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Ellie sat in the Duke’s front parlour, a room large enough to hold half of the first level of the house her family rented in London, feeling for the first time as if she in no way resembled her twin. The trouble was, she’d never spent time with Her Grace, Elizabeth May Mclintock, Duchess of Aspen. After Lizzy May and the Duke married, they’d raced off to his country estate to do, well, all the things married people did, of which young misses like Ellie weren’t supposed to have knowledge. Since arriving the evening before, finding her sister stunningly beautiful in a green silk gown, Ellie knew Lizzy May stood differently now. She held her shoulders squarer and her chin higher. She had an ease born of newfound confidence, from her husband’s title or his love, Ellie didn’t know. Ellie did know that she didn’t possess such poise.
Still, the Dowager Duchess hadn’t seen Lizzy May since she and the Duke wed, so maybe—
“Her Grace, Dowager Duchess of Aspen, waits for you without, Your Grace.”
Ellie looked up to see the maid who’d helped her dress waiting in the parlour doorway, holding a sumptuous looking cloak.
“Oh.” She stood. “She won’t come in?”
The maid shook her head.
“Her Grace had her tiger inform the butler that she awaits the young ladies in her carriage.”
Ellie smoothed the elaborately embroidered skirt of her borrowed gown, the soft fabrics a much deeper blue than she’d ever worn.
“I suppose I ought not keep her waiting.”
“You may if you wish, Your Grace,” the maid said, emphasising the title. “You are a Duchess, too.”
Ellie offered a nervous grin, aware the woman attempted to help her play her role.
“Maybe, but I’m going on this outing to make her happy, not to aggravate her, so I’d better join her and, of course, make my apologies for my sister, Ellie’s, absence.”
“It’s very sad the young lady is ill on her first day visiting,” the maid said, with absolutely no hint of emotion, and held out the cloak.
Once properly ensconced in her sister’s outerwear, Ellie waited while the butler opened the front door. She descended the broad steps of the Duke’s London home, passing between the two footmen who waited at the bottom, standing at attention almost as soldiers might. A prickling feeling skittered up her spine at the strangeness of stepping onto a pavement in London with no sisters. No mother. Not even a maid. She crossed to the waiting carriage and a servant in the Duke’s livery opened the door for her and handed her up.
Blinking rapidly to adjust her vision to the darker interior, she took in the vaguely recollected, granite hard visage of the Dowager Duchess in the forward-facing seat, and settled across from her. As when last Ellie saw her, the Dowager wore a dress which appeared decades old, and took up half the room in the spacious carriage. Likewise, her hair and face paint were archaic. She still wore the deep, unflattering purple of a widow.
“Your Grace,” Ellie said, dipping her head before raising her chin to an angle she instantly regretted for the strain on her neck and having to awkwardly look along her nose to meet the older woman’s eyes.
The Dowager studied her. Outside, in the daylight, carriages rolled by. Men called to one another. Hooves clattered on cobblestones. Inside, silence reigned. Ellie began to feel clammy in her richly embroidered, borrowed dress.
“You aren’t the Duchess of Aspen.”
Ellie sputtered. How could the woman possibly know that? Blustering, she blurted, “I thought we’d resolved this. Your son was free to wed whomever he chose and—”
“And he married your sister, Elizabeth May Ellsworth.”
Ellie’s shoulders sagged. She looked down at her gown, at the unaccustomedly heavy ring. Everything remained in place. Her disguise should work.
“How can you tell?”
A bark of hash laughter ricocheted in the small space, causing Ellie to start.
“I couldn’t. Not for certain. You gave up quite quickly.”
“Oh.” Ellie dropped her gaze once more, worrying her lower lip with her teeth.
“So, after all the obnoxious, cloying correspondence I’ve been forced to endure, your sister feared accompanying me.”
Ellie’s head snapped back up. Maybe the idea of spending a day with this woman, rather than something she ate, was the cause of Lizzy May’s illness.
“She most certainly does not fear you in any way, Your Grace. She’s not feeling well, or she would be here.”
The Dowager sniffed disdainfully.
“And she sent you masquerading, adding further insult to her choice not to accompany me.”
