Page 12 of Manufacturing a Duchess

“Oh, that.”

“Yes, that.” And the two men settled into companionable silence, broken only by the crackling of the fire.

“She was beautiful, wasn’t she?”

Finn did not need to ask who she was. “Yes. Exquisite.”

“I don’t believe I have ever seen anyone more beautiful.”

“No, you are decidedly right there. She will almost definitely be this Season’s Beauty.”

“And in the market for a husband.”

Finn hauled himself into a more upright position and leaned forward, tapped Alec on the knee, then sat back again. “What sort of husband?” he asked.

“What do you mean by that?”

“We do not know as yet who she is. Does she have dowry enough to choose where she wishes, or is she in the market for money and a title?”

At that, Alec sat up sharply in his chair. “Again, what do you mean by that, Finn?”

“Exactly what I said, Alec. This is not one of those chivalric romances you were so fond of reading while we were growing up. It is, well, business.”

“Business? How inexpressibly vulgar of you, Finn! Business?”

“Look, I am a realist. This is all about money and position. You know that; I know that. You and I know our respective strengths and weaknesses in each of these areas. It is not personal; marriage is never personal. Well, almost never. It is about the uniting of titles and fortunes.”

Alec’s mouth dropped open as he stared at Finn. “You have grown cynical.”

“No, not cynical. At least, I prefer not to call it such. Happiness in marriage is accomplished through the toleration of the other person: you have your life, she has hers. You work that out, and you should scrape well enough together for the remainder of your lives. Come, Alec, you married for love. What did that get you? And how long did it last?”

“Not fair, Finn.”

“I am only saying, this time you need to proceed with studied rationality. What you require is an heiress. Perhaps our Beauty is one; perhaps she is not. But—” on seeing Alec’s mutinous look, Finn briefly paused, then continued, “we will come to no conclusions as yet. She will most decidedly be met with again, and the next time we shall find out who she is.”

“Yes.” Seemingly mollified, Alec sat back. And sighed. “I am no green boy, Finn. Yet, while my soldiering has rubbed away quite a bit of the idealistic shine, I confess this is one corner of my life where I have a weakness still for those old-fashioned tales. I do know. What I need is a mother for Marjorie and an infusion of material security to address my father’s debts. Look who is being crass now.”

His cousin tilted his head to one side at Alec’s admission. “Who was the other girl she was with? Marjorie seemed very taken with her.”

“Yes, she did, didn’t she. Rather nondescript, though. Couldn’t even tell you what color her hair was, let alone her eyes.”

“Hmm, yes. Unlike her companion.”

“Yes, unlike her companion.”

“Never you mind, Alec. We shall see our two mysterious young women again. And soon, I should expect.”

Amity restored, the two men relaxed into their chairs, watching the fire, but Finn knew he was not alone in imagining the exquisite face of a porcelain doll with shining white-gold curls and haunting gray eyes.

Ten

Aurora could see Missie was in a much better frame of mind by the time the Wentworth carriage pulled up in front of the house in Eaton Square. Even the loss of the sun, which had progressively disappeared as they headed back through the City and into the West End, failed to put a dent in her spirits. She chattered happily away to Aurora and Hyacinth, or rather, more precisely, to herself. This first taste of the Season, and making the acquaintance, well, being observed and noticed by two gentlemen of the Ton (both of whom were terribly eligible), had set her lifetime’s training in motion. This was what she had been ruthlessly prepared for, and it was coming to pass.

For Aurora, the sensations were decidedly different. She sat mutely in her seat, venturing no comments (though none were required) to Missie’s nonstop flow of words. She agonized over her every reaction, and what felt like the decided futility of it all. Her first encounter with eligible gentlemen and she had not registered. Not one tiny bit. Well, she had wanted to be invisible, hadn’t she? And she had succeeded. So why did it feel so utterly horrid?

The one nugget of warmth she hugged to her was Marjorie. Those determined and direct dark-brown eyes, and the implicit trust in the feel of that little hand reaching out to touch her arm were a comfort. Then she, Aurora, supposedly a young lady of good breeding, had blushed in front of that duke; she had not been poised in the slightest. A schoolgirl: that’s all she was, a schoolgirl. She pressed a handkerchief to her forehead, hoping it would stop the pounding.

It was enough of a gesture, though, that Missie noticed and cut off her stream of talk. “Are you ill, Rorie?”