Page 22 of Manufacturing a Duchess

It had gone well. At least, according to Lady Wentworth. And, surprisingly, Hyacinth. Though who did she hear that from? Aurora had said nothing as the maid readied her for bed in the early hours of the morning. There had been, yes, her nerves and a resultant tendency to blurt Homer, yet the gentleman who overheard her—the Duke of Galloway—had not kicked up a fuss about it. And the Duke of Selkirk had seemed to enjoy talking with her about music and mathematics, and he had danced with her twice. She hadn’t had to sit out a single dance, except for the one when she was too parched to continue, and the handsome lieutenant had insisted on bringing her a small bowl of flavored ice to rival that for sale at Gunther’s, to quench her thirst. Oh, and she hadn’t trod on anyone’s toes. In fact, she had felt as light as thistledown.

A small noise from the room beyond brought her back to herself, and she watched Missie appear and sink gracefully into a chair. Aurora turned and went back inside, greeting her friend with an exuberant, “Good morning!” which only made Missie clutch at her temples.

“You mustn’t do that, Rorie. Brioche, yes, just brioche.” She waved at the footman. “Mercy, I shall take my breakfast in bed like Mama from this point forward. Why did I ever think to get up and come downstairs this morning? I am completely done in.”

“But, Missie,” exclaimed Aurora, pulling out a chair near her friend and settling in, “wasn’t it marvelous? Did you not have the most wonderful time?”

“Yes, yes, yes, oh, do be quiet.”

As Missie’s eyes had not darkened in warning, Aurora saw the irritation was not very deep. So, she sat in silence, watching her friend nibble delicately at her pastry. Finally, she could not wait any longer and burst out, “Do you think they will call on us today?”

“Who?” asked Missie innocently, opening her exquisite gray eyes very wide.

“Don’t be a widgeon, Missie. You know who. The Duke of Selkirk and the Duke of Galloway.”

“Oh, them. Well, I presume they will call. Galloway is by far the more eligible of the two but,” and here her eyes began to dance, breaking through her practiced air of ennui, “isn’t Selkirk romantic? All dashing and mysterious and terribly handsome.”

“Yes, he is.” He was. Dreadfully so. But he liked music. And he could play the violin. And he talked to her like a person. Concerning him, her mind was a complete and utter jumble. In truth, she could not clearly recall anyone else she had danced with last night. Only him.

“Hmm. I could simply wrap him around my little finger if I wanted to. But that’s right. He has no money and is therefore earmarked for you. Pity.”

And with a toss of her head, Missie reached again for her brioche to tear off the tiniest of morsels. Aurora froze. She felt as if she had been slapped in the face. The fizzy feeling inside her began to retreat. She knew her friend could be brittle. She knew her friend could be competitive. But up until today, Missie had never been dismissive of her. Or cruel. It reduced it all to a horrid business transaction, of which she, Aurora, was only under consideration because of her father’s money. Her own worth? As a person? In Missie’s estimation, it was clearly not of much value. And, if that was how she truly saw Aurora’s marriage prospects, was that how she valued her as a friend? A means to an end? But, no, that couldn’t be—they had become friends long before she could be of any obvious use to Missie. Or?

Aurora slammed shut the door on where her thoughts were leading. Not for today. If she continued down this path, she would climb out the window, hire a horse, and gallop her way home.

She said nothing else while Missie finished eating, and then both retreated upstairs to their respective bedrooms to write letters. Shortly after luncheon, Lady Wentworth sent word they were to join her in the red room. She allowed both to kiss her on the cheek when they appeared, and proceeded to deliver her instructions on how things were to proceed. These included what new gowns to be ordered, which invitations were to be accepted, and which were not, and how to greet callers when they arrived. And, of course, the final preparations for that oh-so-important appearance at Almack’s, which would officially launch Millicent and, of course, Aurora.

She concluded her speech with a postscript to Aurora. “I shall not write to your father and mother as yet, child. It is still too early to be sure. The Duke of Selkirk paid you the most careful attention last night and, if you continue to play your cards right, I believe he may offer for you.” She simpered at this. “Remember,” and here her tone changed, “there is to be none of your prattling on about books and such. Unless they are novels. Of the right sort.” She then continued to her daughter, “And Millicent, dear, I do believe the Duke of Galloway is a definite prospect for you. Though there are still some other fish yet in the sea, we do not wish to move too precipitously. I am very pleased, very pleased indeed.”

She rang for a pot of tea and instructed the young women to take up their embroidery, which they had been told to bring down with them when they were summoned. Thus modestly employed, they would be ready to receive whomever should call. Aurora was so discomfited by the day so far and the prospects ahead that she stabbed herself in the finger so many times she lost count.

Nineteen

The mood in the hired rooms of His Grace, the Duke of Selkirk, in Russell Square was of a very different order. Alec was completely out of sorts again. This time, it was the cold-blooded “purchasing” of a wife continuing to rankle him. Or, perhaps, the sale of himself and his estate to the highest bidder? Regardless of all the rationally argued reasons why he was doing so. Mayhap it would have been easier if Miss Hardcastle had turned out to be a complete nonentity or utterly mad, and thus, easily dismissible. His brief conversation with her, during the times she found her voice, had shown him she was a person, and one who was clearly intelligent, well-read, and funny. These were not qualities which one necessarily was supposed to look for in a wife but, when one encountered them…Damnation, she would be able to see right into him. She would think him a downright adventurer, only after her fortune. Which he was. Yes, the rankling was fierce.

Blast!

A bad temper and Archibald with a razor attempting to shave him resulted in a number of nicks and cuts, so when Finn arrived to fetch him for their call on the Wentworths, he found his friend’s face liberally speckled. Finn’s arrival coincided with the return of Marjorie from the park, which was not a quiet event but instead involved the slamming of doors, the pounding of running feet, and heartfelt sobbing.

“Lord, my head,” Alec roared. “Peg, what is that infernal racket?”

The flustered young nursemaid ducked into the parlor and, after a bobbing curtsy, gasped out, “If you please, Your Grace, she was waiting for a friend at the park, and the friend never came.”

Alec had a moment’s compunction for his daughter’s disappointment. That was swiftly squashed by the throbbing in his head, and he roared loudly enough for Marjorie to hear in her bedchamber, “Friend or no friend, she is to stop that bawling at once!”

“Yes, sir,” curtsied Peg again, and hurried away as soon as she possibly could.

Alec let out a deep sigh, rubbed his temples, and stood. “Please excuse me for a minute, I have a child to attend to.” He stepped out into the hallway and knocked on his daughter’s door. “Let me in, Marjorie,” he said. “Your grouchy Papa wants to see how you are.”

“Go away, you horrid Papa! I do not want to see you ever ever ever again! Peg!” she shouted. “Tell him to go away!” There was no response to that but a momentary silence, and then Alec attempted to open the door.

“No, go away! I don’t want to see you! You said I was bawling!” The voice climbed in pitch to a near-shriek. Alec stepped back as his daughter hurled herself against the door and shut it with a bang. Admitting defeat, he returned to the sitting room.

Finn greeted him by steepling his fingers and sinking more deeply into his chair. “Chez Raeburn. Such a pretty spot. Always such a respite from the demands of a glittering society.”

“Oh, don’t you start!”Alec resumed his seat and ran a frustrated hand through his hair.

His cousin only cocked an eyebrow at him, in a perfect echo of his mother. “Tsk, tsk. I know your ways, dear friend and comrade. And I know you will not consent to go anywhere until this current contretemps is resolved. She will not speak with you. But perhaps Marjorie will accept me as a negotiator and allow me to bring you two together to draw up peace terms with dispatch, eh?”