Portia bit her tongue and tried again, only to be sprinkled with more confetti the second she inclined her head. She pulled a scratchy clump from her cleavage and tossed them in frustration. “These stupid flowers are dead, so of course I am sprinkling petals everywhere!” And the combination of the spikey stalks and the heavy hairpins digging into her scalp were starting to give her a headache.
“You need to extend your neck a tiny bit more and hold your head as steady as one of the lanterns on top of the sturdy lampposts outside. Then incline it more slowly as yours is starting to resemble a nod, and a nod has no place being seen at the palace.”
“In case it has escaped your notice, neither do I!” As Portia shot her mother-in-law a glare, Abigail came to her rescue and tossedaside the book she had been pretending to read while she thoroughly enjoyed the entertainment.
“Before one of you kills the other and the poor maids have to get blood as well as all those trodden-in petals out of the carpet, why don’t we all take a short break for tea?”
“An excellent idea.” Before the pain in her left thigh turned fully into a cramp, Portia rubbed it as she staggered to the sofa. “Can you put some fortifying brandy in mine? Better still, just pour me a stiff brandy and dispense with the tea!”
She ignored M’Lady Whiskers’s warning hiss and raised hackles to flop onto the sofa next to her. “Go ahead, devil cat—scratch me. Because today I can assure you that I will scratch you back!” The cat glared out of her different-colored eyes while she decided whether or not to attack and then clearly saw that Portia was in no mood to be trifled with, so readjusted her sleeping position and ignored her instead.
While Abigail rang for the tea and Emilia tried her best not to laugh as she hid behind her easel while pretending to paint, Portia’s fingers went to the knotted ribbons under her chin.
“Leave that on,” said Letitia, admonishing her yet again. “It will do you good to learn how to hold yourself in your court headdress as you’ll likely have to wear it for a couple of hours after your presentation.”
Portia huffed, well aware that she was being petulant but entirely comfortable with it. “I never thought I’d ever wish to be back in that prison cell, but suddenly it doesn’t seem so bad. This is all ridiculous.” She pointed to the contraption on her head. “I am ridiculous. The court rules are especially ridiculous. Will somebody really count the feathers on my headdress to check that there are at least seven?”
“Oh it’s all very formal, dear.” Letitia sunk into a chair, an amused but sympathetic expression on her face. “But at least George IV has dispensed with his mother’s more stringent requirements. Queen Charlotte preferred the fashions of her youth to be worn, so upuntil a few years ago, a lady’s court dress resembled something Marie Antoinette would wear. As I know to my cost, that involved a stiff, unyielding bodice, a corset laced so tight you couldn’t breathe, and an enormous pannier and hoops that were so wide at the hips that the only way to enter the chamber was sideways. And we still had to wear the feathers. How I didn’t pass out when I was presented at court was a miracle. A woman in her seventh month of pregnancy isn’t supposed to wear a corset but no allowances were made for that.”
“Are you saying that I am getting off lightly?”
“I would have killed for soft stays and just seven ostrich feathers, dear. I had swollen up and was swooning so much by the end of it, Rafe had to slice me out of my gown in the carriage. But even so, it was such an exciting day that I look back at it fondly. You will too.”
“I sincerely doubt that. Even if I master the curtsy and the headdress, I am still a walking scandal, remember? And a commoner. In fact, I am fairly certain that I am the most unlikely and unsuitable duchess in the history of duchesses and everyone will hate me.”
Letitia threw back her head and laughed. “So was I and that was part of the fun! I made a game out of counting all the disapproving looks before I stopped and engaged with every single one, which forced them to curtsy to me. Because I realized that being one of the few duchesses in the realm meant that I suddenly outranked all those snobs, which really outraged them. Trust me, there is nothing more rewarding than being on the receiving end of a begrudging curtsy.”
“Mama was never supposed to be a duchess either,” explained Emilia from behind her easel. “Her father was a merchant, not an aristocrat. They caused quite the scandal but the story issoooooromantic.” The hopelessly romantic Emilia then sighed as she clutched her brush to her heart. “Because their forbidden love conquered all.”
“Really?” That was news to Portia. “But you are so…” She searched for the right words and couldn’t find the right one. “Duchess-like.”
“I shall tell you a secret,” said Letitia leaning closer. “Being a duchess is a state of mind, one that it is handy to employ when required and best ignored at all other times.”
“How did a merchant’s daughter end up a duchess?”
“Against all the odds.” Letitia grinned. “Rafe’s family did not approve of me in the slightest and forbade him to have anything to do with me. They had him earmarked for some marquess’s daughter, I believe. But when a Sloane man decides he has met the one, nothing will stand in his way. We met for the first time at the May fayre here in Bath at the tender age of fifteen. Obviously, I hated him on sight but he was tenacious and we plighted our troths just two months later. It was all very intense and romantic as first loves are prone to be—but we were inseparable from that moment on. Obviously, because I was so far beneath him, we had to meet in secret for years—which was thrilling, as the forbidden always is. Then as soon as we both turned one-and-twenty, which conveniently happened within weeks of one another, we ran away to Gretna Green to tie the knot.”
Emilia giggled. “They had to.”
“The plot thickens.” It had staggered Portia how quickly these three women had accepted her as part of the family. Since the night of the protest, Abigail especially had softened toward her. Whereas Leo’s mother had been nothing but kind and accepting of her from the outset. She had even been a willing witness at their wedding when most aristocrats’ mothers would have tried to talk their sons out of such a travesty. “Do tell?” She already knew enough about this mischievous woman to know that few topics were ever off-limits.
The older woman chuckled at the memory. “It was a close-run thing, I can tell you, as I had the devil of the job disguising my fat belly under my skirts until my birthday. We got married on the day of it and Leo popped out three months later. I cannot tell you what a scandal it all was and, because Rafe was the heir to a dukedom, it was all over the papers for months.”
That explained so much about why his mother had never judgedher for where she had come from. “So it is all Leo’s fault that you almost passed out at the palace?
“Why do I hear my name said in vain?” he asked as he strode through the door looking all windswept and handsome. Then he stopped dead, smiled, and dazzled Portia with his dimples. “And why the blazes do you have a haystack on your head?”
“It’s a floral arrangement actually.” She was proud that she managed to say that with a completely straight face despite the blush that instantly heated her cheeks. “Which is standing in for an ostrich.”
“Of course it is.” He helped himself to a biscuit as the maid carrying the tea tray passed him. “Because a giant bird makes so much more sense.”
“We are practicing Portia’s court curtsy,” said his mother.
“Which has to be performed with a minimum of seven tall ostrich plumes sprouting from my cranium or society will apparently crumble.”
“Who knew it was only ostrich feathers that held it up?” His blue eyes danced, making her realize how much she had missed them. They had been so politely formal to one another since their wedding that she longed for the easiness they had once shared before she had gone and made him hate her. “Then I have to walk out of the room backward without tripping over the ludicrous train that I also have to wear because I am reliably informed that it isn’t the done thing to turn your downturned gaze or your back to the monarch. Which is a shame as I was hoping to prostrate myself on the floor at his royal feet after tugging my forelock as someone who is as unworthy as me undoubtedly should.”
“Portia is chafing against some of our ancient traditions, Leo,” said Abigail with a smile. “And if you want my opinion, big brother—”
