Miss Lily certainly was a good instructor on polite conversation. The party shared a drink before going in to dinner and spoke about the weather, the Queen’s latest appearance, and other things he didn’t care about in the least.
Eventually, he led them all into the dining room, where inevitably there were at least ten minutes spent on the beauty of the room.
If he were to be proper, would he have to start having opinions about interior design? If it weren’t for Rose, he’d ponder doing something entirely shocking, just to liven up the party.
One thing Thompson had not decided—could not decide, actually—was where everyone would be seated around the table. Marcus was amused at the intricate machinations taken to place Miss Blake to his left, while Mrs. Haughton sat to his right, with Smithfield to her right, followed by Lily. It wasn’t entirely proper, he knew, to have his governess dine with them, but he just wanted her there, he couldn’t say precisely why. Mr. and Mrs. Porter sat on the other side, to the left of Miss Blake.
It felt very comfortable, even though everyone but Smithfield and Lily were strangers to him. He’d never actually had any of these kinds of intimate dinners; his parents had always taken Joseph, since he was the oldest and, his father would remind him, Marcus was “far too devilish” to be safe in company, so he had usually eaten alone, or with a tutor, until he was sent off to school.
He hadn’t thought of those times in so long—deliberately, he knew—but now he let himself touch those memories, hoping he could find a family for Rose so she wouldn’t have to endure those moments of loneliness. He’d need to; he didn’t want any child to go through what he had.
And when had he become so maudlin, anyway?
He shook his head, and took a deep swallow of his wine.
He was aware that part of his mind was preoccupied with Miss Lily; where she was, who she spoke to, what type of expression she had. If it were up to him—which it was, honestly, but he wasn’t that rude, despite what she might think—he would have canceled the dinner party and spent the evening as they had the night before, alone with her. Seeing if he could bring that pink sparkle to her cheeks, and reveling in her spiky retorts.
But that would not put him on his way to convincing proper society that he was sincere in his wish to be like them.
Not that he was. But for Rose, and the chance for him to explore his own happiness, he would try. No, damn it, he would succeed.
Which meant the only time he could say “damn it” was in his own thoughts.
“What is your opinion, Your Grace?” Miss Blake was addressing him, her voice a light, tinkling sound that made him think of chimes, or what fluffy clouds would sound like if they could talk.
He was not fond of either chimes or clouds.
“About what?”
He felt, rather than saw, Miss Lily frown at his tone. And felt guilty for knowing she was right. “About what, Miss Blake?” he repeated, this time trying not to speak abruptly.
“If the weather has been finer since the Queen’s wedding, or if it is only my imagination.”
Well, if that wasn’t the most asinine question—not to mention proper, he hadn’t forgotten Miss Lily’s recitation of polite conversation—he had ever heard.
“That is difficult to answer, Miss Blake.”
She smiled at him as though he had actually answered her rather than entirely prevaricated. Was this actually how young ladies conversed? He far preferred Miss Lily’s direct way of speaking. Would this be what marriage to a proper young lady would be?
Perhaps he should just forego propriety after all. But there was Rose to care for now, and he did owe his title something.
He would need a woman, a wife, to teach his daughter about the weather, and conversation, and all those things that had not been part of his education. Eventually, even if he didn’t need it right now.
With that in mind, he launched his next conversational assault. “Tell me, Miss Blake, what events have you attended since you’ve been in town?” Talking about Society events was safe, according to Miss Lily.
Stultifyingly boring, according to him.
Miss Blake simpered. “I have been to so many parties, each one has been wonderful. I do love to dance, although I like talking as well. I cannot decide which is preferable.”
Marcus nodded in agreement, as though she had said something that was an actual opinion. He saw Smithfield bend his head to Lily’s to say something to her, and when she bestowed a smile in return, he felt his fists clench.
But he had to force himself not to clench them because he was holding a soup spoon in one hand and gripping his wineglass with the other, and because it would be impolite to challenge his new best friend to a fistfight over a lady’s smile.
“Your Grace,” Mr. Porter said, thankfully distracting him from both soup and smiles, “might I ask your opinion on the Chimney Sweepers Act?”
Marcus was opening his mouth to reply when he saw Lily shaking her head imperceptibly. Right. He should not be speaking about politics in polite company, except— “I think it’s an abominable practice to force children to work in such conditions. In any conditions at all, actually.”
He saw Lily’s shoulders slump. But if he could not speak his mind about such issues, then he did not wish to be polite. And, as she seemed to delight in reminding him, he was a duke, chafe at it though he might, and a duke was given more leeway to speak as he wished because of how very proper he was assumed to be.
An oxymoron that he wished he could point out to her so she could share the joke.
Besides which, it was an abominable practice, and at least he could look forward to arguing about that with his fellow peers at the House of Lords rather than taking a nap during the proceedings, as he had the other few times he’d attended.
But he couldn’t discuss either oxymorons or abominable practices with her because Smithfield was engaging her in conversation again, and Mr. Porter was answering, so he had to pay attention to that, not how Lily’s hazel eyes were sparkling gold, or how the gown he’d bought for her accentuated her curves and was cut low enough so he could see the swell of her breasts, which meant that Smithfield could see them, too, only more because he was closer.
Damn. His fists were clenching again. And he was silently swearing, too.
“Your Grace,” Mrs. Haughton interrupted, before he could punch anyone, “I understand your charge is newly arrived to your household?”
Marcus nodded. “Yes, her mother—my cousin—has passed, and left her care to me.”
He saw Lily nod in satisfaction out of the corner of his eye.
“And you have already gotten her a governess. How splendid.”
Yes, she is, isn’t she? “Yes.” What was the proper response to that? He would have to ask Lily when they were alone.
“I presume you will be sending her to school when she is old enough?”
Was that what people did? “Perhaps.” An equivocal answer worthy of Miss Blake, even.
“And of course she will be useful when you have your own children.”
Useful? What did that mean? “Perhaps,” he said again, taking a bite of onion custard. It really was not to his taste. As this conversation wasn’t.
But it would be a conversation that he’d likely have to endure if—no, when—he did return to polite society. Especially if he did decide to secure a wife who would tolerate her husband’s natural child.
Tolerate. That was far too mild for what he hoped a young lady would feel toward Rose—he knew what it was like to be raised by parents who treated you indifferently, and he didn’t want that for her. It was bad enough he hadn’t been part of her life until now.
“I have to commend you on taking such a bold action, Your Grace,” Mrs. Haughton continued, as she finished her portion of the onion custard. “Most men would not be so gracious about the responsibility of a young child.”
“Rose,” Marcus said through gritted teeth, “her name is Rose.”
He saw L
ily’s mouth start to curl up into a grin, which she hid by taking a sip of wine.
“Rose, of course, what a delightful name,” Mrs. Haughton said. The footmen then approached to remove the onion custard, leaving Marcus with a bad taste in his mouth. From the conversation and the food.
A few hours later, or so it seemed, he was filled with food he hadn’t tasted and wine he had drunk too much of, and all he wanted was to see these people gone so he could be alone. Or not; he wished Lily to be there as well, although he wouldn’t acknowledge that to himself, at least not more than once a minute.
She had spent the entire dinner talking to Smithfield, only speaking to the table in general when she was addressed, which was seldom—it was not customary for the governess to attend dinner at all, and if she did, she was supposed to remain silent.
Perhaps next time he invited people for dinner he’d provide gags for everyone so nobody could speak. At least that way he wouldn’t have to endure the most banal of banalities he’d ever heard.
It would be very proper.
How different would it have been if it were just Rose and Lily? Much more pleasant, he knew that; for one thing, he wouldn’t have had to eat things like potted lampreys and pigeon compote.
“Miss Lily, would you bring Miss Rose down to meet the company?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Lily stood and walked quickly from the room, returning only a few minutes later with Rose, whose cheeks were flushed red, as though very excited for the opportunity to meet new people.
“This is your Miss Rose,” Mrs. Haughton said, holding her hands out. Rose glanced uncertainly at Lily, then walked forward and took the outstretched hands. “You are so pretty. I can see the family resemblance,” she said, casting an arch, knowing look at Marcus.
Marcus offered a tight smile in return.
“Miss Rose, I am Miss Blake.”
“Blake starts with a B!” Rose exclaimed. Marcus’s smile widened.
“It does! It might be my favorite letter, although I am not precisely certain,” Miss Blake said, offering a warm, generous smile. At least she wasn’t indecisive about being friendly.
“Miss Rose, I am Mr. Smithfield. Your governess has been telling me how smart you are.” Smithfield looked at Lily as he spoke, and Marcus considered adding blindfolds to the list of things he would provide at the next dinner party he gave.
“Thank you, Mr. Smithfield,” Lily replied.
There was a pause as conversation flagged, and Marcus realized he was the one who had to move the evening along. He had never been a proper host, although—as Smithfield knew—he had plenty of experience being an improper one.
“Ladies, if you will excuse us?” He rang the bell for Thompson, who bustled in as though he’d been listening at the door. “Thompson, please escort the ladies to the drawing room.”
The ladies rose in a rustle of silk and exclamations, following Thompson out of the room.
At last, he’d only have to share a port with Smithfield and Mr. Porter and then they would all be on their way, and he could be done with this.
Only, a voice said in his head, to do it all over again in the future as he continued his search for a wife.
At least Smithfield was here, and not monopolizing Lily in conversation.
“That was very pleasant,” Smithfield said, taking a drink from his glass. “I know this kind of thing is not your way, and I have to say I admire you for it.” He paused, then checked that Mr. Porter was out of earshot. “There’s been some talk, however, about who your charge is.” He cleared his throat and took another swallow. “I thought you should know.”
“Yes, I gathered as much from how your sister spoke to Rose.” Yet another reason to find himself a respectable wife—if he were married to a proper young lady, the gossips would have nothing about which to speculate.
And he would have nothing improper to look forward to.
“And since you’re a bachelor, and a duke, with gobs of money . . .” Smithfield trailed off as he gave Marcus a knowing look.
“Thank you for mentioning it,” Marcus said, then finished his port, feeling guilty—twice in the same night, where he couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt anything of the sort—for wishing Smithfield to the devil, just because he happened to be seated in a particular spot.
“Are you attending the Earl of Daymond’s ball on Friday? The earl is that very distant relative I spoke of, we’ve all received an invitation.” A pause. “Including Miss Blake.” Who would probably just reply yes, Marcus thought, if he asked if she’d prefer sherry or lemonade.
“I’m certain I have, I am not certain if I plan to attend.”
At his reply, Smithfield leaned in closer. “If you were to attend, and show yourself to Society, you would go a long way to dispersing all the talk about Miss Rose. Apparently, upon inheriting the title you have kept yourself to yourself far too much for the people who speak of such things.”
And before then he hadn’t mattered.
Smithfield’s tone was dry, but his meaning was clear to Marcus: If he wished proper society to respect him, and not to natter on about who he had living in his home, he would have to present himself as a proper duke, one who might even get married to a proper lady; not a feckless duke who spent more time with his cats than proper company.
Or his daughter’s governess.
In pursuing a lady’s hand, a duke must keep in mind that although ladies’ freedoms are much enhanced from previous centuries, a young lady will still be restricted by her parents’ wishes. It is imperative, therefore, for the duke to ascertain that the lady is disposed toward him before disposing of her freedom by marrying her.
—THE DUKE’S GUIDE TO CORRECT BEHAVIOR
Chapter 13
Lily sat with the other ladies in the ladies’ drawing room, which was the correct name for the Execrable Pink Room, counting the minutes until she could excuse herself and get Rose to bed.
Rose herself would likely argue about that, but it was obvious the little girl was exhausted, her eyes drooping as she munched on shortbread cookies.
“Miss Lily, my two children are just a bit older than Miss Rose. Perhaps you would like to bring her over for a visit sometime? I am certain my Sarah would love to show Miss Rose her dolls.” Mrs. Porter did seem like a nice woman, and she had definitely enjoyed Mr. Smithfield’s company.
Rose perked up at that and reached out to tug Lily’s hand.
“Oh, that would be wonderful,” Miss Blake said, her blond curls bobbing as she nodded her head. “There is nothing I love to see more than children playing. Unless,” she said, tilting her head in apparent thought, “it is dancing and going to parties and eating ices. I love all of those things.”
Wonderful, Lily thought, restraining herself from letting her lip curl. Was this the type of young lady from whom the duke would have to choose a wife?
Because if so, she was very glad she was not a duke herself, no matter what benefits might come with the position. Imagine having to endure this kind of meaningless conversation with the person you’d decided would be your partner for life?
“I thank you for the invitation, Mrs. Porter. I will inquire of the duke whether we might visit in a day or two.”
“Splendid! And if you were to persuade the duke to accompany you, I know Miss Blake would be pleased to show him around the house while you and Rose visit.”
Had she thought Mrs. Porter nice? Maybe someone thought Machiavelli was nice also.
“I will ask the duke,” Lily said in a quiet tone. Who was she to deny the work of a master strategist? Plus the expression on Rose’s face conveyed her eagerness to accept the offer.
After only a few more minutes the gentlemen rejoined them, and finally it was time for the guests to depart. Miss Blake couldn’t decide if she thought the foyer or the staircase was more impressive, and it took all of Lily’s willpower not to make the decision for her.
It was definitely the staircase.
Or the foyer.
Oh Lord, now she was doing it. Thank goodness they were all just about out the door. She was exhausted from the evening, having kept herself from speaking her mind or looking too many times at the duke. Not to mention talking with Mr. Smithfield, who’d spoken to her about governessing as though she was supposed to know what was to be done.
Finally the door shut behind them all. “Up to bed, Miss Rose,” Lily said. Predictably, Rose protested, until the duke told her she had to get to bed so she’d have enough energy to go walking in the park with him the next day.
Lily shot a grateful glance at him, and he smiled in return, making her weariness disappear, to be replaced with—wanting.
“Miss Lily, join me in my study after Miss Rose has been put to bed.”
Again? At this rate she would begin marking a trail in the carpet between where she was and his study. Where he was. “Certainly, Your Grace,” she said, taking Rose by the hand as they began to ascend the staircase to the second floor.
“Tomorrow the duke said he’d take me out for a walk,” Rose enthused as Lily was getting her dressed in her nightgown.
“He said he would take you for a walk tomorrow,” Lily corrected.
Rose frowned. “I know that, I just said it.”
Lily smoothed the curls off Rose’s forehead and turned the sheets down so Rose could get into bed.
“Can we go see that lady’s girl?” Rose asked sleepily. “I haven’t played with someone in a long time. Not since before Mama got sick.”
Lily’s throat tightened. “Of course we can.” She thought of Rose having to deal with a parent’s death at such a young age—she had been eighteen when her father died, which was hard enough. Especially once it became clear that his fortune had died long before he had.
“Let me tell you a story to help you get to sleep,” Lily said, smoothing the covers. She perched on the side of the bed and began a story of a young girl who was lost, then rescued by a prince with an exceedingly large nose.
It was not self-referential, she had to keep reminding herself.
Finally Rose was asleep and Lily slipped downstairs, her traitorous heart beating furiously.
The Duke's Guide to Correct Behavior Page 10
