“She kept you company, then?” he asked, his tone clipped.
Beaufort shrugged, easy as ever. “She was gracious. What more could a man ask, left to languish in another’s house?”
“What indeed,” he spat, struggling to school his features, though he was on the verge of apoplexy.
Beaufort swirled the coffee in his cup, chuckling. “We spent hours upon hours in the library, and I’ll confess—any man struggles to keep up with her. She’s a force of nature. Perhaps a touch too liberal in some of her views—God forbid my sister would be so bold.”
Bold. Hours in the library. A man struggles to keep up with her.The words twisted sharp in his gut, their meaning fartoo plain. He himself had taken her there; it could never feel innocent again.
William forced a laugh, though it rang brittle. His throat tightened as he turned back to his drink, though every instinct urged him to hurl it in Beaufort’s face. He was determined to hear no more.
* * *
William’s first call in his search for a duchess was at the London house of the Marquess of Brinley, First Lord of the Admiralty. The drawing room rustled with silks and rang with the clink of china. Servants moved deftly among the guests while ladies bent their heads in confidences, and the gentlemen near the casement overlooking St. James’s Street debated whispers from France.
The Brinleys had assembled a company suited to their station: half a dozen peers and their wives, a scattering of younger sons, and a cabinet secretary or two. Cards were already laid out on a side table. On another, a silver tray held delicate cakes that were fast disappearing.
Lord Brinley stood with William near the hearth. He pressed a glass of Madeira into his hand. The older man’s manner was easy but intent, his gaze resting keenly on the Duke of Westford’s heir.
“Lord Blackmeer,” he said in a low tone, “you have heard the same reports I have. Our agents whisper of trouble in France. Elba was never a true prison. There are Jacobins who would see that ogre free again.”
William took a measured sip of the sweet, strong wine before replying. “Bonaparte cannot march an army from a rock in the Mediterranean.”
“Perhaps not,” Brinley allowed. “But one must remember—it took the whole of Europe to bring him down. A handful of discontented veterans, a favorable wind… and Paris would be inan uproar once more. His Royal Highness cannot afford to be unprepared.”
William inclined his head, his expression cool. “His Royal Highness hears many voices. Lord Stratton would have Britain fold its hands and do nothing. But my father—upon my counsel—presses the necessity of readiness. As one of His Majesty’s generals, I assure you: the army is prepared. We are vigilant.”
Lord Brinley’s eyes narrowed with satisfaction. “Good. The Navy keeps him penned, but if he breaks his cage, it is your bayonets that must finish him.” He paused, then added more jovially, “Your father commands the Regent’s ear more than any minister. I am glad he advises vigilance. Let him remind His Royal Highness that the Navy is his greatest ally.”
He acknowledged the remark with a slight nod, offering no further comment.
The conversation broke off at the swish of skirts. Lady Brinley swept forward, satin gleaming, with a young woman in tow. “My lord,” she said, her fingers light upon the girl’s arm, “I must not let politics monopolize you entirely. May I present my daughter, Lady Caroline, only lately returned from her schooling in Switzerland—Lausanne, you know. We are glad to have her home again, just in time for her presentation at Court this spring.”
Lady Caroline Brinley curtsied low, lashes lowered, her golden-brown hair gleaming like a coronet in the firelight. She was everything society prized: slim, graceful, with features delicate as porcelain. When she looked up, her eyes were the palest blue, wide and modest.
William bowed, his mouth set in a polite line. “I trust London has not seemed too harsh a welcome after the serenity of Lausanne. It is a different sort of beauty, but one hopes not wholly without charm.”
A wash of color touched her cheeks. “London has such life to it, so I think I shall like it well.” Her voice was sweet but scarcely audible.
Lady Brinley smiled, clearly satisfied. With practiced ease, she drew William from the gentlemen and guided him to the tea table, where places were already set. Caroline took the chair beside him, hands folded, as servants filled their cups and conversation swelled around them.
William turned to her with courtesy. “And what of Lausanne, Lady Caroline? Did you take boat trips upon the lake? I am told the views are beyond compare.”
She lowered her gaze, the faintest flush creeping into her cheeks. “We seldom went out, my lord. The sisters believed young ladies should be kept from idle amusements. We had our lessons, our prayers, and an hour for our needlework in the garden when weather permitted.”
He inclined his head, his tone light. “And of all those lessons, which did you favor most?”
Her lips lifted in a faint smile. “Music, I think. And sketching. Though I fear my hand is not steady enough for true talent.” She glanced at him briefly, then away again, as though the pattern of the tablecloth demanded all her attention.
She was demure to a fault. William thought how unlike Jane she was—Jane, who had met him first with fire and conviction, face alight as she defended Byron’s unrepentant lines. This girl would never dare open such a book.
“Do you like to read, Lady Caroline?” he asked.
Again the blush, the downcast eyes. “I read, my lord, though only what the sisters permitted. Sermons, mostly. Papa says the gentleness of a woman’s nature is disturbed by extensive reading. And to be honest… I do not favor it.”
William’s mouth curved faintly, though not with amusement. Jane’s voice came back to him, sharp and quick as a rapier—arguing, quoting, questioning, never daunted. She could have stood her ground in the Commons, in the Lords, against any man there.
Lady Caroline shifted, uncomfortable, as though she sensed his disapproval. Her hands resting primly in her lap, small and delicate as carved ivory. His gaze lingered there despite himself. Jane’s fingers had always been smudged with ink, always in motion, alive with some thought she must put to paper. These hands before him seemed made only for embroidery hoops and idle sketches.
