Page 33 of Manufacturing a Duchess

She scratched on the door and went in at the response of, “Come.” Missie was seated at her dressing table, while Hyacinth carefully arranged the short curls that now encircled her head. Hyacinth’s mouth settled into its usual tight line when she saw what Aurora was wearing, though it was no longer as rigid as when Aurora had first arrived. Missie shot a disdainful glance at her in the glass.

“Aurora! You look a perfect hobbledehoy! Or worse! Were you out in public like that?”

“It was a bit windy today, Missie. That does not signify. I have come to tell you that the Duke of Selkirk is to call on Lord Wentworth this afternoon. I—I presumed you would want to know.” Aurora stammered because the look Missie sent her was one of pure hatred. She whirled around and glared at Aurora.

“So, it is to be Lord Raeburn, the Duke of Selkirk, is it?” she hissed, almost spitting out the work duke. “You have done well for yourself. You will have his title, and he will have your money. He is only marrying you for your money, you know.”

The fragile kernel of happiness Aurora was carrying inside her from the park began to crack. “Well, I know he doesn’t love me, but⁠—”

“Doesn’t love you? Doesn’t love you? Of course he doesn’t love you! How could a man like that possibly love someone like you? All you do is prate about Homer and the glories of the Tower of London. Why, you’re practically a bluestocking. Breeding will out, it is clear. No gentleman of consequence, no gentleman of the Ton could possibly love someone like you. You have no air—you have no graces. Oh, stop fussing with my hair, Hyacinth. Leave it. I shall call you before we are to depart so you can adjust my gown.”

“Very good, Miss Wentworth,” said Hyacinth, dropping a curtsy and reluctantly leaving the room.

Once the door had shut again, Aurora replied to the woman she had once called her friend. “How can you speak so, Missie? How can you be so cruel?”

At that, Missie rounded on her once again. “How can I? I can tell you why. If I had money, if Papa had not gambled it away, then I would be the one the Duke of Selkirk would be meeting Papa about, to ask for my hand. You must have seen the way he looks at me, Aurora. He loves me. You know it is so. He would have wed me, except for circumstances. He is marrying you for your money, pure and simple. He doesn’t care a whit about you.

“I should have known what type of chit you were when you turned up at Miss Fielding’s, fairly reeking of the manufactory floor. Did you never wonder we kept peering at you, to see if you had cotton wool in your hair or dirty oil on your hands from the works? And with only lessons from your hopelessly deficient mother and excessive time spent in your father’s library as your sole teachers. Shocking! Your proficiencies, for mercy’s sake, were in absolutely useless subjects like Greek, Latin, and—oh, what was it? Yes. Mathematics. Mathematics! How we all laughed at you. You woefully lacked any proper skills in Drawing or Dancing, and la! Absolutely no French. We all found you to be quite uneducated.”

Aurora swallowed hard at the sheer spitefulness. This was not the person she believed she knew. Why was Missie jealous of her? “But what about the Duke of Galloway?” she finally sputtered.

“What about the Duke of Galloway?”

“Do you not care for him? He attends to you so faithfully. On top of which, he is terribly eligible. I thought⁠—”

“Thought what? Oh, you’re a little fool. You see nothing!”

Missie turned back to her glass, pinching her cheeks to bring color to them which, for once, they already had. Her eyes began to fill, and she bit her lower lip to stop any tears from falling. A frozen silence filled the room.

Finally, Aurora found she was able to let out the breath she did not realize she was holding and turned to leave. She was almost certain she heard, though, before the door shut, the passionate whisper, “He’s mine! He’s mine!” And then Aurora was out in the hall and running toward her room.

Twenty-Seven

That afternoon, Lord Raeburn, the Duke of Selkirk, found Lord Wentworth at home as Aurora had promised. As he was being shown to the library, a room principally used by that worthy gentleman in which to take his afternoon nap, he happened to pass a breathtakingly beautiful Millicent Wentworth on the staircase at that particular moment.

“Your Grace,” she breathed as she acknowledged him, under lashes which fluttered just so.

“Miss Wentworth,” he said, unable to fully bow because of where he was standing.

“I understand you are to meet with my father.”

“Yes, I believe he is in the library.”

“Please come and visit us in the morning room when you have completed your—” she inserted a little pause around the next word, “business with him. I miss our little tête-à-têtes.”

She continued her way down the stairs, leaving a perplexed Alec literally unbalanced. What tête-à-têtes? He had gazed at her, that is true, and there had been one country dance, but that was the sum total of their interactions. Uncertainly, he ran a hand through his hair and looked up again at the butler waiting to lead him to the library.

Money. I need money. That’s why I’m here. That was his honest response. Suddenly, his daughter’s face came to mind. It released some frustration and gave him something to hold onto. It wasn’t money for money’s sake, after all; he was doing it to secure his daughter’s future. This is for Marjorie. Assuming the military posture which had become second nature to him, he continued to the next floor, where he was ushered into Lord Wentworth’s presence.

* * *

Alec was not aware, from the gallery one floor higher, that his intended bride-to-be had watched the entire exchange.

“Oh, Papa,” Aurora whispered. “What am I to do?” She retreated to her room and sat down in a chair, pleating her skirt repeatedly, completely oblivious to any wrinkles she might have been causing. She looked briefly in the direction of her bed, where her set of men’s clothes was hidden in her father’s old doctor’s bag, tempting her to escape. She had a wild moment of thinking, Yes! She could get changed and easily clamber down the wall outside her window using the footholds she had scouted out over these past weeks. She had enough money she could hire a horse and tear up the Great North Road, back home.

She could feel the fresh air on her face. She could imagine all the familiar sights. She could hear the clack of the looms and see the sunlight illuminate the heads of the weavers. She could feel her feet walking in between the rolled-up bolts of new cloth, reaching up to rub an edge with her fingers. It felt warm and comfortable, like home.

But they would be so disappointed, was the next thought. The physical present inserted itself once more, blotting out the memories. No, I must stay here and see this out. Her parents had sent her with a goal, and she needed to meet it.