The Duchess Hunt (23 page)

“Nonsense.” Lady Stanley gave Stanley a
dark look. “Why, look, Georgina is already pouring the tea.”

Miss Stanley remained focused on her task.
Stanley cast his wife a look that was less than affectionate. This was all a
touch surprising, but then again, while Simon had attended functions of theirs
before, such as the dinner last month, he realized he’d never seen them
actually communicate prior to this moment.

And should he be surprised? Stanley had
admitted to Simon that he’d shared a mistress with Simon’s father. And Fiona
Atwood probably wasn’t the only one. Simon’s stomach soured even more, and he
wondered if he’d be able to manage even the tea.

“Tea will be fine, thank you,” he said
brusquely, meeting Stanley’s blue hawk’s eyes.
Luke’s eyes.

Stanley gave a short nod. “Well, then,
Charlotte. I’ve some correspondence to attend to, and I believe you have a
scheduled meeting with the housekeeper. Shall we leave the two young people
alone?”

Simon fought not to cringe. The situation
was so fabricated, it was almost laughable. He cut a glance at Miss Stanley.
She was looking at her parents wide-eyed, the expression on her face bordering
on panic. Not for the first time, Simon wondered how much she knew about her
father’s plan.

Lord and Lady Stanley bustled out, leaving
him and Miss Stanley in utter silence. Finally, she handed him his tea, looking
up at him with eyes that reminded Simon of her father… and of Luke. But at least
they were not so jaded – they held a far greater degree of purity of
expression.

“Thank you,” he said, and took a sip of
tea.

“Honestly, I don’t know what’s got into
them.” She gestured toward the door. “They certainly aren’t prone to
disappearing like that when a guest arrives.”

Simon wondered whether he should trust her
act of innocence. Then he decided he should. Distrusting his future wife from
the beginning did not bode well for a happy marriage.

Happy marriage. What a joke, he thought
bitterly.

“They know why I have come to your home
today,” he told her in a low voice. “I believe that’s why they made such a
hasty departure.”

“Oh? But why have you come here today,
Your Grace?”

Hell. He didn’t want to do this.

He took another sip of tea to hide his hesitation,
and then he looked up at her, setting the teacup and saucer aside. He was no
coward. He wouldn’t be one today.

“Miss Stanley, you have honored me with
the pleasure of your company at many events this Season.”

She clasped her hands in her lap. “I do
enjoy your company immensely, Your Grace. Every moment of it.”

“I am glad.”

He gazed at her. She wore a light blue
silk that brought out the color of her eyes. A white sash was tied high on her
waist, and a white vine was embroidered in a twisting fashion around the skirt.
Surprisingly, she wore no gloves or jewelry, but the lack of both made her look
younger – perhaps that had been a deliberate choice to make her appearance more
appealing to him.

Her hair was swept up to show multiple
hues of blond, and tendrils curled around her face. Her lips were quite pink
and bowed, and she seemed to have a permanent flush on her cheeks as well as a
dark rim around her eyes that brought out their size and shape. Her lashes and
brows were several shades darker than her hair. Her skin was porcelain-pale
except for the blush that spread over her cheekbones.

She looked like a blushing bride. Exactly
how a young duchess should look. No one would deny she was lovely.

She did absolutely nothing for him.

“You would make a fine Duchess of Trent,”
he said in a low voice, not breaking his gaze from hers. It was the truth. Her
reputation was spotless. She was a much sought-after young lady, talented in
drawing and music, trained to run a household, and came from a family with
money and connections.

A fine Duchess of Trent.

She stiffened. Her pink lips parted, but
she didn’t speak.

It was completely up to him, then.

“Your father has given his permission,” he
said quietly. “And now I ask for yours. Miss Georgina Stanley, will you be my
wife?”

For a long moment, she didn’t move. Then
the slender column of her throat moved as she swallowed. She pressed her lips
together, then nodded. “Yes, Your Grace.” Her voice was modulated low and
wasn’t quite even. In that moment, Simon truly believed she hadn’t been part of
the plan that had set this proposal in motion.

He forced himself to smile, because any
woman who’d just accepted a proposal of marriage deserved at least a smile. He
stood, went to her, then reached out for her hand, helping her up. She wasn’t
as tall as Sarah, nor as hardy. He looked down at her, this delicate porcelain
doll, and tightened his fingers over hers.

She gazed up at him, blinking her blue
eyes. Brighter eyes than Sarah’s, but they seemed glassy and transparent in
comparison.

He had spent several nights this week
staring into Sarah’s eyes, falling into the complex facets of her soul.

God help him. He’d just proposed to
another woman. He shouldn’t be thinking of Sarah now. But still, her image swam
in his mind, transposing itself over Georgina Stanley’s face.

Trying to shake it off, he raised her
hand, turned it over, and pressed a kiss to her bare palm.

“Miss Stanley. You have made me the
happiest of men,” he lied.

“Georgina,” she whispered. “You must call
me Georgina, now that we are engaged to be married, Your Grace.”

She gazed up at him, pink-cheeked and
shiny-eyed, and he knew what was expected of him.

“Georgina,” he confirmed. “And you must
call me… Trent.”

Not Simon. No one but Sarah called him
Simon. She was the only one with that right.

He shook himself. No, not even Sarah would
call him Simon anymore. He’d taken that from her last night.

“Very well… Trent.”

She looked up at him, tilting her head.
Oh, God. She was angling for a kiss.

He stepped back, still keeping hold of her
hand. He couldn’t kiss her. Not now. Not yet.

He twisted his lips into a smile. “Well,
then. Shall we find your parents and tell them the happy news?”

Dismay flickered over her features before
they smoothed out again. He tried to give her hand a reassuring squeeze.

“Oh, yes,” she said brightly, “let’s!”

They left the overwhelming pink of the
drawing room to search for Lord and Lady Stanley. Simon straightened his spine
and faced his fate head-on, but a part of him felt like this was a death
sentence.

Another part of him had already died.

Sarah had pulled herself together. She had
taken some time – more than she’d anticipated she’d need – to allow herself to
fall apart. She’d claimed a headache that morning and risen very late, and as
they’d sat in the dining room and shared a meal that would more accurately be
called a luncheon, she’d begged Esme to cancel their planned social calls for
that afternoon. Esme had agreed to do so, but concern was etched into her brow.

“What is it?” she’d asked Sarah. And then
her frown had deepened. “Is it that coachman? Robert Johnston? Has he taken
liberties —?”

“Oh, goodness, Esme, no,” she’d murmured,
stabbing at a kipper with her fork. “Robert Johnston? Why in heaven’s name
would you think that?”

“He fancies you.” Esme’s hazel eyes
glinted over her chocolate.

Sarah shook her head. Since she’d arrived
in London, she’d scarcely spoken to him except out of politeness whenever he
drove her and Esme somewhere. “I don’t think so.”

“Oh, he does.” Esme seemed more confident
in this than she had in anything all summer. “Did you see how he looked at you
when he helped you into the carriage after we visited Mrs. Templeton
yesterday?”

Sarah rubbed her temple. She really did
have a headache, as well as a heartache. “No, I didn’t,” she said quietly. “How
was he looking at me?”

“Goodness, Sarah! You are completely
blind. He is utterly besotted.”

“Not at all.” Sarah glanced up at the two
impassive footmen flanking the door. Neither man met her eye, but she knew both
were friends of Robert’s. The servants of the Duke of Trent always behaved at
the height of discretion, but this was gossip directly pertaining to one of
them. He’d hear some rendition of this conversation.

“Humph.”
Esme leaned forward conspiratorially, a devilish grin on her face.
“You know, Sarah, your behavior has been quite odd lately. I’m starting to
think there must be something between you and Mr. Johnston.” She took a
meaningful bite of toast, chewed, swallowed, took a sip of chocolate, and
grinned again. “Say what you will, Sarah, but I do believe you’re in love.”

“My lady!” Sarah widened her eyes in the
direction of the footmen, a clear warning, but Esme just laughed, unapologetic.

“You are both charming. And if it takes a
little nudge from me for something to finally happen, then so be it.”

Sarah had simply stared at the younger
woman. Esme would never, ever know how right she was… and how wrong. She
assumed Robert – a man to whom Sarah had hardly spoken – was responsible. It
would never cross her mind that the man who’d caused the change in Sarah was
actually her brother.

Esme would never believe that Simon cared
for her, because dukes simply didn’t care for their gardener’s daughters. But
coachmen did. A gardener’s daughter and a coachman – that was something Esme
could understand.

She gave Esme a weak smile.
Thank you, Esme, for reminding me of my
place.

After breakfast, they went into the
drawing room, where Esme began to scribble in her notebook. Sarah tried to
read, but every word seemed to be surrounded by a halo, and she closed her eyes
and put the book away. She picked up the basket of stockings she’d been
knitting for the residents of the school for the blind and got to work on
those. Her eyes blurred, and she made mistakes, something she rarely did when
knitting, but she stared at the stockings and diligently pressed on.

“Sarah?”

“Hm?”

“I’m… doing better, am I not?”

Sarah frowned up at Esme, who held her
notebook clasped against her chest. “Better?”

“I mean, better than last year. I’m
improving. With people.”

Sarah’s expression softened. “Yes, my
lady. You improve with every day that has passed since we arrived in London.”

Esme’s sigh was replete with relief. After
a pause, she said, “I’m trying so hard.”

“I know.”

“It’s just… Without Mama, I feel that it
is my duty to take her place. And you knew Mama. She was so effusive. With
everyone. No one in the world intimidated her.”

Sarah wondered when they’d all started
speaking of the duchess in the past tense.

“Very true. And truly, my lady, you’ve
done so very well. Not only socially, but in taking over all your mother’s
charitable endeavors as well. She would be so proud of you.”

“Do you think so?”

“I know so. And I know your brother is
proud as well.”

Esme’s expression brightened. “Is he?”

“Yes,” Sarah said firmly. She and Simon
had discussed Esme’s progress at length and had agreed that she was making
great strides.

Esme waved her hand. “Oh, you wouldn’t
know that. When do you ever talk to Trent? He’s never even home, and when we do
see him at social events, he hardly speaks to us.”

Sarah looked down at the sock she was
knitting and shrugged. “I can see his pride in you every time he looks at you,”
she murmured.

There was a knock on the door and Tremaine
entered. “My lady, Lady Stanley and Miss Stanley are asking if you are at home
for visitors today.”

Sarah froze. Everything in her went still
as death, except her heart, which surged in her chest, beating so hard it was a
wonder Tremaine didn’t hear it from across the room.

“Of course.” Esme was evidently feeling
confident from the conversation she and Sarah had just had. “Please show them
in.”

Tremaine bowed, and when the door closed,
Esme gasped and turned to Sarah, wide-eyed. “Oh, Sarah. I’m so sorry. I forgot
about your headache.”

Sarah stared at her knitting needles.
“Don’t worry.” She tried to make her voice light. She failed.

Georgina Stanley was going to be the
Duchess of Trent, the lady of Ironwood Park. Sarah needed to become accustomed
to her. Still, she hadn’t expected she’d have to face her so soon.

Sarah’s weak words hadn’t convinced Esme
in the least. She frowned. “Perhaps you should go upstairs and rest. I can
manage the Stanleys on my own. I think.”

That was an excellent idea.

“Yes, that might be best,” Sarah managed
weakly. She pushed the stocking, yarn, and knitting needles from her lap, not
caring that she didn’t put it all away properly in her basket, and rose
unsteadily. But at that moment, the door opened, and Miss Stanley, apparently having
sprinted all the way from the front door, burst inside.