Page 19 of Manufacturing a Duchess

That is, of a man who was a simple country doctor who became a businessman with a manufactory; and with a wife who was also far from gentry, but who now had social pretentions.

Oh, but how Papa and Mama would love to be here, she continued to herself, in all this glittering finery. At least there would have been two people other than herself who felt like such a complete fish out of water. A lady’s finishing academy was not quite up to the task of making her feel entirely at home in the ballroom of a member of the Ton. Shakespeare, on the other hand, probably had a quote for a situation like this. There must be something in the Iliad that said it even better. Or perhaps Ovid? No, you goose, those are love poems. And I only know about them because I snuck the book out of the locked shelf in the corner of the library that afternoon when Papa fell asleep with the key right next to him.

“Rorie?”

“‘Oh, to be silent upon a peak in Darien!’” came the fervid response. Ah, yes. Keats had come to rescue her. The Greeks were of no assistance. But Keats, yes, Keats.

“What? Rorie, whatever are you talking about? It is time to take our seats.”

And, indeed, the glasses of punch were being collected by the various footmen as they whisked unobtrusively around the room, and the scented company began to chatter and select their seats. In dismay, Aurora saw the two dukes coming closer and grabbed Missie’s arm.

“Ouch!” came the whispered epithet. “Don’t pinch!” A footman ushered the four members of the Wentworth party to a row and handed each a beautifully calligraphed program. Smoothing her skirt, Missie turned unseeing eyes at the list of music which would be played. Letting out a sigh, she continued, “Pray this is over soon.”

“Millicent, dear,” hissed her mother, “A young lady is always appreciative of music. Remember, it shows the proper amount of sensibility and refinement.”

“Yes, Mama.”

Aurora could only stare at the program in delight. She had longed to play the violin, but that was not considered an instrument for young ladies. The harp, perhaps, or the pianoforte, both of which she had been able to study at Miss Fielding’s. And what a selection was on offer tonight! For whatever Lady Hinsdale’s eccentricities were, they did not extend to what was clearly a superb taste in music, as far as Aurora was concerned. There was Bach. And Haydn. And then a soprano was to come and sing some Purcell. Aurora had read about Purcell but had never hoped to hear his music sung. He was not the latest thing in composers and therefore forgotten by many. But Bach—the mathematical construction of the music, the parts that so perfectly complemented each other. Oh, please let it be everything she had always believed Bach could be when played by a master musician.

* * *

From his seat back and across the aisle from the Wentworth party, Alec Raeburn studied both young women. In spite of himself, he could not stop gazing at Millicent. Her cropped curls glowed almost white in the profusion of candles. He wished she would turn so he could see the pulse beat faintly at her throat (ridiculous at this distance, though it might be). Her gown’s neckline plunged downward, more than hinting at her bosom. He saw the almost sculptured side of her face, which stared impassively at the musicians as they completed their tuning and began to play.

It was a movement from her companion, however, which next caught his attention. That young woman had impulsively leaned forward, as if that would somehow bring her closer to the music. There was rapt attention in the gaze she directed toward the instrumentalists, rapt attention and a liveliness which brought a heightened color to her cheeks. Miss Hardcastle. Miss Hardcastle liked music. Miss Hardcastle liked Bach. Very curious. The expression of joy gave her a radiance that, for the first time, caused Alec to take a closer look. Miss Hardcastle knew Bach. Well, well.

Feeling as if he had been handed the keys to the first round in this mating ritual called the Season, Alec carefully sat back in his chair. He had forgotten his aunt, Lady Mackenzie, the Dowager Duchess of Galloway, was seated next to him, and her eyes missed nothing.

“You could do worse,” she whispered, with a light tap of her fan on his knee. “She has a comfortable handful of thousands a year. No, she is not gentry but comes from solid yeoman stock—you are in no position to be overly proud, nephew. She’s what you need.”

Suddenly sickened at this calculating game they were all playing, Alec wanted nothing more than to rush out of the overheated room. He knew he couldn’t. It was inexpressibly vulgar, but that was how the world worked, and he needed the money. For his estate. For Marjorie. Not for love. No, he didn’t expect to find love again. He believed he had found it once, with beautiful, helpless Mary. His memory of her face had receded, but he found he could catch glimpses of her when he looked at Millicent Wentworth.

What did he want? Curious question. He had stopped asking himself that after Ciudad Rodrigo. And again, after Badajoz. Bloody and horrific battles, the two of them. And definitely after he had returned home to find his father dead and his estate in arrears, and a wife who— He interrupted this particular train of thought. This was a well-worn path in his mind, and he was not going down it tonight. It ended with a black mood for himself, and the drinking of too much brandy. He had vowed not to do so again, not after Marjorie had found him that morning a few years ago, sprawled on the carpet in front of a cold fire, with an empty bottle smashed in the hearth, and the glass neatly snapped in two in his hand. The look on her face had sobered him up quicker than a bucketful of ice-cold water. That is, she had stopped in shock and then rushed forward to see if he was all right. He had snapped at her, pushing her out of the way. She had frozen, then, turned after a moment, and suddenly bolted from the room in sobs.

The harmonies and counterpoint of the Bach began to weave their way into his ruminations. He had played the violin once. He had heard a fiddler one day, playing for ha’ pennies in the street of the village adjoining the estate, and it had entranced him. He had never heard music like that and had prevailed upon his father to let him learn. He practiced with determination as he wrestled to gain control over the instrument. To be able to bring out those sounds, now that was an accomplishment. Alec knew he could be moody, but when he played the violin, he was able to truly lose himself. He loved to play everything from the simplest country airs to the more intricate pieces of court music. Perhaps, when he found a wife and went home with her and Marjorie, he would search out his violin and begin to play again. It might need to be restrung. And hopefully it had not been gnawed up in the meantime. He had wrapped it carefully before he and Finn had taken off for Spain. Perhaps it was salvageable. He hadn’t looked at it or cared for it since then.

What did he want? A mother for Marjorie. Yes, yes, but what did he want? I don’t know, he nearly whispered aloud. It had been so long since he had allowed himself to pose this question, he found he no longer knew how to answer it. He looked over at the glistening jewel that was Millicent Wentworth. His eyes slid to the rosiness of her companion, who faded away in comparison when placed directly next to her. She had been unable to look at him when he retrieved Marjorie when they had crossed paths at the Tower Zoo. Would she be able to even converse with him, should he approach her?

Alec knew what he had to do. Yet it was so hard to walk away from that cool beauty. If I had something, someone—he corrected himself—that beautiful to look at every day, how happy I should be. To be standing next to her, like the gallant knight he had always longed to be. The picture in his mind made him smile. And then the ridiculousness struck him. He was no longer a boy, dreaming of securing a fairy princess who would shower him with love and happiness everlasting. Had he not learned that from Mary? Perhaps it is her companion who requires a knight errant. He abruptly noticed the music had stopped and returned to the present. The concertgoers broke out in a pattering of polite applause.

With the Bach concluded, the soprano stepped forward in her turban and shawl to begin singing the evening’s collection of Purcell airs.

“When I am laid in earth,” Alec whispered to himself, echoing the singer, “Let my wrongs create no trouble in thy breast.”

* * *

Missie bit the inside of her cheek. La! How to stay awake during this interminable concert. One note or the other, she did not care. She longed to be back on the dance floor or finally seated at supper.

She curled her toes in her fragile slippers. Aware that her mother was watching her like a hawk, she froze her face to stillness. Behind it, she could think whatever she wanted. But no one could know.

Tilting her head slightly down, she slowly moved her eyes to the other side of the aisle where the two dukes were sitting. The Duke of Selkirk was all romance, with his piercing dark eyes and that thick dark hair with curls she was aching to run her fingers through. She had never done so, of course, but she had read of such things in scandalous poetry. One of the girls at Miss Fielding’s had secured terribly blush-worthy verses from somewhere. Byronic. Yes, that was the term, Byronic.

She let her eyes travel to his companion. The Duke of Galloway. She could fault him for nothing. He was truly a Pink of the Ton. In addition, he had the funds, those desperately needed funds. Nevertheless, he faded away to insignificance next to his companion. She could not imagine herself running her fingers through his hair.

A brief movement caught her eye, and she re-focused on Selkirk. Oh, la! He was looking at her. She gave him a small smile to acknowledge his interest. Then she turned her head away and began lightly fanning herself. This was going very well. Very well indeed.

She would be this Season’s Diamond.

She would win all the prizes it was possible to win.