A Lady of True Distinction

by Grace Burrowes

  A LADY OF TRUE DISTINCTION

  GRACE BURROWES

  A Lady of True Distinction

  Copyright © 2019 by GRACE BURROWES

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. If you uploaded or downloaded this book at a file sharing site, free online community sharing site, or other piracy site, you have done so without the author’s permission and in violation of federal and international law.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  To My Dear Readers

  Excerpt from How to Ruin a Duke

  Excerpt from Forever and a Duke

  A Lady of True Distinction by Grace Burrowes

  * * *

  To those who wander alone

  Chapter One

  “Hawthorne, be reasonable. I know you dislike Mrs. Summerfield, so please allow me to pay this call with you.”

  Hawthorne Dorning continued walking toward the mounting block rather than do violence to a brother who meant well. “To dislike a woman who has never done me any harm would be ungentlemanly. Shame upon you, Valerian, for implying such a thing.” Moreover, Valerian was wrong, not that Hawthorne had time to correct him.

  Valerian kept pace easily, though Thorne was two inches taller. “Since your distant and misspent youth, have you ever once stood up with the lady at a local assembly?”

  “I have not.” Thorne had watched, though, as Margaret Summerfield had stood up with his brothers and half of his neighbors. She was neither a coquette nor a snob, and she moved with an easy grace on the dance floor.

  “Have you ever been seated beside her at the interminable dinners that pass for socializing in these bucolic surrounds?”

  “Again, no.” But then, Thorne excelled at avoiding invitations to those dinners.

  “Have you tarried with Mrs. Summerfield in the churchyard, flirting discreetly while you pretend to discuss the weather and the crops?”

  Thorne had stood in the churchyard many a fine morning, enjoying small talk while from the corner of his eye watching Margaret hurry her nieces into a waiting coach.

  “I do not flirt, discreetly or otherwise.”

  A groom stood at Gowain’s head, though the gelding would have napped in the spring sunshine all day.

  Valerian snorted, which inspired something like an equine frown from Thorne’s gelding. “What do you call it, then, when you smile knowingly at a young lady, lean near her, and nearly whisper confidences that cause her to blush and giggle?”

  “I cannot help that my attempts at conversation are more discreet than yours or Oak’s.” Thorne checked the snugness of the girth, because Gowain loved nothing better than to hold his breath while being saddled. When the horse exhaled, the girth was looser than safety required, which afforded an enterprising steed all manner of opportunities.

  “We’re on to his tricks, Master Hawthorne,” the groom said, stroking Gowain’s big russet nose. “He likes to keep us on our toes, does Sir Gowain.”

  “Captain!” Thorne yelled, which had the dog on his feet and trotting across the drive as Thorne swung into the saddle.

  “You’re taking your hound calling with you, but not your most charming brother?” Valerian asked.

  “Captain needs the exercise, or he’ll chew more slippers to bits, while you can at least be trusted around my footwear—for the most part.” Thorne took up the reins and turned the horse down the drive. “Don’t wait luncheon for me.”

  “I wasn’t about to. Please give the lady my regards. She’s not that bad, once you get to know her.”

  “If I got to know her, she’d have to get to know me, and I very much doubt Mrs. Summerfield is interested in that challenge.” She’d never said as much, but Thorne had concluded long ago that his interest in Margaret Summerfield was unreciprocated. He’d consigned his fancies to the category of youthful infatuation and not looked back.

  Thorne cantered down the drive, Captain bounding at Gowain’s heels. In the interests of concluding this task as quickly as possible, he cut across the fields rather than taking the lanes to Mrs. Summerfield’s estate. The eastern boundary between Dorning Hall and the Summerfield property was a stream that, on his best day, Gowain could not clear in a single leap. He nonetheless tried, creating a great splash and much thrashing about as he landed short of the far bank.

  “You never make that jump,” Thorne said when they’d scrambled up the bank. “Why must you insist on doomed bravado? Your behavior is foolish and unbecoming, horse, and one of these days you’ll regret your histrionics.”

  Gowain, of course, shook like a dog when he reached solid footing, then trotted on as if only rider miscalculation had resulted in the indignity of mud on a fellow’s fetlocks. Captain chose to tarry in the stream, resulting in a very wet dog following Thorne onto the Summerfield front steps.

  “You stink,” Thorne said, waving his riding crop. “Go away.”

  Captain wagged a sopping tail and looked expectantly at the front door.

  “Get thee gone, beast. You are not presentable.”

  The front door opened, and where a smiling butler or cheerful housekeeper should have stood, Thorne beheld Mrs. Margaret Summerfield.

  “Mr. Dorning. Good day.” A small hesitation followed that greeting, then she stepped back. “Do come in. Dog, you will wait here.”

  Captain sat, his gaze crestfallen.

  “His name is Captain. We came by way of the stream, and he indulged in a swim.” As if any female cared one whit what a smelly dog got up to when loose in the countryside.

  “Hammond,” Mrs. Summerfield said as a footman took Thorne’s hat, spurs, and riding crop. “Have some water brought for Mr. Dorning’s friend, and if Cook has a bone, that would likely also be appreciated. Mr. Dorning, I’m in the blue parlor at the moment. My nieces are exploring the Asian steppes in the green parlor.”

  She marched off, and even the brisk tattoo of her heels radiated impatience with her caller. Nothing about Margaret Summerfield was silly or insubstantial. Her features were angular, her brows darker than her blond hair and dramatically swooping. She moved with purpose rather than grace, and Thorne could not recall her smiling in his direction since she’d worn pigtails.

  If even then.

  Her house, by contrast, bore the welcoming scents of beeswax and lemon oil, the signature fragrance of a well-maintained abode. Here, though, an undernote of something—spearmint? cedar? Thorne could not decipher the olfactory subtlety—added an extra touch of freshness.

  The manor smelled of sunshine and joy, while the lady of the house marched along like an artillery sergeant anticipating rain before a battle.

  “Do we attempt conversation over a tea tray,” she said, “or will you state your business and gallop on your way?” She opened the door to a parlor done up in various sh
ades of azure, cream, and gold. The room was light and airy, and the daffodils on the sideboard a pretty complement to the color scheme. The entire drive was lined with blossoming red, white, and yellow tulips, and more daffodils had graced the sideboard in the foyer.

  “What makes you think I come on business, Mrs. Summerfield?”

  She took a sniff of the flowers. “You last presented yourself in my parlor when you wanted to discuss damming the stream to create a water meadow. Before that, you broached the idea of trading rams to improve the quality of your wool. Prior to that, you sought to breed a mare to my stallion. Business, Mr. Dorning, and here you are again.”

  On the most pressing business of all.

  “I do have a proposition for you,” Thorne said. “A business proposition. Might we be seated?”

  His request occasioned another small hesitation, as if his hostess had to consider whether allowing him a seat was truly necessary.

  “By all means, make yourself comfortable.”

  Something thumped against the inside wall, followed by a muffled shriek. “Has warfare broken out on the Asian steppes?”

  “Very likely. If I am not vigilant, they will soon try to sneak their ponies into the library.”

  “My siblings and I had better luck secreting our cavalry mounts in the conservatory, but then, Papa was usually distracted by his latest botanical experiment, and Mama was invariably out socializing.”

  Mrs. Summerfield took a wing chair, but such was the authority with which she settled onto the cushion, that Thorne was put in mind of a queen assuming her throne. She was not a small woman, neither was she slender.

  They might have danced well together, had he the fortitude to request such an honor.

  Another thump sounded through the wall, while the lady remained unruffled.

  “There were rather a lot of you for your parents to keep track of,” she observed. “I have only the two nieces to manage, and they often defeat my best efforts. What brings you here, Mr. Dorning?”

  She wasn’t ringing for a tea tray, a small mercy.

  “Nine children are a lot,” he said, “especially when seven of them are male. Now, we brothers must all find our way in the world, though Dorning Hall is essentially a glorified farm.”

  “Very glorified. Between tenancies, the home farm, and other properties, the Dornings must own thousands of acres.”

  She traced a seam on the armrest of the chair. The upholstery was a pattern of cabbage roses rioting amid swirling greenery, while the carpet was a pastel blue reminiscent of a still pond under a summer sky. Had the brisk, businesslike Mrs. Summerfield designed this pretty room, or were the appointments a relic of some predecessor’s good taste?

  “The Dornings are the largest landowners in the area,” Thorne said. “We are far from the wealthiest.”

  Her hand went still. “One wondered if you’d rebuild your dower house.”

  The dower house had been struck by lightning during one of Dorset’s more spectacular autumn storms. Rebuilding was out of the question.

  “We are salvaging what we can, but the fire did a thorough job on the beams and the interior. The family is turning our sights in other directions.”

  A thunder of footfalls from the next room suggested six infantry regiments, rather than a pair of little girls, were at war.

  “How do those new directions bring you to my doorstep, Mr. Dorning?”

  “I am here more or less as a supplicant, a neighbor in need.” He’d rehearsed this speech for half the night, convincing himself the words would sound amused if not charming. “The Dornings are embarking on a new venture, converting our botanical riches into commercial products. Lord Casriel conceived this enterprise. We brothers are to carry it out. As the closest thing to a land steward that Dorning Hall has, care of the actual fields and plants falls to me.”

  “I wish you the joy of that undertaking, Mr. Dorning. Your father certainly bequeathed you a wealth of specimens to support your endeavor.”

  Every English manor had gardens for herbs, medicinals, and fragrances. The more ambitious had color gardens, scent gardens, glass houses, walled gardens for kitchen produce, conservatories to preserve tender specimens during cold weather, and exotics for additional cachet.

  Dorning Hall’s botanical resources were enormous and varied, true enough. Fat lot of good that had done anybody for the past thirty years. Mama had despaired of Papa’s compulsion to collect plants, and yet, Papa had gone on collecting just as Mama had gone on having babies.

  “Competing with the London shops will be difficult,” Thorne said, veering away from his prepared remarks. “My brothers fail to grasp how difficult.”

  “You will need capital.”

  He rose, better able to think on his feet. “Most assuredly, and it’s not as if the Dornings enjoy an intimate acquaintance with the London markets, the London banks, or the London public.”

  Mrs. Summerfield remained serenely situated in her chair. “And you think I am?”

  She made an occasional foray into London. Nobody in this corner of Dorset could undertake travel without every neighbor wishing them a safe journey.

  “I think you are the best-smelling woman I have ever sniffed.”

  He’d surprised—and mortified—himself with that admission, but he’d apparently surprised her too.

  “Thank you, I think, though as an acting steward, you are more likely to encounter the scent of a hog wallow than damask roses. What exactly is it you’ve come here to ask me, Mr. Dorning?”

  “I don’t go around sniffing women,” he said, pausing by the daffodils. “But your fragrances have captured my attention. I can close my eyes and know if you’re among the congregation on Sunday morning on the strength of your perfumes.”

  “And here we thought you were napping.”

  Sometimes he dozed, soothed by the scent of her in the next pew behind him. “You are as likely to arrive at the village fete wearing something lemony as you are wearing a sandalwood scent, and both will be exquisite. I cannot predict what perfume you will choose, but your selections are like different signatures written in the same hand. I know them to be yours without knowing how I know them to be yours.”

  Now she got to her feet. “I am flattered, Mr. Dorning. The word exquisite has probably never been applied to anything about me, though I fail to see—”

  “Somebody on this estate is a genius at developing scents,” Thorne said, facing her. “Somebody has a combination of skill and artistic insight that eclipses any olfactory talent I have ever encountered. I want to hire that person.”

  This time when she hesitated, she didn’t appear to be consulting an inner sense of etiquette to determine which courtesy the moment required, but rather, she appeared flustered—intriguingly flustered.

  “I am sorry, Mr. Dorning. While your comments are flattering, and I agree with you—the scents I wear are unique—I am not in a position to grant your request. I’ll show you out.”

  No, you will not. “My brothers believe any old lotion or salve will sell, provided Oak can design a pretty label for it. They believe all lavenders are the same.”

  “All lavenders are different,” she retorted. “The same parent plant will produce different fragrances in its offspring, depending on the conditions where they are cultivated. Rainfall, sunshine, the soil quality, density of planting, even the crop that last occupied the same plot can affect the results.”

  “Did your herbalist teach you that?”

  They were face-to-face, and though Thorne did not go around sniffing women in the usual course, he did inhale through his nose: jasmine hiding under a veil of neroli with a hint of green tea, but the rest of it…

  “I again wish you well, Mr. Dorning, but I am not in a position to assist you.”

  “I will beg, if you require that indignity of me.” More unrehearsed foolishness, though for his family, Thorne would make a fool of himself ten times over. “Who blends your scents, and what must I do to gain access to h
is or her expertise?”

  God, she smelled wonderful. Distractingly, maddeningly wonderful, though her gaze offered no quarter.

  “I cannot assist you. I’ll see you to the—”

  A loud crash, suggesting porcelain dropped from a great height, came from the next room along with a shout.

  “Aunt Margaret, come! Please come quickly!”

  Thorne was out the door three steps ahead of the lady, who followed at an indecorous dash.

  Please let them be unharmed alternated in Margaret’s mind with Why must the children create havoc now? When she crowded past Mr. Dorning into the family parlor, her lament switched to I will kill them ere they gain their majorities.

  “What is going on here?” she snapped.

  “I’d say”—Mr. Dorning sauntered over to the glass-fronted porcelain cabinet—“somebody’s army sought a good vantage point from which to ambush advancing forces. Is that what you’re doing up there?”

  A white-faced Greta peered down at him from the top of the cabinet. “I’m a t-tiger of the vast Asian steppes.”

  “You are a girl who will go without supper tonight,” Margaret said. “That vase belonged to your Grandmother Summerfield.”

  The vase, which had been stored atop the cabinet for safety, lay in pieces on the hearth.

  “Better the vase than a child’s skull,” Mr. Dorning said, as if children routinely climbed seven-foot-tall furniture unassisted. “How did you get up there?”

  “She climbed the doorjamb,” Adriana said. “I gave her a boost.”

  “Loyal of you,” Mr. Dorning observed, holding up his arms. “Down you go, child.”