by Darcy Burke
Mrs. Havens raised a finger at her niece. “Some people might appreciate being able to command such elevated honorifics.”
“Yes, yes.” She waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll be certain to require such acknowledgements when I find myself amongst mere earls and viscounts. But there’s no need for stiff formality in one’s own home, is there?”
Ravenwood remained silent. His father had never referred to his mother with anything less than the full respect her position deserved, and Ravenwood had always intended to follow that example.
However, his goal was to encourage his wife to think warmly of him. To welcome him into her heart and her bed. If that meant calling her “Katherine”, then so it would be.
He began by taking a seat across from the ladies and accepting a cup of tea.
Mrs. Havens leaned forward. “Kate was just relating the most diverting story about the time she belted out a sailor’s rhyme in an empty theatre, only to realize dozens of people on the other side of the curtain had heard the whole thing.”
Katherine turned pink with laughter. “I daresay I was more careful after that. I don’t even let myself attend musicales anymore.”
Ravenwood blinked. At moments like these, he was glad to wear a mask of stone. Her anecdote wasn’t humorous. It was mortifying. Had such an embarrassment happened to him, he would never have repeated the tale.
And yet.
He had always equated Miss Katherine Ross with “flighty, irresponsible hoyden.” He was perhaps mistaken in the first two pronouncements. Her antiquities museum and her production of the charity gala were proof of her business acumen and philanthropic spirit.
But hoyden? Absolutely. She didn’t take anything in life seriously, least of all herself. Her associations with those of questionable reputation had been proof of that.
Ravenwood frowned. He couldn’t imagine what it might be like to not care a button what anyone else thought.
The idea was both fascinating and appalling. He cared tremendously what other people thought. His peers. The Crown. Society at large. Interpreting social cues was not always easy for him, which was why he relied on rules. They saved him.
Proper social mores were the best way for all parties to know how to comport themselves. When everyone agreed on what constituted suitable decorum, no one was left guessing. Acceptable behavior was both expected, and easily achievable.
For people who didn’t belt out sailor ditties in empty theatres.
Mrs. Havens set down her cup and saucer and rose to her feet with a knowing smile. “When couples are this quiet, it’s usually because there is too much to say. I’ve plenty of embroidery to get back to. Kate, you know where to find me. Have a lovely tea.”
In dismay, Ravenwood watched Mrs. Havens quit the parlor. Her presence had meant he and his new wife wouldn’t need to broach the previous night’s failings. Not yet. Not until circumstances changed enough to warrant renewed discussion.
Which left what? He didn’t know Katherine well enough to start a conversation she’d be passionate about.
He cleared his throat. “What were you doing on stage in the first place?”
Her smile lit her entire face. “My friends and I had been considering a plan to unite the stratified circles of art.”
“To what?” This time, he didn’t have to try to keep his face blank. He had absolutely no idea what she was talking about.
She touched her chin. “Would you say that London is home to a boast-worthy population of world-class artists, musicians, dancers, and the like? More than just the most famous faces we typically see on the stage?”
“Yes, of course.” He stared at her over steepled fingers and wondered where the topic was headed.
He held the best private box in the Royal Theatre and considered himself something of an aficionado, but he had never put more thought to the experience than simply enjoying the play.
Katherine’s words came faster. “Would you also agree that London is home to a rich population of art and music aficionados, who would attend such programs twenty-four hours a day, if such a feat were possible? Particularly during the Season?”
“I suppose so,” he answered hesitantly, no doubt in his mind that he was stepping into a trap.
She leaned forward. “I intend to join the two groups. London is home to countless talented individuals who lack the funds to purchase paints or instruments or ballet lessons. And there is certainly no shortage of wealthy aristocrats who could easily afford to sponsor such individuals, thereby becoming true patrons of the arts.”
“You plan to ask your peers to donate money to untrained artists?” he asked doubtfully.
“I plan to prove what a good investment it is.” Her blue eyes shone. “I intend to found a monthly gala, in which undiscovered visual and performing artists of all types can take their turn on the stage. The audience will be full of future investors—and spectators who simply wish to enjoy an evening’s entertainment.”
He frowned. “And then what?”
“After each performance, there will be an opportunity to mingle. Music lovers will discover budding musicians to sponsor, and so on. Most importantly, both groups will be interacting. Artists not only deserve respect—they need money to live, and to work on their craft. If peers want to keep enjoying the arts, we need to ensure the performers can thrive.”
He shook his head. Yes, peers did wish to keep enjoying the arts. No, he did not think performers should achieve the same level of respect.
He didn’t hide his skepticism. “You think Lady Jersey will begin handing out Almack’s vouchers to actresses?”
“Oh, obviously not.” She shrugged. “Actors and musicians will likely never enjoy a truly elevated social status. But nor should they be seen as inferior creatures.”
“They are inferior,” he pointed out dryly.
“Surely we can agree that they shouldn’t be seen as unworthy creatures at least,” she said, eyes flashing. “Not by me and not by you. I hope my husband is the first in line to give a sponsorship to some deserving artist.”
His smile was tight. “Just as my presence was so beneficial the night of the charity auction?”
“Unintended consequences occurred,” she conceded. “But yes—your presence attracted a greater number of attendees, and therefore raised a greater amount of funds for Daphne’s charity work. This is the same idea. I don’t see—”
“I’ll be first to donate,” he forced himself to say despite his misgivings. He had come here not to argue, but to woo. A happy wife would want to bear her husband’s children. He cleared his throat. “I’ll also be last to donate, and give a stipend to every participant who fails to attract a proper sponsor of his own.”
“Truly?” She stared at him in wonder. “You would donate so much?”
He lifted a palm. ’Twas just money. He doubted all of the artistic hopefuls would later become front stage sensations, but there was no reason not to give them the chance to try. If he had been born not a duke but a penniless poet, a society like the one Katherine proposed would be a life-changing opportunity.
The difficult part would be surviving the event itself. He had always enjoyed his private theatre box because it was just that: private.
Being expected to make conversation with hundreds of people sounded like hell on earth.
His discomfort with being on display was one of the primary reasons he was rarely seen at society events. The last few balls he’d attended had either been at the request of his sister or one of his childhood friends. Nothing else would tempt him to subject himself to the public eye and crowded spaces.
Except, apparently, a wife.
He rolled back his shoulders. Not only was he a man who knew his duty as a husband, he sought more than an ordinary marriage. He wanted friendship. A house that felt like a home.
If his monetary contribution and physical presence would make his wife happy, then it was what he must do. Who knew where her experiment might lead? She believed so firmly
and so completely in herself and her ideals… Perhaps she would start to feel the same about him, too.
“Of course I will support you,” he said. “It will be my pleasure.”
“There’s something else I’d like to ask you. Perhaps if we…” she trailed off and bit her lip.
He leaned forward. “Yes?”
Before she could respond, Simmons, the head butler, appeared in the doorway. “Pardon the interruption, your grace. The coach is ready.”
Ravenwood’s muscles tightened. Parliament. Splendid. Preparing himself for long hours sequestered with so many people was almost physically painful.
He was always expected to know things, to speak eloquently, to be capable of persuading the masses… It was enough to shrink his stomach into a cramped ball of dread.
He schooled his features into a blank mask. He knew what was expected of him. And he had to leave now, or risk being late.
He pushed to his feet and bowed to his wife. “We’ll talk another time.”
As much as he wished to learn about Katherine’s other idea, it would have to wait. Duty always came first.
“Of course,” she said without meeting his eyes. “There will be plenty of chances for tea.”
Something in her voice, however, indicated there might not.
Chapter 9
The following morning, Kate was thrilled to learn that Ravenwood House was expecting guests for the noon meal. She hadn’t seen her husband since he’d left for Parliament, and was grateful for an opportunity to spend more time together.
Since they’d last spoken, she had realized that the last thing she wanted was an annulment. Not because she would lose her reputation—an avowed spinster like her was certainly strong enough to handle that.
What she didn’t want to lose was Ravenwood.
He surprised her at every turn. He had accepted Aunt Havens. And the passion between them…
A flush rose to her cheeks. If they would have consummated their marriage on their wedding night, she suspected she would have enjoyed it very much. She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about his kisses, his touch. What might have happened next, if the moment hadn’t been ruined.
If anything, the worst part about making love would have been letting him go when he decided to return to his own chamber.
Bearing a child, however… She tried to swallow her panic.
If she refused to try, he would be within his rights to request an annulment. Yet how was she supposed to bear an heir? No matter how much she craved intimacy with her husband, her passion vanished at the memories of all the mothers whose children had not survived.
She shuddered. Best to worry about that later.
Right now, the most important things were extending an olive branch to her husband—and being a good hostess to their luncheon guests.
Hope and anticipation lightened her spirits. One of the things she had treasured most about her townhouse was its constant influx of friends and acquaintances of all walks of life.
The only pastime even more cherished than catching up with old friends was meeting new ones. She had never met the Blaylocks, but they were apparently cousins of some sort. Ravenwood’s sister, Lady Amelia, would be joining them just for the occasion.
Kate found a sitting room with a picturesque view of the front garden and perched at the bay window to wait.
Aunt Havens preferred to settle in one of several wingback chairs in order to pass the time with her embroidery. Kate had never had the patience for such slow, careful work, but normally adored watching her aunt’s inventive designs blossom to life.
At the moment, however, she was far more intrigued by the coach wending its way up the primary Ravenwood House entrance. An older woman was handed out first, followed by young lady obviously with child, and similarly-aged young man with bright red hair.
Kate clasped her hands together in delight. Whoever these cousins were, they were already fascinating.
Someone as high in the instep as her husband would undoubtedly hew to the belief that women who were “increasing” should remain shuttered in their homes and well out of sight from Polite Society.
That this family obviously did not—and intended to call upon Ravenwood without the slightest concern for the “rules”—meant this would be a very interesting luncheon indeed.
A frown creased her brow. Perhaps she had underestimated her new husband. It was entirely possible that his haughty air was reserved for public occasions and that, amongst family, he was more relaxed.
She doubted Ravenwood would ever go so far as to become boisterous, but he had surprised her on several occasions thus far, and she would be quite pleased if he did so again. He wasn’t just some buck whose kisses set her world afire. To her pleasant surprise, she quite liked him.
Ravenwood’s relentless self-control might make him a bore at parties, but his strong work ethic and prioritization of duty were qualities one could not help but admire. He was an excellent duke and a great asset to the House of Lords. And he had thus far been an exceptionally understanding husband.
If their home life were considerably more relaxed, their joyless union might become more than enjoyable. She had missed him while he was at Parliament. She would make him miss her, too. They could have a happy marriage, she was certain. It would just take time.
She would be the best possible wife. And an exemplary duchess. Starting with making friends with the first guests to pay their respects.
Excitedly, Kate looped her arm through her aunt’s and headed to the front parlor to meet her new cousins. The redheaded man’s face brightened the moment she and her aunt entered the room.
“Your grace!” he exclaimed. “I see my cousin is not yet present to perform the introductions, so I will simply have to do them myself. I’m Quentin Blaylock. These lovely women are my wife and my mother, both conveniently sharing the name Mrs. Blaylock.” He laughed, as did his wife.
His mother did not.
“Pleased to meet you, your grace,” said the younger Mrs. Blaylock, smiling widely. “Pardon me if I don’t curtsey—I’m afraid if I attempt the maneuver, I’ll tumble over and have the baby right here.”
A laugh startled out of Kate’s throat at the incongruous comment. The Blaylocks were delightfully vulgar and oddly charming, all at the same time. She could scarcely believe them related to Ravenwood at all.
“The pleasure is mine, I assure you. This is my great-aunt, Mrs. Havens. And as you’ve already surmised, I’m…” She hesitated.
On the one hand, it felt queer to be constantly referred to as Her Grace instead of by her name. On the other hand, this was Ravenwood’s house and Ravenwood’s family, and perhaps she ought not be too quick to dispense with formalities without her husband here to guide her.
“I’m the new duchess,” she said instead. “I’m afraid I am still getting used to the role.”
“What’s to get used to? I’m sure my cousin takes care of absolutely everything,” Mr. Blaylock said teasingly, then shot a pointed look at his mother. “That’s Papa’s doing, you know. Always saying you’d make a horrid duke and you’ll never live up to your father—”
“Old history,” the elder Mrs. Blaylock hissed. “And not something that should be discussed with the new duchess.”
He rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “She ought to know who she’s speaking with, don’t you think?” He leaned toward Kate and lowered his voice. “I’m second in line for the title, third once you do your duty. We live in Shropshire. It’s a small country cottage, but you’re welcome anytime. Ravenwood’s like a brother to me. A distant one. It’s my father he can’t stand. Can’t say I blame him. Whenever Father has too much drink, he likes to remind the room at large that he’s one bad shellfish away from becoming duke.”
Kate clapped her hands to her mouth in horror. Poor Ravenwood!
“No, no, we’re used to him spouting off,” Mr. Blaylock assured her. “It’s just his way. That’s why Father hasn’t been allowed on this pro
perty since the moment Ravenwood reached his majority. Where is the blighter, by the way? Never say he’s too busy with paperwork to share a meal with his family.”
“I…” She shot a desperate glance at Aunt Havens, then nearly sagged in relief when a familiar brunette walked in the front door.
“Cousin!” Lady Amelia handed her pelisse to a footman, then bussed cheeks with the Blaylock family. “I have just informed the groundskeeper that yes, you may do a spot of fowling after luncheon.”
The younger Mrs. Blaylock’s mouth fell open. “How did you—”
“Lady Amelia knows everything,” Mr. Blaylock interrupted with a laugh. “She probably sensed a weight difference upon our carriage axles and deduced the presence of a sporting gun on board for flushing partridge. How do you do, cousin? Isn’t married life grand?”
“It is indeed,” Lady Amelia agreed. “You must be starving. If you’ll follow me to the dining room, lunch will be served shortly. And never you fear—neither fish nor strawberries shall be present at the table.”
Kate’s face heated as her stomach twisted. Lady Amelia was no longer mistress of this house, yet she had ordered the staff. She had chosen the menu. She had known what should be served and not served, and at precisely what time.
Meanwhile, Kate had spent the morning peering out a picture window like an insipid child awaiting Father Christmas. Just because she’d been looking forward to seeing her husband and meeting new people.
Kate swallowed. The moment the Blaylocks left, she would dedicate herself to learning everything she could about running the estate.
Her throat went dry. The prospect suddenly seemed overwhelming.
She took her place across from her husband at the table. Or would have, were he present. He had not left the grounds—her morning vigil by the front window ensured she would have noticed a departure—and he, too, must be suffering hunger pangs by now.
Which could only mean he was avoiding the party on purpose. She hesitated. Were his cousins too “common” for his taste?
