What was the duke like as a child?
Clara honestly didn’t care, but perhaps his mother would relish sharing details about her oldest son.
What were the most positive attributes of his wife?
Everyone, including the duke, seemed to have a positive view of that first marriage. Clara had a feeling the dowager’s response would be the most honest.
What are his children like? Will they accept me as their new mother?
After considering those two, Clara struck them. For most of the nobility, children were a secondary consideration, except as heirs, and many parents paid them little attention. Such questions might embarrass the duchess.
May I come to you for advice?
Hm. That one would depend on how the conversation progressed. If it turned cold or hostile, the older woman might consider such a question to be sarcasm. Still... Clara left it on the list—and continued to stare at the page for almost five minutes. Nothing else came to mind.What does one ask a dowager duchess anyway? Her plans for the future should probably be avoided.Clara decided to ask her mother tomorrow. It might help her plan along to be more congenial with her own mother.
Clara pushed the list aside and rang for Radcliff. She sat down on the bench at the end of her bed and looked around, trying to comprehend that this would not be her home much longer, especially if she was forced to marry the duke. And not just this house but Beckcott Abbey as well. The thought of surrendering Maid Marian made Clara’s heart ache. The duke might make provisions, but if what she had heard tonight was any indication, any aspect of his estate the duke did not like would not be accepted.
You could ask him.
True. And he would be here on Tuesday afternoon. Better to know now than dread the knowledge later.
Clara let out a long sigh. “I hate this.”
“Hate what, my lady?” Radcliff pushed open the door.
Clara waved her hand in a circle over her head. “All of it. London. This business of courting and trying to find a husband. It’s all just so much nonsense.”
Radcliff pointed to the dressing table, and Clara moved to the stool in front of it, settling as Radcliff began to take down and brush her riotous hair. She glanced at the maid in the mirror. “How do maids go about finding a husband?”
Radcliff coughed a laugh. “Mostly we do not, my lady.” She focused on a nest of tangles near the end of Clara’s strands. “But when we do, it’s because we’ve met some, we hope, nice boy at the market or at a dance or at church. In the country, one of the neighboring farms or a pub.”
“Do your parents get involved?”
“Sometimes, just like yours. If the man is a scapegrace, the folks would step up, stop it. But we don’t get all fancy about it, like your people do. Bloodlines and all that. When we’re ready, we just go to the vicar, and he puts it in the books.”
“Sounds so simple.”
“Aye, but it’s because there’s no money. When people have money, life gets a great deal more complicated.”
Clara choked on a laugh. “There is no doubt about that.”
Radcliff glanced at Clara’s escritoire. “More letters to go out?”
Clara started to nod, then winced as Radcliff attacked another nest of tangles. “Yes. It seems the attention the duke paid to my mother has raised a lot of curiosity in my friends.” She grimaced. “And increased the number of my invitations.”
Radcliff paused in her brushing. “Is this not a good thing?”
After a shrug, Clara let out a sigh. “I suppose it is. If I were to become a duchess, I would have a much higher place among the elite. But I expect I will find it difficult to discuss the weather and the latest fashions with people who did not know I existed two weeks ago.”
“You seemed quite comfortable with Lord Michael.”
“Yes. Always.” Closing her eyes, Clara could envision those dark eyes, the elegance of his appearance, even though he stumbled over his words every time she drew near him. The eagerness in his expression when he stood up and lunged toward her—and the chagrin on his face when Rose had stopped him. “I only wish we had a chance to talk more, without others hovering over us like Marian over her prey.”
The brushing slowed. “Would you, my lady? Would you take a chance if you could meet him in a place you could talk more freely?”
Suspicion flared in Clara’s gut, and her eyes met Radcliff’s in the mirror. “Radcliff. What are you thinking?”
A shrug, and Radcliff focused on Clara’s hair again. “Just a notion. A possibility.”
