Page 6 of Manufacturing a Duchess

Waiting until Archibald left and carefully closed the door behind him, Alec took a tentative sip out of the mug. The horrid taste gave him over to a coughing fit, and he roughly sat the mug down on the table, slopping a bit of liquid on the letter. Snatching the latter up, he broke the seal, coughed once more for emphasis, and began reading.

Things had not improved since the last letter. Or the missive before that one. Or, well, since he had left his estate and headed down to London. The last crop had done terribly, and the cattle were poorly; what else might be mortgaged or borrowed to get enough seed for the spring planting? And were there any funds to replenish his languishing herd? He knew the answers to those questions: precious little.

His late father had not possessed the slightest interest in managing anything and had ignored everything—even the good bits—his only slightly capable steward had advised. Then that unlamented man (his father, not necessarily the hapless steward) had gone and died while Alec was fighting Bonaparte. His wife, whom he discovered did not have the wherewithal to manage things in his absence, died of a short illness soon after his return while he was recovering from wounds he had suffered, leaving him to care for his daughter and his tenants all on his own. It was a litany he could recite in his sleep. And he had.

The one bright spot was the fact of said daughter, however. He had taken one look at Marjorie when she had first been put in his arms and had fallen completely and utterly in love with her. Which is why he was here. In London. With said daughter. Marjorie came first from the moment she was born. His daughter needed a mother, someone to smooth out the rough patches and, well, to be a mother. And dash it all, he needed money.

Money. This particular topic always required that he begin to do the sums in his head for what he specifically needed, and he felt his stomach twist in response. It was so confoundedly mercenary! And cold-blooded! Even if he set the principles of honor and fair dealing aside—no, dash it! Technically, there was nothing dishonorable about what he was doing, if he was straightforward about it and dealt fairly with the eventual woman in question. But it still gnawed at him.

All right, sums. He knew what the figures totaled out to, of which he’d need to survive, down to the last groat. To be crass, he needed the cursed blunt. And a lot of it. This was not only to save his own estate and everyone who lived on it, but also the future of his daughter. He could always take up soldiering again, he supposed, but then who would look after her? He could not leave her in charge of a governess—all of them had been utter disasters. Finn? That made him blanche. Finn was working hard to be the next Beau Brummell and select and woo the perfect duchess for his own estates. No, he needed to secure enough funds, but by other means. That meant securing an heiress. Marrying. Taking a wife solely for her money.

So, let’s say, if we are to build castles in the air—and that is exactly what I am doing—why not 10,000 pounds a year in income? And that would be on, no more than ten percent and four to five percent of said heiress’ total fortune? Would he settle for less? He snorted out loud. Of course he would. Beggars could not be choosers, and he was definitely the beggar in this story. He was desperate enough; he might even settle for a mere 1,000 pounds per annum.

Lord, I loathe this entire process.

However, there was one direction his mind simply would not go. He refused to think of anything further along the lines of a wife, as in wifely duties, or anything remotely suggesting an emotional tie. He had done that once and look where he was now. Clearly, he was about to feel very, very sorry for himself again, and there was no time to indulge in self-pity. He was one and thirty, too old for this havering! As he was hunting for a fortune, he would need to be charming—here, he bared his teeth in a smile, peeling his lips back, then realized that might be a bit too terrifying—and it was time to get to it.

He tugged aggressively at the bell pull, and the damn thing came off in his hand. When Archibald entered, Alec stood up and handed it to him. Wordlessly, his manservant accepted it.

“Very poorly hung,” his lordship said.

“Yes, Your Grace. I will see to it today, Your Grace.”

Alec took a deep, but resigned, breath. “Get me presentable, Archibald. Time waits for no man.”

He settled himself in front of his mirror, and Archibald went to fetch a basin of warm water so he could begin the morning’s shaving ritual.

I am a soldier, Alec reminded himself. That is what I know how to do. I know what my orders are. I simply need to settle down and obey them.

Five

The beautiful weather and the possibility of going outside, of going out into London to actually do and see something, meant Aurora was up, dressed, and down to breakfast significantly earlier than the Wentworths. Missie, who had been her schoolfellow at Miss Fielding’s Select Academy for Young Ladies in Brighton, had always been fond of staying in bed as long as possible in the mornings (which led to a number of lectures on slothfulness and punctuality by Miss Fielding herself). As they had arrived in London on the first of February, and it was now April, she appeared gradually later each day at the breakfast table. Lord and Lady Wentworth rarely appeared at all, in any case, and Aurora missed the comforting, familiar chatter of home while she ate, even her mother’s lectures.

This morning, however, she was especially impatient for Missie to come downstairs. She perched on the edge of her chair, staring out the windows of the breakfast room into the sunny garden beyond. It took her a few moments to realize she had unconsciously begun swinging her leg under the table. Once again, she found herself wishing she were at home. Nonsense, Aurora. You are in London. This is an adventure.

As time passed and her friend didn’t appear, she found she was hungry after all and stood to see what was under the great silver lids which covered platter after platter on the sideboard along the wall. In the end, she grabbed a lone brioche and resumed her seat, alternating between staring out the window and then at the door while she absentmindedly chewed on it.

It was only when she felt a painful crunch on her fingers that she realized she had eaten it completely. Ruefully, she reflected for the second time that morning on her tendency to woolgather, in this instance while eating. She liked to eat, and she had an assertive stomach insistent enough to prevent her from becoming more interesting, as Missie would say, with a slimmer profile and only a hint of frailty. She had become resigned to displaying a robust healthiness, with no danger of appearing on the brink of collapse into a waiting suitor’s arms. While Aurora secretly suspected this was a virtue only to be found in novels, her friend’s insistence on its truth prevented her from totally dismissing it.

She tried to school herself to stillness while she waited. “Aurora, must you wriggle so?” had been her mother’s frequent complaint as she was growing up. She was now supposed to be a young lady and a model of decorum, yet she could not mask what she was feeling. Even now, her body was apt to, well, wriggle when a particularly strong idea or emotion grabbed her attention. Was it too early to go to the pianoforte and pick out a piece—something by Mozart? Or Bach? That would soothe her spirits and ease her fidgets into something that provided joy. No, it was too early. She leapt up and went to the sideboard again for something else. This time, she picked up a plate and set a slice of beef upon it.

After what seemed like eons, the door opened and a beautifully assembled Missie entered. She had large gray eyes that darkened to slate when she was irritated or angry, ringed by smoky lashes, and hair so fair it was almost white, interlaced with strands of gold. This morning’s gown was a pale blue, which echoed the color of the sky outside. The icy blue of the transparent overdress was intensified by the richer royal blue of the fabric beneath. Her kid slippers made hardly any sound at all on the polished floor, which she appeared to glide over in any case. Aurora couldn’t suppress the sigh that escaped her. No matter how unpunctual Missie was, she always appeared exquisitely turned out, so perfect she did not seem real.

Allowing one of the footmen to pull back a chair, her friend gracefully sank into it and took her place at the table. “Just brioche for me this morning.”

“Yes, milady.”

Gradually, Missie’s eyes lost their faraway look and began to take in the room. For the first time, she appeared to acknowledge Aurora’s presence, and the porcelain doll mask she sported in public disappeared. “Wretched sun! It woke me up far too early this morning!” she protested while the brioche was set in front of her. She daintily stifled a yawn. Nevertheless, a sparkle began to light up her eyes.

Aurora couldn’t wait much longer and came round the table to stand by her friend. “Oh, Missie, it’s glorious out today. Let us escape. Let us go and see something. No modistes or milliners this morning! Let’s, let’s, let’s go and see the bears at the Tower.”

“Bears at the Tower!” Missie let out a small shriek. “Where do you get such dreadful ideas, Rorie?”

“From my guidebook—Legendary Sights of London. Oh, do say yes. Before everyone arrives for the Season and we must be terribly careful about minding our P’s and Q’s. Oh, come, Missie. You know you would love it. Please?” She set her blue eyes to look beseechingly into Missie’s gray ones. “Please?”

While the corners of her friend’s eyes began to turn up a smidge, this was covered with an admonitory, “Goodness, yes, if you insist. We cannot, must not tell Mama of this. Nor your parents. This is not the type of activity we are meant to be introducing you to in London. I went to the Tower once with my governess. It was so large and forbidding and terribly damp as well. I ruined my new shoes by stepping into a puddle on Tower Green. Madame Fourchet was quite cross with me.”

“Well, Madame Fourchet is not here. And we can bring Hyacinth to act as chaperone. I am certain she will be sure and tell us, well, me, what is proper and what isn’t. We will be back in time for luncheon, and your parents will be none the wiser.”