desperately. “A recipe from the royal kitchen, my dears. I do hope you enjoy.”

  People started talking again in relief as the desserts were brought to the ta
ble.

  Marie-Therese dared to glance across at the Duke. He was watching her unabashedly, not blinking. She smiled at him with the fake smile she saved for such occasions as this. He looked momentarily nonplussed, then he quickly looked away, toward his sister and Lady Hawksbridge.

  Marie-Therese didn’t care. She had never sought his good opinion. He and his ilk existed in their own world, of which she would never be a part.

  Chapter 5

  The Duke

  Dances

  M arie-Therese sat on a chair, staring at the dancers.

  Another dance, dragged to by Minnie. She was surprised that she was even invited by her cousin to come along anymore. Since her scandalous performance at Lady Clarence’s luncheon, Minnie had been in hysterics.

  “You must keep your wild opinions to yourself, cousin,” she bemoaned. “You will ruin both our chances at an eligible match! I forbid you to mention Lord Byron in polite society again.”

  Marie-Therese had shrugged. She would keep her opinions to herself, to please her cousin and dear Aunt Celine, who had to procure the smelling salts when she heard of what had happened at the luncheon. Besides, she very much doubted if the Duke of Marlborough would ever glance at her again.

  “Excusez-moi, mademoiselle?”

  She looked up. What on earth? It was the Duke himself, standing next to her! She had been so busy with her thoughts she hadn’t seen him approach.

  What was he playing at? Trying to catch her out, she’d wager.

  “Vous profitez de la danse?” She countered, smoothly.

  “Oui, merci,” he responded—and with a smile, no less!

  “Your Grace, are you trying to test my skills in my native language?” she asked in English, fanning herself. “For I must tell you now, you should desist. My aunt has spoken to me in French ever since I can remember, and we have detailed conversations in the language. You shall not best me.”

  “Shall I not?” He looked at her. His eyes were glowing. “Then perhaps I can tempt you to dance with me, instead?”

  Marie-Therese looked at him in amazement. “You want to dance with me? After our scandalous conversation at Lady Clarence’s luncheon? Half of London is talking of it, or so my dear cousin informs me.”