Page 29 of Manufacturing a Duchess

“I especially miss my father.” Aurora couldn’t stop herself from saying that out loud. “London, what I am doing here. The Season. It is so very different. I know that he is in trade, but … have you ever been inside a cloth manufactory, Lucy?” Saying those words out loud brought their reality into this painted and delicate world she was currently inhabiting. And they didn’t fit. And neither did she. She felt like such an imposter.

“No, miss. I have heard of them, miss. A cousin went up north to look for work in one of those places. But not me, miss. I stay close to home.”

“I do understand, Lucy. I wish I could stay close to home as well.” Aurora took a moment and then continued, “They can be fearsome places, manufactories. They can be dark and noisy. The equipment can be dangerous. But they do not have to be. No, there is always a choice.” Her mind drifted off into memories of home.

She came to herself and saw Lucy still standing there, waiting for what she was going to say. Aurora wasn’t sure. And then she knew: she very much wanted to see Marjorie again. She had wanted to bring the topic of Marjorie up with the Duke multiple times, but it had never seemed like the moment. Or the right thing to do. One did not discuss sailing ships and small children at balls or concerts or other outings. Perhaps if they had not been interrupted at Hampton Court and had been able to continue their conversation?

Well, there was nothing she could do about it now. Soon. She would talk with him about Marjorie soon. Seeing Marjorie would tell her, perhaps, which Duke of Selkirk was the real one. Seeing Marjorie, perhaps, would be—relaxing. Comfortable. A relief. Because, apart from anything else, Marjorie was most definitely real. She might serve as a tonic for all of this: the Season, the Ton, her confusing duke, her homesickness. All of it.

“And I am wool gathering again. A habit I cannot seem to break.” She paused and took a deep breath. “Now, for today. I have been feeling very guilty, Lucy. I have not been to the park to see Marjorie in the past three weeks. Our first event today is an afternoon picnic, so it is safe for me to make a quick trip there and back. No one is out of their rooms before noon anymore, it seems, so I will not be missed. Please find me something that will survive the wear and tear of boating,” at which she—and then Lucy—laughed, “and then let Mrs. Philipps know that I shall require your company.”

“Yes, miss.” Lucy’s face filled with delight.

It seemed only a matter of a moment before the phaeton was in front, and Aurora and Lucy got on board for the drive to Kensington Gardens. They were early this morning, which suited Aurora just fine. She wanted a chance to breathe some free and open air, smell the flowers, and stretch her limbs. She wished she could actually run down the pathways herself. But one thing the past few weeks had taught her was restraint, and she only let her exuberance show by walking so rapidly, Lucy had to follow at a trot to keep up. Finally, however, it was nearing half ten, so they made their way to the boat pond.

Marjorie was already there, disconsolately poking at her boat with a long stick while Peg attempted to coax her into a good humor. Her face, when she caught sight of Aurora, broke into a huge smile. Aurora stopped and saluted.

“Lieutenant Hardcastle reporting for duty, captain.”

“Aye, aye, Miss—I mean, Hardcastle. Secure the ship.”

Peg and Lucy went over to ready the toy ship while Aurora and Marjorie proceeded to discuss what direction the wind was blowing, which evolved into an earnest analysis involving the mathematics of wind speed and direction, and the frequent wettings of index fingers and extending them into the breeze for more accurate calculations.

Twenty-Four

Reluctant fortune hunter and father of Marjorie, known to society as the financially troubled but eligibly titled and devilishly handsome Duke of Selkirk, was irritated. Alec seemed to be irritated quite frequently these days, and Archibald had begun to wear a martyred air, eyeing him warily as he approached, razor in hand, as though Alec was some caged beast not entirely to be trusted. Alec desperately wanted to go home, like a grouchy bear returning to his cave. However, he could not until he had settled this damned marriage business. Millicent Wentworth’s face still had a nasty tendency to present itself in his mind’s eye the moment he thought Marriage, only to be hastily removed with a stern, “This lady is not for you, Alec.” Perhaps not as frequently of late as she had? He pushed that observation away.

He could not be cold-blooded about Aurora Hardcastle, though, try as he might. Yes, she was young and inexperienced and no Beauty. But she was also far too intelligent, damn her eyes, and she somehow managed to get under his skin. She was a bluestocking, he reminded himself, even though she had a warmth he did not associate in his mind with bluestockings. I am of half a dozen different minds, and I do not know myself at all, was the only way he could shut down this never-ending circle of thoughts

“Where is Marjorie?” he barked, startling Archibald and resulting in another nick. His face was starting to achieve a distinct resemblance to a battlefield these days. With Alec clearly on the losing side of the clash.

“She is with Peg in the park, Your Grace. She likes to sail her boat on the Pond there.”

“Then I shall go and see her. I have not been spending much time with her of late. My days are far too taken up with all this London Season business. Well, go ahead and finish, man. I cannot take off half shaven!”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“And I am unpardonably rude to you once again. There’s no excuse for me, I know. I do not pay you enough. You are heroic in putting up with me.”

“I am a martyr to my profession, Your Grace.”

“Humph. Looking at my face, you might think it the other way round.”

Thirty minutes later, Alec was seated on his horse and making his way through the streets. Traffic was not so bad this morning. Still, the going was slow. He had time, while he rode, to let his mind wander. The outing of two days ago was still very much on his mind. A rather large party had ridden out to Hampton Court for the day to wander the gardens and watch the more energetic members whack a ball around Henry VIII’s tennis court. He had paid his usual dutiful attention to Miss Hardcastle, while trying not to let his eyes slide over to Miss Wentworth. The latter’s expression never truly varied, except for the occasional dimple and the fluttering of her eyelashes. She was enchanting, he told himself for the seven hundredth time.

Aurora was quieter than usual that morning. He had not noticed until he realized he had been gazing at Millicent for some considerable time, and a pool of silence surrounded himself and the heiress.

“She is lovely, is she not?”

He turned to face Aurora, who was looking up from her perch on a stone bench with eyes a darker blue than usual.

“Yes, yes, she is.” He had the distinct impression his ears were turning red. He felt in the wrong, as if he had been caught (which he knew he had been), and that caused him to speak with an edge of sharpness. “She is lovely.”

Her face quickly drained of color, and she lowered her eyes. There was a moment’s pause between the two of them when he saw her square her shoulders and look back up at him. He realized he was looming over her and sat down beside her.

“My father,” she began, “allowed me the free run of his library while I was growing up. Books have been my earliest—and my longest held—companions. I know you think me a bluestocking.” She put up a hand to stop the protestations which she knew he would make out of politeness. “I cannot make that claim for myself. I came to London with a few books only. Shall I tell you what they are? Copies of Chapman’s Homer—his volumes of the Iliad and Odyssey, a guidebook to London, and the poems of John Keats.”

She took a quick breath and released it in a little laugh. He was relieved to notice it sounded natural, and not like the increasingly brittle sound he had heard from her more frequently of late. “None of these is of any help at all in navigating the Season, though I confess I find Keats of greater assistance than the Greeks.” Another pause, and then, “I also confess I do not possess a great facility for small talk, as a young lady should. It was not a skill I was successful in acquiring at Miss Field’s.”