by Darcy,Regina
“Who tends to her?”
“A wet nurse from the village whose child died. She takes good care of Pandora.”
“Where is she?”
“She asked Mrs Hines for permission to have the afternoon off so that she can prepare for the trip to London. She will of course be coming with us to tend to the baby.”
Hermione wondered if the woman was actually the mother of what was apparently the Duke’s by-blows, someone he had importuned with his charm and good looks. To his credit, he had not left the baby in a foundling house but had brought her into his own ancestral home. However, it seemed shabby treatment for a child to be hidden away in this manner, regardless of whether or not the wet nurse was otherwise occupied.
“Where are you going?” he inquired as she rose from the rocking chair.
“I am taking the baby to my room. I will ask Michaels and several of the footmen to bring her crib and clothing downstairs. I understand now why you employed subterfuge in your marriage proposal but that does not excuse allowing a child to languish alone as if she were an unpleasant secret to be forgotten.”
“I told you my lady that her wet nurse is always here with her.”
“She is not here now!”
“The child is unharmed and she is well.”
“She might not have been.”
“Will you reproach me for what might have happened?” he asked puzzled.
Hermione did not answer. How could she convey her conflicting thoughts to the man who had married her for the sake of convenience had somehow managed, through no effort of his own, to make her fall in love with him in less than a week?
SEVEN
“She is yours,” Hermione stated.
He didn’t answer at first, looking away and unable to meet her eyes. It seemed as though he needed to hide his gaze or risk her being able to read his private thoughts. Finally, he looked at her.
“The servants believe that she is your child,” he said finally.
“Mine!” she gasped. “How could she be mine?”
“They believe that when you found yourself with child you were angry, and after she was born, you abandoned her. I was able to persuade you to marry me and come to live at Brentford Hall with me.”
“But that means that in their eyes I have lived here for nearly a month, and during that time I have made no effort to see the baby they believe to be mine!” That explained the aloofness, the cool responses to her, and the reluctance to be in her presence. They were angry that their Master had married a woman who would accept his offer of marriage and then fail to exhibit even a modicum of maternal affection.
“I needed to marry,” he said, “so that she can be legitimate. If society believes that we have been secretly married for a year, and that we stayed in the country during that time because you were with child, there is no scandal. I have been circumspect during that time.”
“Circumspect is not the same as honourable,” she said angrily.
“I am not a saint,” Brentford replied. “I have never claimed to be one.”
“What about the baby?”
“At the end of the year, you will have your freedom. We will divorce—my great-uncle will be of assistance in that matter—and you will leave. She will be raised here, as my child.”
“While I jaunt to Europe as a thoroughly selfish woman who gives no more thought to her child than she would to leaving behind a pair of shoes she does not plan to wear.”
He hung his head. “It was all I could think of. Why should you care about a child that is nothing to you?”
She couldn’t answer that. If this was his child, then the little girl had a hold on Hermione. It was that simple. However, she couldn’t tell him that.
“She will not stay upstairs as if she were a forgotten piece of furniture. She will stay downstairs in a room next to mine. Her wet-nurse will need to be nearby. I assume that you will instruct Mrs Hines to arrange this?”
“I will.”
Brentford scrutinised her. She was animated, as he had never seen her before, her grey eyes igniting with sparks of anger. Her cheeks, usually pale and smooth as ivory, were flushed with colour. Even her posture, typically recessive and shy, had altered as she stood before him, the baby in her arms. It was, he had to confess, impressive. Moreover, alluring. She was beautiful. She might have been the ideal choice for a real wife, instead of the option he used in a charade.
Mrs Hines obeyed his instructions with alacrity and by nightfall, the move was completed. As the Duke had returned, Mrs Hines assumed that they would resume taking their meals in the dining room. The meal was a splendid offering, no doubt to welcome the Duke home after his absence in London. However, Hermione was taken aback when Michaels told her, as the footmen brought in the dishes, that Mrs Hines particularly recommended the roast beef that had been cooked in a sauce that was a speciality of Cook’s.
Brentford dismissed the servants so that they were alone. “So what did you do to win over Mrs Hines?” he asked, sipping his wine.
“Nothing at all. I’ve done nothing. Why should she recommend the roast beef?” It seemed to be a very unusual means of announcing a truce.
“It is clear.”
“What is?” She cut a morsel of the roast beef. It was very good, moistened and flavoured by the sauce in which it had been cooked.
He gave her a crooked grin. “Mrs Hines has decided that you must have regained your senses now that you have shown an interest in your daughter.”
“My—”
“Hush,” he warned.
“We are alone.”
“Servants hear everything. In their view, you are her mother. I do not wish them to think otherwise.”
“Hence your generosity in the terms by which I may abandon the marriage after one year. You were not being charitable, you were merely ensuring that this child will have the appearance of respectability.” She could not contain her bitter reproach.
She barely knew him, yet she knew him well enough to realize that his eyes mirrored his thoughts.
“Is that so wrong?” he asked, looking at her beseechingly. “To want a child to be accepted into a world that would be unkind and cruel if it knew the truth?”
“No,” she said finally, after a silence that grew lengthy. She could not answer the question he asked when there were so many other questions provoking her curiosity. “But acceptance doesn’t begin when she is old enough to attract suitors. It started when she was born and to leave her in a far-off room of the house where she is distant from all contact is also unkind and cruel.”
Brentford exhaled slowly. “Yes,” he said after a silence as long as the previous one, indicating that he also had thoughts that needed to be pondered before they were voiced. “I agree. When we are in London, we’ll have a nursery set up for Pandora.”
“Pandora? Why did you give her that name?”
“It isn’t her real name. It’s what I call her. Her christened name is Althea.”
“Althea.”
“Yes.”
More silence. Then, finally, “It was my mother’s name,” he said, avoiding her eyes.
He had given his love child his mother’s name. Again, that was perhaps commendable. But to honour an illegitimate child with a family name merely proved that he must love, or have loved, the child’s mother very much.
“It’s a pretty name,” she said. “When was she christened?”
“On our wedding day. My great-uncle—”
“You did not think that I should be included in this ceremony?” she demanded incredulously.
“I had not told you of Pandora’s existence. I felt it would be rather too much for you.”
He was a libertine; he had told her as much that day at the inn. He had not told her that he was deceitful.
“Does the Archbishop think me the mother?”
“He knows that you are not.”
“Does he know the mother?”
“No.”
His terse reply told her
that he was not revealing the name of the woman who had borne the child.
“Am I to meet the wet nurse or is she also sequestered in a hidden room?”
“There are no hidden rooms! Hermione, forgive me. I meant no insult. This has not been easy for me and I was obliged to do what I could to ensure that this child does not suffer for her parents’ indiscretions.”
He was confessing his guilt, candour replacing the duplicity that had preceded it.
Hermione was bound by the arrangement that she had agreed to, and in the eyes of the world, she was a mother. Her romance would be regarded as somewhat unorthodox in nature but Brentford had already informed her that he was known for living his life on his own terms.
She was not entirely certain that she knew the truth of what his intentions were, or which part of the truth could be shared, but in the eyes of Society, she and the Duke of Brentford had married in secret, and kept their marriage concealed for a year, during which time, she had borne a daughter and suffered the death of her father. The only person who would know the truth was Mr Wilder and with any luck, he would not be in any position to counter the official account.
EIGHT
The London house was beyond a doubt very smart and although Hermione knew little of such things, she recognised that its role was more than shelter. The houses in Belgrave and Mayfair, which belonged to the aristocracy, were designed to flaunt their owners’ status. The furniture was new and reflected the tastes that had become popular under the reign of the Prince Regent. The Brentford Hall servants who travelled to London were conscious as well of their altered role; Mrs Hines seemed starchier, her forehead creased and her eyes narrowed when she met with the Duchess, because the Duke had informed them that there would be entertaining.
The cook was feverishly considering new recipes that would impress the guests, who might be accustomed to French or Italian chefs preparing their meals. Mr Michaels, more imposing here than he was at the Hall, was well aware that in the city, the regimen of making calls and receiving callers put a particular burden upon his knowledge of the town.
His son, however, the unflappable Michaels, seemed to be exactly the same as he accompanied Brentford to his tailor, to Tattersall’s, to the other locations where a London gentlemen would be expected to take care of his business.
Susannah Helton, the wet-nurse ensconced in the nursery, had no reason to be perturbed by the change in residence. Her duties were to care for the daughter of the Duke and Duchess, as she understood her charge to be. She was not bothered when Hermione made visits several times a day to the nursery to visit the infant; in fact, she told Mrs Hines that the Duchess seemed to take to mothering.
Mrs Hines was relieved at the news. Although she was well aware that, among the fashionable set, women were not particularly conspicuous in their maternal instincts, she felt it was unnatural for a woman to be oblivious to a child she had borne. Seeing the Duchess take to her responsibilities relieved the housekeeper, who had a sincere affection for the Duke, no matter his scapegrace ways.
Brentford had always preferred living in the country and therefore the London house had been vacant for most of each Season. Once the city learned that the young Duke had brought his wife and daughter and intended to take part in Society, it was not long before the calling card salver in the entrance of the home began to fill.
Hermione found her days much fuller than they had ever been. In the mornings, she spent time in the nursery with Althea before she and Brentford shared breakfast. So anxious was she to avoid giving offence that she was always home to callers, even though she considered the ordeal to be a waste of time. London was eager to meet her, to learn the details of her courtship and wedding. It was apparent that the Duke was known for his madcap ways, with the result that no one seemed disbelieving of the story of their marriage and the birth of their daughter. The women callers praised Hermione for her success in bringing her husband out of his country rustication. They were not particularly interested in her parentage; as a baron was far less impressive than a duke it was enough that she was as they were, a member of the aristocracy.
Madame DeVilling’s efforts to provide Hermione with a wardrobe that would serve her well until her London dressmaker had time to expand it were quite successful.
Hermione, maintaining her mourning, wore gowns in delicate shades of lavender, periwinkle, dove-grey, and silver-white, all entirely demure in hue. The styles were the very latest, rivalling anything that any belle would appear in. Madame DeVilling had advised Hermione to let her hair and jewels bear the focus of her appearance and the counsel was wise. Other women, more opulently garbed, could not match Hermione’s dignified yet sometimes daring attire or hairstyling.
Brentford noticed her appearance and was unfailingly complimentary. When he came into her bedroom, knocking first, to inquire if she was ready to leave for the first ball to which they were invited, he saw her frowning at her reflection.
To Hermione, the neckline seemed terribly revealing. Brentford’s opinion was otherwise.
“You are ravishing,” he told her. “Entirely ravishing. Change nothing. As you are, no woman can match you.”
She smiled in pleasure. They had managed to develop a certain camaraderie, which impressed the Londoners who visited them, finding the story of their courtship enormously romantic. It was not necessary for either Brentford or Hermione to give away much information; the town had already determined the saga and no longer needed confirmation from the Duke and Duchess. This was curiously liberating, although it should have troubled Hermione, she felt. Nevertheless, there was very little time to pause and mull over such details. Brentford was determined that this was to be the season when the Duchess would be launched into Society, thereby establishing Althea’s birth right. For Hermione, who had never really had a traditional girlhood with beaux and parties, this round of invitations, the drives along Rotten Row, the opera and theatre were even more enchanting because she took part as the wife of a Duke.
Madame DeVilling’s words were her guide and they proved true: the Duchess of Brentford without question belonged in London society. This perception helped Hermione to acquire a semblance of poise that she had never known. Her confidence made her even more beautiful and more alluring and the Duke noticed that the demure young woman from the inn had become an object of desire.
They were invited to a ball hosted by the Countess of Eden, an arbiter of society whose invitations were eagerly sought by all. Hermione didn’t realize that the invitation was quite coup, but Brentford did and when he learned that Hermione planned to wear the silver-grey dress with the revealing bodice, he had the Brentford rubies brought from the vault. They were bold and beautiful, his mother’s favourite accessory and they would complement the reticent colour and provocative style of the dress.
“May I?” Brentford asked as they stood before her mirror.
She nodded. As he fastened the necklace, he could not resist kissing the spot where the strands of silver metal touched her soft skin.
“Ravishing,” he murmured, his lips lingering over the spot where tiny tendrils of golden hair curled above the clasp. Hermione closed her eyes. His touch seared her skin. His lips branded her neck with a kiss that seemed not to end.
“We shall be late,” she said finally, breathless.
Reluctantly, he raised his head. “You have a beautiful neck, Your Grace,” he said, his eyes illuminated with a very male appreciation of her appearance. “It invites a man to kiss it.”
She made herself busy preparing her reticule so that she would not have to meet his gaze. Had he seen her eyes, she knew that he would have realised what he must never find out: the masquerade marriage had entrapped her in a love she had never sought for a man who was husband in name only.
Silently, she allowed him to place a shawl over her shoulders and they went out where the carriage awaited. Brentford’s conversation was as always diverting, and she responded accordingly, but the memory of his kiss interjected it
self into her words so that she seemed preoccupied.
Brentford wondered if perhaps she was nervous about this, her first ball. She needn’t be, he thought. She was enticing beyond compare, with her maidenly pure gaze and her lovely body. He had no doubt that she would be a success tonight. What he did not know was how he would react. It was a troubling revelation for a man who had never intended to fall in love and who had carefully orchestrated a marriage designed to serve only his practical purposes.
As he alighted from the carriage, Brentford noticed a woman staring at him. She looked faintly familiar, but when he made a point of returning her gaze, she dropped her eyes. He turned to assist Hermione and forgot about the woman, unaware that she continued to watch him from the shadows as he and Hermione entered the house.
“My dear Duke Brentford, such a story we are hearing. Your wife is enchanting,” said the Countess.
“Yes, isn’t she,” Brentford agreed. She had been partnered for every dance by the most eligible bachelors and the most married of men. He watched her covetously as she danced and swirled to the music, her body moving naturally to the strains of the tunes the musicians played.
“I can see why you wanted to keep her hidden,” the Countess observed shrewdly. “She is a jewel.”
“Yes,” Brentford drawled. “But she is a Brentford jewel.”
The Countess smiled. “Perhaps you must claim the next dance and remind others of that. I believe she has danced three times with Lord Dennison. People will talk,” she warned as she left him to speak to another of her guests.
NINE
Did Hermione know that more than three dances with the same partner was tantamount to a declaration of impending marriage or a looming affair? Probably not. There was much she didn’t know, but he found that her ignorance of Society, of cant, of the gossip of the haute monde was one of her most beguiling traits. Breakfast was his favourite time of day because the morning started out in her company. She spoke of Althea, of the plans for the day, of a sketch she was drawing of the rose bushes in the back. She even discussed the news that she read in the newspapers, conversing with him spiritedly over political matters that he had never before discussed with a woman. She had lived a quiet life in the country with her father but she had not lived in isolation from the events that shaped the Empire.
