Page 17 of Manufacturing a Duchess

The Selkirks were a sad family.

Finn turned in the glass one more time to ensure everything was just so. His valet, bent almost double, was checking every inch of his attire to see all was in place. Pulling himself upright, the man headed once again to the dressing table and returned, handing Finn a precisely filled snuff box. Finn took it from him and placed it inside the inner breast pocket of his coat. He loathed the stuff, but it was part of the uniform. Uniform! He snorted, causing a start from his valet. “It’s fine, Davies, it’s fine. Would you please check the carriage is waiting out front?”

With a little bob, his valet turned and left the room. The carriage should be there. In fact, it had probably been waiting for the last hour. De’il take it! He was deucedly late. He paused for a moment before leaving his dressing room, his thoughts sliding back to where they had been only a few moments before. Had Alec ever been in love? Now, Finn wasn’t so sure. His friend tended to let his emotions sway his thinking. The war had tempered that, but even so, he had seen the way Alec had looked at the beautiful blonde woman they had encountered at the Tower. There was, come to think of it, a resemblance to Mary. With one major difference: the woman at the Tower was magnificent. She glowed. However, they as yet knew nothing about her. She was a Beauty, that was certain, and likely to be the Season’s Beauty. But a Beauty with a fortune or without? Because his friend could not afford to marry for Love again.

Whatever that was.

Well, Finn knew one thing it was. It was Marjorie. If there was one creature on this planet whom Alec loved, it was his daughter. And, if he was being honest with himself, Finn was in total agreement. He felt a sudden warmth and feeling of reassurance. Marjorie. She would help keep her father balanced and centered, with his mind on the present course. It would stop him from losing his head. And who knows, perhaps said Beauty might be just the thing for a certain duke with a perfectly tied cravat in the pink of fashion. A Beauty and a Nonesuch. Now, that would be the perfect ending to a romance. He gave a little shrug of his shoulders in satisfaction.

He opened his door and was stepping out when he suddenly remembered. She had not been alone; there had been another young woman with her. Shorter, a touch plump, a nice bosom—How could I have forgotten that?— who had kept her bonnet decidedly forward on her head. She had engaged in conversation with Marjorie. Who was she? It probably didn’t signify.

He was on the first landing when he heard a second set of footsteps, sweeping down from the other staircase. The grand staircase in the Mackenzie’s elegant Berkeley Square townhouse swept up to the first landing and then split into two, going up to meet either side of a gallery which looped elegantly around the top of the entrance hall. His mother’s room was on the other side of the house to Finn’s, and the speed and tread of the footfalls, combined with the swish of expensive silk, could only mean one thing. He had definitely taken too long with his cravat.

“Good evening, Finlay,” said Elizabeth Beauchamp Mackenzie, the Dowager Duchess of Galloway.

He stopped and turned to face her. “Good evening, Mother.” His feeling of chagrin deepened as he saw that, yes, she was clearly dressed for an evening out. Attempting to assume a pose of sangfroid and disinterest, he let out a slightly strangled, “You are going out, Mother?”

“Yes, Finlay. I am going out. As you well know. Lady Hinsdale’s concert. I presume you are still planning to attend? Excellent. Then you shall escort me.” His mother arched an eyebrow and held out her hand.

Finn paused, knowing he had been attempting to take the coward’s way out and finding he was not able to abandon it quite yet. “Ah, I—I believed you were planning to have a party with one of your close friends, Mama. Lady Cadogan?” The last came out so feebly, even he could not help wincing as her eyebrow arched still further, accompanied by a slight pursing of her lips.

All she said was, “Yes, I was, but she sent a note round late this afternoon that she is feeling unwell, so who other than my eligible son to escort me? As I had instructed you most firmly, this was the one early event you must attend and be seen at. I was sure I could rely on you. I see I timed it exactly.”

Was that what the butler had been trying to tell him as he rushed upstairs to get ready? Damn this being a Nonpareil business. Nevertheless, realizing there was no way out, Finn stepped forward within reach of the maternal hand which had never wavered, and his mother elegantly placed it on his arm. A tall woman, whose silver hair had been swept up into a fashionable arrangement, she still had to look up at her towering offspring. Her gray silk dress was provided with a loop of silver rosebuds, which she had slipped over her right hand, allowing her to lift the train of her skirt out of the way and fall beautifully at the same time. Her face was carefully schooled to stillness, a trait which Finn had learned from her. An alert intelligence in her blue eyes let anyone of discernment know she would not suffer fools gladly. In point of fact, at this moment she was looking at her son as though he was most decidedly one of those fools.

“Of course,” he stammered. “I am dreadfully late. I was to pick Alec up an hour ago.”

“Humph,” was all she replied. “It will be good for him to learn patience. What, pray tell, is that concoction you have around your neck? The reason for the delay, I presume.”

Fighting to retain the last vestiges of his dignity, he took a silent inhale and did not reply. Without a further word, the two of them descended the rest of the way and were ushered by the footmen into the Mackenzie family carriage.

Fifteen

Aurora attempted to settle herself in the carriage, but she knew this was not to be a relaxing ride. “Remember,” said Lady Wentworth for what seemed like the thousandth time, “while this is not one of the premiere events of the Season, it is an opportunity to see and be seen. I insist you both receive invitations to Almack’s, and although Lady Jersey and Lady Sefton will most likely not be in attendance this evening, rest assured everything that happens tonight will be noted. You must both be perfection.

“As to Lady Hinsdale,” she went on, “she is a trifle eccentric, as I am sure I have told you before. She is of a very old and important family, and one of the foremost members of the Ton. So, she cannot be offended. She is also a long-time, dear friend of the Queen. Aurora, if you twitch so, you will crease your skirt beyond repair. See how Millicent sits? Serene. Unruffled. That is the demeanor of a lady. That is how I caught the eye of Lord W.”

Lady Wentworth turned and looked at the elegantly dressed man snoring in the corner of the carriage, his suit for the evening a portion of the largesse provided by Aurora’s father to cover the cost of the launch of his daughter into Society, which Aurora was uncomfortably aware of. Nothing else was said until the carriage rattled up to the front of Lady Hinsdale’s house, when her ladyship poked her spouse with the end of her fan. “Wake up, Percy. We are arrived.”

With a snort and a gurgle, Percy, Lord Wentworth, struggled to a fully upright sitting position and attempted to look alert. “Simply resting my eyes, m’dear. Had a ferocious game of faro last night at m’club. Deuced business. Won handsomely, though. I am tireder than the de’il now.”

His wife looked over her shoulder at him as she was shepherding her charges out. Aurora could not help but overhear the hissing rejoinder: “Do behave, Percy. For Millicent’s sake. We cannot afford to ruin this.”

* * *

Holding up their skirts and mindful of their slippers, the women climbed the stairs to the front door and were ushered inside, to be greeted by a blaze of lights. A footman took their wraps, and they were directed up a staircase flanked by candles. A gigantic chandelier overhead reflected and dispersed the light, its multi-faceted prisms swaying faintly. The women appeared to glitter as they climbed to the ballroom, which covered the entire run of the next floor. Aurora looked around, enchanted. She felt as if she were in a dream; it nearly took her breath away. It required all her concentration not to trip over her own feet. When they reached the ballroom’s entrance, they stopped and gave their names to the footman waiting to announce them outside that room’s open doors.

“Lord Wentworth, Baron Hinchcliffe, and Lady Wentworth. The Honorable Millicent Wentworth. Miss Aurora Hardcastle,” he announced in accents placed to carry.

The ballroom floor itself was a few steps down from its door, so that newcomers had a moment to survey the room and be seen in turn. Embarrassed, Aurora tried to head down them as quickly as possible. However, Missie didn’t follow. She stood there, at the top, her face in its mask of doll-like immobility and slowly turned her head. A hush descended on the room, and a whisper began. Slowly, oh so slowly, she descended the handful of steps and joined Aurora. The buzz of conversation had started again when their party reached the end of the receiving line, and Lady Hinsdale.

A tiny woman, whose face was with lined with age and painted stark white in the style of thirty years ago or more, her monstrous wig was nearly as tall as she was. She clasped a hand of each of the young women and then began to speak in a voice remarkably young and musical for such a painted face and grotesquely reddened lips.

“I am so pleased you have come to my concert,” she said. She gestured to where rows of chairs had been arranged at one end of the room. “I prefer the sound the music makes in this room to my music room below. I hope you do as well.” She searched each girl’s face, as though she were reading a book that only she knew the language of. “Yes, you are a Beauty,” she said, patting Missie’s hand. And then she turned to look at Aurora. “And you? What are you, hmm? Something else entirely.” She leaned forward into Aurora’s face. The urge to pull back was strong, but Aurora resisted it

“I like you,” their hostess said, regaining her rigid upright posture. “I shall be watching you.” Then, dropping each of their hands, she turned to greet Lord and Lady Wentworth.

Thoroughly discomposed, Aurora was grateful to escape with Missie in the direction of the table supporting a towering fountain of some type of punch or Negus. “What was that, Missie?” she whispered urgently, once it was clear they had left their hostess on the other side of the room.