by Eva Devon
"Buy?" Augusta queried, lifting her chipped blue painted porcelain teapot.
“Yes!” Charlotte exclaimed happily, her gloved hands gesturing to the missive. “Look at that letter. It's stating that you need to prepare yourself for the wedding. So you must make purchases.”
"Purchases." Augusta frowned. She hadn't bought something in ages, unless it was coal or milk or bread, and then they had not been particularly the best bread or milk. And she’d only ever been able to purchase minimal coal every month.
She almost had no idea of the concept of going and buying something new for herself.
Perhaps she could go to the bookshop.
The errant thought danced through her thoughts like a gaudy butterfly leading her astray.
It would be the most wonderful thing! For she did dearly love books. No, no. It was almost certain that was not at all what the duke had in mind.
No doubt, he wished her to go to Bond Street and purchase gowns, but she didn't particularly fancy the idea of gowns. Although, one or two serviceable dresses would be quite nice, since one of her gowns had indeed fallen apart. A dilapidated gown was why she was looking at such a letter!
Slowly, she poured the weak tea into two simple cups. The beverage steamed and though this was the second brewing of the leaves, she savored the rich scent that had traveled around the globe to touch her porcelain.
She could use the funds to buy her sister's new dresses, she supposed.
That could be great fun and a chance for them to do something together again that was not strained by finances or ill will.
They usually all had to be so practical, but perhaps a moment of impulsivity in such a strange time might be just the thing.
Still, the idea of going out in public when everyone was talking about her, when she was on the tip of everyone's tongue, it did seem rather. . . harrowing. Did she dare brave it? Clearing her throat, she confessed, “Charlotte, I find the idea of leaving the house at present to be quite daunting."
Charlotte tsked, her simple straw bonnet catching the late sunlight. "Augusta, you have never been a coward. I cannot imagine that you are being so now."
"I'm not a coward," Augusta protested defensively. "But everyone will look at me as if they think I'm a terrible, terrible fortune hunter."
Charlotte took her cup of tea and smiled over the rim. “They'll all look at you as if you're a clever minx who managed to get the man that everyone wanted. They'll admire you."
"Admire me," she repeated in an appalled tone as her nose scrunched. "For such scheming?”
"The world is full of schemers," Charlotte said sagely, delicately putting her cup back in its saucer. "Just because you and I aren't them doesn't mean that the rest of the world doesn't prize such qualities. In fact, most women have to go about any way that they can to get a good husband and you've got the best."
Augusta groaned before taking a good swig of tea, wishing she had sugar.
Eyeing the letter again, she realized she could buy heaps of the stuff now.
It all felt so nefarious. Her sense of honor was most piqued.
Did she dare to do nothing with the money?
The temptation to do the noble thing was strong. Spending his money somehow felt shameful, given the way that she'd gotten it. Yet, he’d instructed her to do it. He was taking responsibility for her in a way her father never had and never would.
In fact, the duke had indicated a good many things in that letter. Was he planning on controlling so very much?
Almost certainly.
He was a duke, after all. Dukes were used to having the world exactly as they wished. Marriage to someone they did not wish was likely quite a shock.
It bridled though, the idea that she was going from one master to the next. She had hoped to avoid the lot of most ladies, but once again, there it was. She had no choice in the matter. Not unless she wished to live in abject poverty and scandal for the rest of her years, and destroy her sisters, something she already had contemplated and decided firmly against.
Just as she was about to pour out more tan-colored tea, her father walked into the room. He was bouncing on his polished Hessians as if on air.
"Dear girl," he said, a term he knew she loathed now. “I’ve heard there is letter from the duke. Has he suggested that we come and dine?"
"No, Father," she said, trying to keep her anger with him in check. She did not wish to see him at this particular moment, nor did she wish him to see the letter.
"Then, whatever was it?" he asked, clapping his hands together.
"Just a letter," she said blankly, forcing herself to drink calmly.
His cheek twitched, a clear indication of his annoyance with her. “And what did he say?"
"It is none of your business, Father,” she heard herself say. “He is going to be my husband, not yours."
"That may be the case," her father ground out, his cheeks turning a ruddy shade which matched the shade of his coat, "but you are still my daughter and under my roof, and therefore under my domain. You shall show it to me now."
Augusta tensed. She took up the letter. It was very tempting to keep it hidden, to defy him entirely.
"Here," she said, holding it out to him. "Look at it. See what I am to have. That's what you're interested in, isn't it? You want to know my fortune and if you've a portion of it.”
He had the grace to look a bit sheepish, as if caught before her friend. "Yes, well, any father would want to know that his daughter was going to be taken care of, and no doubt he's made some sort of allowance for me."
"No, Papa," she said, not finding joy in the announcement, knowing he would be furious. "He has not."
He seized the letter with his fist, scanning it rapidly.
Charlotte sat, tense, pressing a hand along her pale pink skirt.
Augusta’s friend clearly sensed the animosity between daughter and father, but it was not news to her. For she had been her friend for many, many years.
"Dash it all!” Her father’s bejeweled hand formed a fist. “Of course he means that I am to have credit too. He wouldn't just send something to you."
"He would, Papa,” she said stiffly, wishing he wasn’t such a spoiled man. “I am to be his wife, not you. You are not—”
Immediately, he cut her off. "I am your father, and I must live in a manner which gives reflection to someone who is a relative of the Duke of Blacktower."
"Can you not hear yourself?" she broke in, unable to listen to his selfishness in front of Charlotte.
"Yes, Daughter, I can,” he thundered, which caused his perfectly curled hair to shake. “And you, you will allow me—”
"No, Papa, I will not allow you to do anything with that credit.” She plunked her teacup down firmly. She locked gazes with him. “It is mine, and the duke has given it to me, and it is my decision. I am the one now who will decide, not you."
His face paled and his lips tightened. "But you are still my—”
Still, she didn’t yield. “It does not matter, Papa, because if you besmirch me any longer, or demand such things, I promise you I shall tell my husband, and he, doubtless, will wish to hear that you have abused me so.” She drew in a long breath, yet the tide of her words could not stop. “He does not seem the sort of man who would so dishonor a lady, for he is marrying me to keep me from ruin, whereas you, you have been driving me toward it for years."
Her father’s throat worked as he swallowed, chagrined. He blinked as if he had no idea who he was speaking to, as if she had suddenly turned into a lioness.
And she felt like a lioness, too, for finally in her life she had power, and she was ready and willing to use it.
My God, she did have a bit of power, didn't she? She was going to be a duchess, and a duchess was one of the most powerful women in all of England.
It truly hit her then. She was going to be the Duchess of Blacktower, and therefore one of the most powerful women in England, if not the world, if allowed. The influence that she would hav
e, if Blacktower would let her have it, would be immense. She swallowed, just as her father had done, daunted by the sudden prospect.
Staring at the man who had made her life so painful, she knew that she wanted so much from this life and, somehow, she would convince the Duke of Blacktower to let her have it.
Yes, that's exactly what she would do. While he might not wish to marry her in more than name only, at least he could allow her to practice the life of a duchess. As his wife, she’d manage his houses and could further causes that she always wished could be supported.
Surely, he might allow her that much?
“Augusta—”
“No, Papa,” she declared. “I will not hear any more about it.”
Her father threw up his hands and let out a horrible huff of disgust. He dropped the crumpled letter to the floor and stormed out of the room.
Once they were alone, Charlotte clapped her gloved hands politely.
"My dear, that was marvelous,” Charlotte cheered. “I never thought to see your father set down so beautifully. You did it most excellently and efficiently."
"Why, thank you," Augusta said. Her heart hurt though. She'd never wished to have a father to whom such things must be said. But it had been time for him to hear all she'd had to say.
For, if she had not, he would have taken the credit Blacktower had given her and spent every bit of it, before she or her sisters, or even her dear friend Charlotte, could have seen a benefit from it.
That was something she would never allow to happen again.
Chapter 8
Adam wrote the note with a flourish at his massive teak desk which sat like a boulder in the middle of his study. He fixed the Earl of Harrowton with an unyielding stare and held the paper out. "Here, Harrowton, and now? Be done."
Augusta’s father took it with a smile, happily even, with absolutely no shame. His rings winked in the morning light. It was a remarkable thing to behold.
Surprise never truly occurred to Adam, for he was very aware of the earl's dubious reputation. How much had the man’s daughters had to give up whilst Harrowton had sacrificed almost nothing? A great deal, he was certain.
"I suggest Italy, Harrowton,” Adam instructed bracing his forearms on the polished surface of his desk. “It would be a good place for someone like you. Perhaps you and Lord Byron can assist each other in your quest for dissipation.”
"Byron," the earl said with a curl of his lip. "That idiotic fop. He doesn't know—”
Adam narrowed his gaze. “That's enough, Harrowton. You may take your leave."
The man had the good sense to cease whatever nonsense he was going to spout about the poet, but he did not leave. Instead, he lingered, his lips pursed.
“Do you have something to say?” Adam gritted, wishing to be rid of the fellow’s unpleasant presence.
”A word of warning, Your Grace."
Adam stilled, honing in on the bastard.
What the devil could this man have to warn him about? He was curious though, and so he leaned back in his carved chair. "Go on, Harrowton," he said. “Warn me.”
The man gave a toss of his overly curled hair, hair that had likely taken hours to arrange. Given their impoverished state, it was a shame the man dared to keep a manservant when his daughters barely had clothes to go to a ball in.
"Augusta will give you a great deal of trouble,” Harrowton declared with undue passion. "You must keep her on a tight rein. She will do everything she can to humiliate you, to embarrass you, to make you feel as if you are insufficient."
Anger sizzled through him. The strength of it stunned him. Damnation, he loathed men like Harrowton. Men like his father, who thought of themselves as gods when, in fact, they were the weakest clay. “Is that what she's done with you, sir?"
"Indeed she has,” Harrowton announced, a sort of malevolent dedication to his theory in his eyes. “And it has only been with the strictest manipulations that I have been able to keep her in check."
He allowed a long moment to stretch out, causing the earl to fidget slightly. Then finally, he growled, “How has she survived you, I wonder?"
“I-I beg your pardon?" Harrowton sputtered, his hands coming to his waistcoat to smooth it in his indignation.
"How has she survived someone like you?” Adam demanded. He cocked his head to the side, gazing at her father as if he were less than a gutter rat. “Someone so self-centered? So cruel? So disinterested in anyone but yourself. I may not care for Augusta—she and I are not well matched—but I admire her surviving the poison that you have likely spewed at her all her life."
The earl drew up, his polished buttons straining and the pressed points of his shirt pressing into his jowls. "How dare you, sir?"
"How dare I?” Adam mocked. “You just requested ten thousand pounds and I gave it to you because you have not two pence to rub together.”
Adam leaned forward, driving his point. “If I did not intervene, bailiffs would come for you any day and drag you away to Fleet Prison. What is it you wish to hear? You wish me to agree with you? To praise your forbearance with regard to your daughter, who I wager has helped to keep you and your daughters afloat?” Spitting out the words with disgust, he finished, “I think not.”
The man quaked in his perfect Hessians, just as Adam had wished him to.
The knowledge that Augusta had been born to such a man was difficult to reconcile. But then he was nothing like his own thankfully departed father.
In this moment, as her father, a spineless sponge of man, stood before him, Adam had to admit that though he did not care for Augusta, he felt a hint of admiration for her.
Somehow, Augusta had not been crushed beneath his boot, and Adam was suddenly very glad of it.
Leaning back, he gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “You may go."
Harrowton turned on his booted heel, quickly, wise enough to know not to press his luck further.
Just as the man was about to grab the gold door handle, Adam ordered, “Never darken my door again, and if you must contact Augusta or myself, you will contact my solicitor.”
"Yes, Your Grace," the earl said through gritted teeth. Then he yanked the door open and stormed out.
The sound of the man's boot steps echoed down the long corridor from Adam’s study. He pushed back from his teak desk and stood. He drove a hand through his hair and crossed to the window.
Adam peered out through the large glass panes down to the garden, which he had carefully crafted since his return to this rainy isle.
It was perhaps the only thing he’d shared with his odious father—a love of gardens and green things.
And before that, his grandfather had loved the land and shaping it too.
The ducal townhome was no small affair but rather a sprawling red brick great house that dated back to Henry VIII. The garden rolled straight down to the River Thames. It was quite a sight to behold, that river which rolled on and on and on as it had done for thousands of years. A river that had borne thousands of people upon its surface, from Celts to Romans, to Vikings to English kings. It had been one of the greatest waterways, time out of mind.
He thought of Augusta, how she had managed to survive despite her struggle. He didn’t like her. He doubted he ever would. She was just not the sort of person for him. As he was not for her. But he respected her. That could not be denied.
And so he knew that there was one thing he would do for her before their wedding. He had a sudden image of her tucked away in her house, browbeaten by her terrible father. Now if she left the place, the whisper of scandal would surround her until they were firmly married.
His lips curled in a smile.
Yes, he knew exactly what he was going to do.
He was going to send her a dragon.
Chapter 9
Lady Honoria Redgrave, Countess of Montcrief, sailed into the small house as though she owned it. Thunking the tip of her polished, long cane into the fading carpet, her intelligent gaze quickly pivoted about the
room. She gave a small look of dismay before she shrugged her immaculately perfect shoulders and took off her emerald-colored long coat.
She held it aloft for several moments and then inquired, "Where shall I put this? You have no butler."
Augusta fought a scowl.
Good grief, in all her life she'd never quite met a woman like this one and she wasn’t certain what to think.
“Lady Montcrief, it is possible that we can take it if you should like, but I am at a loss as to why you are here?"
The self-possession of Lady Montcrief filled the room. She was, without question, a woman of parts, clearly used to certain standards but undaunted by the certain inferiority of Augusta’s home.
“Since there is no one to give me a proper introduction,” Lady Montcrief began, her voice deep and commanding. “And your maid has had to admit me, I shall have to tell you that I am the aunt of your future husband and therefore going to be your relative quite soon."
Augusta’s brows lifted. A relative? She had so few. It struck her then that she was about be enfolded into an entirely new family.
And she had not had a female relative to guide or assist her in years, arguably ever, given how her father had so bullied her mother. Though it was tempting to insist she needed no one, it would be greatly foolish of her to do so. For Lady Montcrief looked positively regal. More to the point, she looked as if she could and would and quite possibly had happily ruled all of England.
"Are you going to invite me to sit down?" Lady Montcrief asked, giving a pointed gaze to the few worn chairs about the small parlor.
Bowled over just a bit, Augusta gave a blank nod and gestured to a chair.
Lady Montcrief at last gave a nod of faint approval and headed to said chair. She sat, her lush, striped silk skirts floating about her long legs as she perched. Her dark hair only slightly lined with silver was coiled perfectly beneath a matching emerald and gold turban.
She gazed upon Augusta with eyes, green and searching, that were as sharp and as unreadable as a cat. Her beautiful modern gown, with its gold buckle beneath her breasts, easily hugged her surprisingly strong figure. It did not look like the figure of an older woman who had grown weak over the years.
