The Desirable Duchess (2 page)

Lucy grabbed her arm and said, “He is walking toward us. The duke! Oh, I hope he asks me. I am sure Papa would double my pin money if only he would ask me.”

Alice was aware that her parents had materialized at her side. She was aware of tension emanating from them.

The duke stopped and bowed. “My compliments…”

“Mr. and Mrs. Lacey,” whispered a neat young man at his elbow.

“Ah, yes. Mr. and Mrs. Lacey. We are neighbors.”

“My daughter,” said Mr. Lacey, giving Alice a nudge in the back.

Alice curtsied, and the duke bowed.

“I would deem it a great honor, Miss Lacey,” he said, “if you would have this dance with me.”

Alice curtsied again. He held out his arm in a commanding way, and she placed the tips of her gloved fingers on it; he led her to the center of the floor, aware of the buzz and hum of gossip. The dance was the Sir Roger de Coverley, an energetic affair, and so, thought Alice with relief, gave little chance for conversation. It lasted half an hour. The duke danced well and gracefully, but Alice was all too aware of watching jealous eyes. She wished with all her heart Sir Gerald had not fallen ill. They would have gone in for supper together. They would have chatted easily. She would have felt at home with him, basking in the glittering admiration in his black eyes.

When the dance came to an end, she sank down in a curtsy. “You dance excellent well, Miss Lacey,” said the duke. He held out his arm. Alice realized that, of course, she would have to promenade around the floor with him until the next dance was announced.

“I was not aware,” he said, “that I had such a beautiful neighbor.”

“You are too kind, Your Grace.”

“But we must rectify that situation, must we not? I plan to entertain more.”

“You will be extremely popular,” said Alice. “Mostly we all wait until the London Season for our pleasures.”

“Ah, you have had a Season? And still unwed? Are the gentlemen of London blind?”

Alice opened her mouth to tell him about Sir Gerald, but the voice of the majordomo sounded out, announcing the next dance.

“Alas, I must dance with someone else,” he said. His odd eyes glinted down at her. “You must honor me again with the supper dance.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” said Alice in a hollow voice.

Her hand was immediately claimed by another partner. She was very popular and, after the next dance was over, was immediately surrounded by a crowd of gentlemen competing to see which one she would favor with a dance. Alice laughed and teased and flirted—as any young lady was well trained to do—but then she heard her father’s voice, asking her for a word in private.

He led her away from her courtiers to where her mother was standing. “My pet,” said Mr. Lacey, “what did the duke say to you?”

“He paid me some pretty compliments,” said Alice, “and asked me for the supper dance.”

“Ah,” said Mr. and Mrs. Lacey in unison, and exchanged glances.

“My love,” said Mrs. Lacey, winding a maternal arm around her daughter’s waist, “it is not the thing, you know, to tell a gentleman who takes you into supper, particularly your host, that you are in love with another. Not the thing at all. Very bad ton. We are sure you can be discreet.”

“But he will know soon enough when the engagement is announced,” exclaimed Alice.

“Of course, of course,” said Mr. Lacey smoothly. “But you must be guided by us. We assure you it is not the thing. Think on’t. What gentleman at his own ball, flattering a pretty young miss, wishes to hear of her affections for another?”

Alice’s face cleared. “Of course, you are right. All this flirtation is such a hollow game, but I suppose
I had better mind my manners and play it or poor Sir Gerald will find his wife damned as an Original.”

By the time the supper dance arrived, Alice felt calmer. She had noticed the duke seemed every bit as attentive to the other ladies he had danced with as he had been to her. When they had supper together, sitting at the head of a T shape of tables, he told her of his travels abroad and was amusing and informative. He asked no disturbingly personal questions, only easy ones of how she passed her days, and as Alice answered him, she realized for the first time that she led quite a busy life for a young lady of leisure. On Monday there was the club she had formed to make clothes for the poor; on Tuesday there was a round of the sick on her parents’ estates; on Wednesday she read to the children at the parish school; Thursdays she set aside for making medicines in the still room; Fridays were given up to dancing lessons and French and Italian lessons; Saturdays to shopping and sewing and painting; and Sundays to church and rest. In the evenings, she would go out with her parents to visit friends or to some local Assembly.

He was friendly and attentive, and to Alice’s naive eyes very much the polite older man listening to the prattling of a young girl. She forgot to be afraid of him, forgot about those jealous watching eyes—for what had they to be jealous of when her heart was Sir Gerald’s?—and animation added a sparkle to her beauty. There was no question of more dances with the duke after supper. He had already danced with her twice. Three times would have been tantamount to a proposal of marriage.

Alice was too tired and happy on the road home to notice that odd tension was still emanating from her parents. She was already composing in her mind the letter she would send to Gerald, telling him all about the ball.

The following day was a Saturday. Alice slept late, but she went to her writing desk as soon as she had washed and dressed, and wrote to Sir Gerald. She then ran downstairs and gave the letter to one of the footmen, asking him to take it to the stables and get a groom to ride over to Sir Gerald’s with it.

Although she knew Sir Gerald would not call—the poor man was ill—she stood out on the belvedere through force of habit and was able to see the footman walking out across the lawns in the direction of the stables.

And then a voice hailed him. The footman stopped and looked back. Then he set off back to the house at a run. Alice waited impatiently for him to reappear. If he did not, then she would need to go downstairs, retrieve her precious letter, and send another footman with it.

Her mother’s voice called to her from the door of the drawing room. “What are you doing, Alice?”

“I gave John the footman a letter to Sir Gerald to take over to the stables so that a groom might deliver it, but someone called him back,” said Alice, turning round from the edge of the balustrade. “I hope he does not forget.”

“I shall see to it, my pet,” said her mother.

And so she had, thought Alice, as the footman soon reappeared and set off at a fast trot to the stables. She would have waited longer, waited to see the groom and horse disappearing down the drive, but the chill wind of autumn was tugging at her dress and ruffling her hair, so she went back inside, closing the long French windows behind her.

When she went down to the breakfast room, she found her mother and father in the hall, dressed to go out. “No need for you to come, my love,” said her father. “We are just making a call.”

“On whom?”

“Why, on old Mrs. Jones in the village,” said Mrs. Lacey. “She is feeling poorly again.”

Alice was surprised. Usually her parents did not trouble to visit the sick of the parish and often tried to stop Alice from doing so, saying the poor were notoriously infectious, just as if the rich never caught anything.

But Alice was content to let them go—for it meant she would be alone when Sir Gerald sent his reply. He always kept her servant waiting while he sent a letter of reply. But the long day wore on toward dusk and there was no sign of that precious letter. She swung a heavy cloak about her shoulders and walked over to the stables. She asked the head groom which servant had been sent to Sir Gerald’s.

He bowed and said he had sent Sam.

“And is Sam not yet returned?” asked Alice.

“Returned this whiles back, Miss Alice.”

“But that cannot be. He would have a letter for me.”

“No, Miss Alice.”

“I must ask him myself.”

“Very good, Miss Alice,” said the head groom. He sent a stable boy to fetch Sam.

Soon Sam appeared, a small, wizened man who looked like an old jockey.

“Now, Sam,” said the head groom before Alice could speak, “Miss Alice wants to know if Sir Gerald gave you a letter for her, which you know he did not, and you knows I expect you to be honest and not to be chattering away ’bout things what don’t concern you. So—and your job stands or falls on it—you just answer yes or no to Miss Alice’s question. Now, Miss Alice, you go ahead.”

“Sam,” pleaded Alice, “did Sir Gerald answer my letter? Did he give you a reply?”

“No, miss.”

“You are sure?”

“Yes, miss.” Sam’s eyes flickered nervously to the head groom, who have him a slight nod of approval.

“Did you see Sir Gerald? Did you hand the letter to him personally?”

“No, miss. To a footman.”

“And did the footman ask you to wait?”

Sam looked at the ground.

“Now, now, Miss Alice,” said the head groom heartily. “You’re making poor Sam’s head spin with all these questions. He be a simple lad. Off you go, Sam.”

There was nothing else for Alice to do but walk slowly back to the house. Her parents had returned. They were sitting before a roaring fire in the drawing room, drinking champagne.

“Come and warm yourself, my love,” said Mrs. Lacey. “You look half-frozen.”

“I went over to the stables,” said Alice, holding her hands out to the blaze. “I was so sure Sir Gerald would have sent a reply to my letter. He must be very ill. Do you think, Papa, that we might drive over tomorrow just to see how he fares?”

“Actually, a letter did come for you by hand,” said her father. “It is on the table in the hall.”

Bright color rose in Alice’s face and she darted from the room, ignoring her mother’s cry of “Ladies do not
run
.”

She seized the letter from the table in the hall, wondering why one of the servants had not brought it to her. But it was Gerald’s writing and Gerald’s seal.

She went up to her own private sitting room, clutching the letter to her breast.

She sat down by the fire and opened it.

At first she could not quite take in what the words said. It was incredible. Ridiculous! She began at the beginning and read it very slowly once more.

Alice bit her lip. Sir Gerald was twenty-five.

She threw the letter away from herself and burst into tears. She cried for quite some time and then, drying her eyes, picked up the letter again. Anger took over. How dare he! She had not imagined his protestations of love. It was he who had made all the plans of where they would live and what they would do when they were married.

A servant scratched at the door to say that supper was served and that her parents were waiting for her. She changed her dress and bathed her face and went downstairs to the dining room.

Her parents looked anxiously at her set face, but they said nothing until supper was served and the servants had withdrawn.

“What is up, Alice?” demanded her mother. “You look as if you have been crying.”

“I have received a letter from Sir Gerald,” said Alice in a thin voice. “He was only trifling with me. He has left to go on the Grand Tour.”

“Monstrous,” said her father, “but there was always something unstable and rackety about that young man. Better to find that out now than later. You are a great heiress, my dear, and must protect yourself from adventurers in future.”

“But there was nothing in his manner to suggest anything other than that his affections were strongly engaged,” cried Alice. “I am not a fool.”

“You are a wise young lady most of the time,” said Mrs. Lacey, “but men like Sir Gerald are experienced in the ways of deception. It would be best if you occupied yourself in the days to come and forgot about him completely. Believe me, his name will not be mentioned in this house again.”

On Monday, as usual, Alice went down to the village of Lower Dibble to her sewing class of ladies who made clothes for the poor. She was accompanied by her lady’s maid, Betty, a severe middle-aged woman who was efficient at her job but rarely spoke. The village hall, where the ladies met, was surrounded by elegant carriages.

Alice took a seat next to Lucy Farringdon, who was knitting rather than sewing. Lucy delighted in knitting stockings and scarves in a mixture of bright colors that delighted the peasantry they were meant for, most ladies considering the only suitable colors for the poor to be plain gray, and although Lucy was often chided on her extravagance in decking them out in bright reds and yellows, she refused to change, saying dull colors depressed her and it was depressing enough to be poor without being dingy as well.

“You were the success of the ball.” Lucy sighed, her needles flashing. “Oh, if only the duke had even looked at me. And when he took you into supper, we were all nigh dying of envy. Not at all fair when you have your Sir Gerald.”

“Not my Sir Gerald now,” said Alice, taking a half-finished farm laborer’s smock out of her work-bag.

“Why? I heard he was ill. He is not seriously ill, is he?”

“Unfortunately, no,” said Alice, stabbing her needle furiously into a hem. “He had the grace to write to me and tell me he had merely been trifling with my affections and is now gone on the Grand Tour.”

“How dreadful!” Lucy gasped. “Are you heartbroken?”

“I do not know whether I am heartbroken or in a perpetual rage,” said Alice. “I thought I was so lucky having indulgent parents who were prepared to let me marry for love.”