The Famous Heroine/The Plumed Bonnet

by Mary Balogh

  He set his hands lightly against her upper arms. “You did not shame me,” he said again. “And you will quickly learn to feel more comfortable in your new world. We will all help you—my mother and I, Jane, Louise …” He hesitated, but did not add Elizabeth’s name.

  She laughed and hunched her shoulders again. “Jane, Louise,” she said. “I do not even know who they are. I do not even remember their titles or their other names. I am not even sure I would recognize them if I saw them again. I—”

  “Give yourself time,” he said.

  She stood very still, her head down before nodding and turning to face him. “A week,” she said. “We will have to hope that I am an apt pupil. We will have to hope that at the end of the week, when I leave this house to appear in Society, I will have learned enough not to disgrace you.”

  His hands had returned to her upper arms after she had turned. They were almost thin. “Promise me something,” he said, looking into her eyes.

  “What?” she said. “Have I not promised enough?”

  “Promise me that you will sleep at night and eat at mealtimes,” he said. “You have not been doing much of either, have you?”

  She smiled fleetingly. “I wonder,” she said, “how much Cinderella ate and slept in the weeks prior to her wedding.”

  “Try,” he said. “Promise me that you will try.”

  “Very well,” she said. “I promise.”

  He remembered touching his lips to hers briefly that first night at the inn, when he had expected that his kiss would be the mere prelude to the full feast, when he had thought that she had openly invited him to the feast. He remembered that he had been sexually aroused even before the kiss. She had looked so achingly lovely and so mouth-wateringly desirable arched back on the bed with her face lifted and her eyes closed.

  “May I kiss you?” he asked.

  Her eyes widened, and she flushed.

  “We are betrothed,” he said. “May I kiss you?”

  He thought for a moment that she would not answer at all. Then she nodded almost imperceptibly.

  Her lips were closed and immobile. Warm. She smelled of soap, he thought as he lifted his own away from them. He had not realized until that moment how much he associated sexual passion with strong perfumes. He liked the soap smell. He preferred it.

  Her eyes were on him. Wary.

  He set his arms loosely about her before kissing her again, one about her waist, the other about her shoulders. She lost her balance and came swaying against him, her hands spread against his chest. There were no voluptuous curves, he thought, and yet she felt utterly feminine. She had long, slim legs. He kept his kiss light and undemanding, though he parted his lips to taste her and ran his tongue once slowly across the seam of her lips.

  “You have never kissed before,” he said as he lifted his head and released his hold of her. He wished immediately that he had not said it—he had done so only because the delightful novelty of it had somewhat dazed him. It was one more humiliation for her. He could see it as soon as her eyes dropped from his.

  “The only chances I have had to kiss,” she said, “have been with gentlemen who wanted a great deal more than just kisses.”

  He wondered if she too was remembering that first night.

  “You will not be subjected to such indignities or to such humiliation ever again,” he said softly. “My honor on it.”

  “This too,” she said equally quietly, looking down at her hands, “I will learn in time with you as my teacher. I will try to be a diligent pupil, Your Grace. I am ignorant in so many ways, am I not?” Her voice sounded a little bitter.

  “Ah, but it is ignorance,” he said, “or rather innocence that a man hopes to find in his bride, Miss Gray. Do not apologize for yours. Yes, I will teach you. And you will teach me. We will each learn how to please the other. Now, I believe I will take my leave even before my mother returns. I believe you would appreciate some time to yourself, some time to sleep perhaps before dinner?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “Come,” he said, “I will escort you to the stairs. I will leave word for my mother that you are resting.”

  He drew her arm through his and set his hand over hers. A few moments later he watched her climb the stairs to her room before he descended to the hall and left the house after giving his message to a footman.

  He had no more idea than when he had arrived if this thing was going to be possible or not. All he did know was that it was impossible to go back or to try to change the situation. Like it or not, he was going to be a married man by this time next month. He was going to be married to Miss Stephanie Gray. She was an intelligent woman, he thought, with a natural refinement of manner, even if she had little confidence in her ability to be a duchess. His mother would see to it that she was brought up to snuff within the next week. And together he and his mother would polish the product and prune away its raw edges in the three weeks that would remain before the wedding.

  Yes, she would take, he thought. He really did feel more confident than he had felt yesterday—considerably more confident. And there was something else too that helped him sit back in his carriage and relax against the velvet seats.

  He was going to enjoy the intimate side of the marriage. As the flamboyant actress he had taken her for, he had wanted her. But as Miss Stephanie Gray, his betrothed, she was just as desirable. Perhaps more so. He really had found her innocence—her total lack of understanding of what a kiss could be—almost erotic.

  Yes, today he felt considerably more cheerful.

  SHE FELT LESS cheerful than she had felt before his visit—if that was possible. Until then, she realized afterward, she had never been quite convinced that her betrothal was irrevocable. Bad as things had seemed, she had been able to tell herself that she could put an end to it, find herself another husband within the appointed time, or even go back to her old way of life as a last resort.

  Now she knew that there was no going back. Only forward. But how could she go forward? It was impossible. Only by changing herself completely could she fit herself for her new life. And how could she change herself completely when she was already six-and-twenty? And when certain principles and attitudes and ideas were ingrained in her? And when she basically liked herself the way she was?

  But change she must. And if she must change, then she would give herself a good reason for changing—a really good one. She would change for him. She would never forget how he had saved her from certain misery and terror and from possible death just two weeks before. And she would never forget how courteous he had been—except for that one small lapse when she had inadvertently tempted him. Of how he had treated her like a person even when others were looking askance at her because of her appearance. She would never forget how he had insisted on taking her all the way to Sindon Park, even though he had obviously realized that he was going to feel honor bound to offer her marriage. And she would never forget how he had urged her to accept and how he had continued to urge her today, just so that she would not suffer disgrace.

  She owed him everything, even her life.

  And yet, she was quite sure that he must be as reluctant about this marriage as she could possibly be. He was a young and a handsome man. He was a wealthy man and a duke. He had everything with which to attract any woman he cared to choose as a wife. Yet he had been forced—by his own gallantry—to take her. She wondered if he had ever had dreams of love. She did not know a great deal about men, but she imagined that they must have such dreams just as much as women did.

  She would change for him then—in order to make him a worthy duchess. And in order to … please him. That was the term he had used. They would teach each other, he had said. They would each learn to please the other. She knew nothing about pleasing a man. But she drew comfort from the fact that he had told her men hoped for ignorance and innocence in their brides. He would have both in full measure with her. She knew nothing.

  She had been shocked to t
he core of her being by his kiss. His lips had been parted—she had felt the warmth and moisture of his mouth against her lips. She had tasted him. And he had touched her with his tongue. Perhaps what had shocked her most, though, was her reaction. She had felt the kiss not only with her lips. She had felt it with her body, with a rush of strange sensation to her breasts and to the most secret parts of her body. Her legs had almost collapsed under her.

  Oh yes, he would have his innocent, right enough.

  She would change for him—for his sake.

  And so the following day—and again four days after that—she stood uncomplaining for hours on end while the duchess’s own modiste measured her and pinned fabrics to her and showed her endless patterns and bolts of fabric and lengths of trimmings. She listened meekly to Her Grace’s advice and to the modiste’s and only occasionally insisted on disagreeing. She felt incredulity at the number of different clothes for all occasions that were deemed the bare essentials for her during the next six months—of course she was expected to be increasing by that time. But she said nothing.

  At home—at the duchess’s home—she sat for more hours on end unmoving while Patty, her bright and talkative and skilled new maid, dressed and redressed her hair in a dizzying number and variety of styles. And she listened to Her Grace’s judgment on each and resisted the urge each time to grab her brush and pull furiously at the elegant creations.

  At home too she trailed about the house after the duchess, listening to that lady’s conversations with her housekeeper, her cook, and her butler. She memorized both Her Grace’s manner of speaking and her way of taking command of her own household. She genuinely admired the quiet firmness with which Her Grace treated all her servants, but she wondered if there would be any harm in a little more warmth. She quelled the thought. If this was how a duchess ran her household, then she would learn the way. She would not disgrace him when the time came by trying to make friends of his servants.

  In the duchess’s private sitting room, where they often sat for long stretches of time stitching away at their embroidery—Stephanie preferred that to the endless piles of mending and darning with which she had been expected to occupy her evenings at the Burnabys’—she listened and learned about the ton, about Society manners and morals. She learned all the small details that would help her avoid embarrassment and awkwardness—like the fact that at a ball she must dance with the same gentleman, even her betrothed, no more than twice in one evening, or that the sort of curtsy with which she might greet a lady or gentleman of no title must differ from the one with which she would show respect to a dowager countess or duchess. And her curtsies now, when she was merely Miss Stephanie Gray, must be more deferential to all than they would be when she became the Duchess of Bridgwater.

  She learned that after her marriage she must expect to see little of her husband. It would be considered bad ton if they lived in each other’s pocket. Men had their own pursuits and did not appreciate clinging, possessive wives. If her husband chose to keep a mistress after his marriage—Her Grace spoke about it quite as matter-of-factly as she had spoken about everything else—then she must pretend not to know. It was ill-bred to be jealous. And if she chose to take a lover, it must be done with the utmost discretion and only after she had presented the duke with a son.

  “It is my hope, of course,” Her Grace added, “that Alistair will be faithful to you. But he is a grown man and head of this family. He will make his own decisions. I say these things only so that you will understand the rules, Stephanie. It is of the utmost importance that you know the rules and abide by them.”

  She learned the rules, carefully and meticulously committing them all to memory so that she would not make any gauche blunders when she appeared in Society herself. She would not make mistakes. She would not shame him.

  He did not call upon her again during that week. Neither did anyone else. Apart from the two lengthy visits to Bond Street and Her Grace’s modiste, she spent the week inside the duchess’s home, seeing no one except Her Grace and the servants.

  But the day finally came when a staggeringly large number of parcels was delivered to the house and the modiste arrived at the same time. Stephanie’s new wardrobe was ready. She had to try on every one of the clothes while the duchess and the dressmaker looked critically at them and a few minor adjustments were made.

  Stephanie, it seemed, was ready to meet the ton. There was to be a ball the following evening at the home of the Marquess of Hayden. It was a ball being given in honor of the Duke of Bridgwater’s betrothal to Miss Stephanie Gray.

  The Marchioness of Hayden, Stephanie remembered belatedly, was the duke’s sister.

  “I could have wished for some smaller, quieter entertainment for your first appearance, Stephanie,” Her Grace said. “But it is as well to start this way, perhaps. And you are quite ready, my dear. I have seen during the past week that you learn fast and that you have made every effort to learn. I am very pleased with you. Alistair will be equally delighted. He will come tomorrow to escort us to Hayden’s for dinner and the ball to follow it.”

  Stephanie drew a slow breath. She would not disgrace him, she thought. He would look at her and be pleased. He would watch her through the evening and be satisfied.

  Oh, she hoped she would not disgrace him. She owed him so very much. She must repay him at least in this very small way.

  The thought of seeing him again set her stomach to fluttering. It was neither a wholly pleasant nor a wholly unpleasant feeling.

  9

  IS MOTHER HAD WORKED MIRACLES IN THE COURSE of a week. That was the Duke of Bridgwater’s first reaction when he saw Stephanie on the evening of the Marchioness of Hayden’s ball.

  He was standing in the hall of his mother’s house. He had been told that the ladies were almost ready to leave and had waited for them to come downstairs. His mother came first, looking her usual almost regal self in purple satin with matching plumed turban. He took her hands in his and kissed her on both cheeks.

  “As usual, Mama,” he said in all sincerity, “you look far too young and far too beautiful to be my mother.”

  “But,” she said, “only a son of mine would have learned so to flatter me, Alistair.”

  She had come down ahead of Stephanie Gray, he knew, so that all his attention could rest on his betrothed as she descended the staircase. He looked up now to watch her come. And yes, he thought, definitely a miracle had been wrought.

  She wore pale green. The underdress was cut low at the bosom and was high-waisted, with one deep flounce at the hem. The overdress was of fine lace. She wore pearls at her throat and about one gloved wrist. Her hair was dressed smoothly at the front and sides, though curled tendrils at her temples and neck softened any suggestion of severity. He could see elaborate curls at the back, even though he had as yet only a mainly frontal view of her.

  He could recognize his mother’s superb taste in both the deceptive simplicity of the gown and the style of her hair. She looked impeccable and elegant. She would far outshine any of those ladies at the ball—and there would be many of them—who would think to draw attention and admiration by the fussiness of their appearance.

  But it was not just the hair and the clothes that made him think of miracles. There was something about her that had transformed her from a governess to a duke’s fiancée. He had never thought of her as having poor posture, yet there was something now about the set of her shoulders and the straightness of her back that suggested almost a regality—like his mother. And she held her chin high in an expression of pride that stopped well short of conceit.

  Her posture and her gown combined emphasized all that was best in her appearance—her tall slimness, her swanlike neck, her long slim legs, clearly outlined as she walked.

  “Miss Gray.” He waited for her to reach the hall before taking a few steps toward her and stretching out his right hand. When she placed her own in it and curtsied, he bowed over it and raised it to his lips. “I almost did not recogni
ze you.” He turned to look at his mother. “You have performed a miracle, Mama.”

  “Stephanie has been the easiest pupil any teacher could wish for,” his mother said. “It is no miracle, Alistair. Hard work has done it.”

  He looked back to his betrothed. “You are nervous about tonight?” he asked her. She had been half smiling as she descended the stairs. The smile had vanished now.

  “A little, I suppose,” she admitted.

  He squeezed her hand, which he had not yet released. “You need not be,” he said. “You look magnificent, as I am sure your glass and my mother have both informed you. If you remember everything that I am sure she has told you during the past week, you will do very well this evening. If you feel a little uncertain at any time, remember who you are. Remember that you are my betrothed and that soon you will be the Duchess of Bridgwater.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” she said. “I will remember.”

  But he knew that she was still nervous. Her eyes had lost some of the sparkle they had had a minute before. Her face looked paler. He felt an unexpected rush of sympathy for her and of protectiveness too. This must all be very difficult for her. He did not doubt that the closest she had ever come to a grand ball was a country assembly when she had still been living at the parsonage. He hoped his mother had thought to brush up on her dancing skills. But he was sure she would not have forgotten something quite so elemental.

  His mother led the way out to the carriage while he followed with Miss Gray, her arm resting along the top of his own. He looked reassuringly at her. “Do not fear,” he said. “No one seeing you tonight would ever guess that until three weeks ago you were a governess. My sisters will be amazed and delighted by the transformation in you.”

  She looked up at him briefly before he handed her into the carriage, but she said nothing.

  He would have to be careful, he thought. He knew that the temptation would be to hover over her all evening, to try to protect her from the ordeal he knew she would be facing. He must not do it. Nothing would be more certain to make her appear like a gauche rustic who had neither the manners nor the conversation required by the role she was about to assume in Society. He must not ask Elizabeth to seat him next to her at dinner. He must dance with her only twice, and he must not take up his place at her side between sets more than once or twice.