His Duchess Read online

“Here’s my card.” He held onto her sketches but produced a small card from his coat pocket.

  Victoria took the offering, which proclaimed him to be exactly who he said. But unless he wanted to marry her, which yes, was a ridiculous thought since they were strangers, she had no reason to continue this conversation.

  “Did you draw these? Where did you see these people?”

  “Mr. Ripley, your questions are impertinent.” Oh, thank goodness, her brain had returned to working order.

  His eyebrows rose at her sharpness, but the look didn’t last. He grimaced ruefully. “You are undoubtedly right. May I explain myself, Miss...?”

  Duke still secured to her chest, Victoria reached her other hand out toward him. “You may return my sketches.”

  “And then you will hear me out?”

  Goodness, he was persistent. She looked around. As the time neared noon, more people were entering the park. “Yes.”

  He handed them over promptly, which earned him a positive mark. He then swept a hand toward the bench. “Would you like to sit again?”

  Somewhat warily, Victoria sat down again. Mr. Ripley lowered himself to the far side of the bench, earning another positive mark.

  “Those drawings are very good. You’re quite talented.”

  The praise warmed her through. Rarely did anyone say nice things about her. “Thank you.”

  “Are they accurately recreated or do you render things you never saw?”

  He still wasn’t explaining himself. However, Victoria was now curious as to why he asked these specific questions. “They are accurate, to the best of my recollection.”

  “So to be clear, you saw Lady Maplethorpe and Mr. Pemberton together recently?”

  She nodded. “Yes. Last night at the Wallingfords’ rout. Why are you so interested, sir?”

  A spark lit his eyes, whether from her information or her question, she wasn’t certain. “We print a semi-weekly circular of the activities of the beau monde.”

  “A gossip rag?”

  He smiled broadly. “A semi-weekly circular of the activities of the beau monde.”

  Hmph. “Does this circular have a name?”

  “Hither and Yon, Tales of the Beau Monde. The former, for most purposes.”

  Victoria had not heard of it but then she’d been in Town for only a few weeks.

  Mr. Ripley straightened. “I feel your sketches would add a wonderful visual element to Hither and Yon. I have a proposition for you.”

  Oh dear.

  He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I will pay you two pounds a week for four such sketches.”

  Oh my.

  She looked him in the eye. “Two pounds? A week?”

  He did not flinch; he did not look away. He answered with a steady voice. “Two pounds to you every week you deliver me four sketches. I will even put it in writing if you wish.”

  That was eight pounds a month and almost one hundred pounds a year. “Is the... circular business truly that lucrative, Mr. Ripley?”

  “It is,” he affirmed with a wink. “In fact, I’ll pay you here and now for two sketches.”

  Victoria fell back against the bench. What would it be like to have her own income? She could put aside some of the money to add to her measly dowry. It wouldn’t be a fortune, but it would be something. Or she could buy her own gowns. Gowns that fit. Gowns that flattered. Gowns that might help her land a husband. If not, she could save as much as possible and perhaps live a quiet life somewhere without a husband. Without Louisa.

  Before she could think too much and talk herself out of all that money, she answered Mr. Ripley. “Choose the two you want.”

  A satisfying grin stretched across his face as he held out his hand. “Fantastic. I am pleased to do business with you, Miss...”

  Victoria didn’t hesitate to lie as she shook hands with him. “Sarah Arthur.”

  It was doubtful Mr. Ripley would ever cross paths with her socially and she must do whatever she could to keep her own name far away from this scheme.

  “May I, Miss Arthur?” He held out his hand toward her sketchbook.

  Still awkwardly clutching His Grace of Taviston to her bodice, she handed over the sketches he’d helped retrieve.

  He accepted them, nodded at the one she withheld, and asked, “Is that one of any importance?”

  “This one? Oh no, it’s just an attempt at a landscape. I’m really not very good at those.”

  Too absorbed in rifling through the other sketches, he had no reply to this. Victoria breathed a little freer.

  “I’ll take these two.” Mr. Ripley held up the one of Lady Maplethorpe he’d been interested in from the beginning, plus one of two young men Victoria did not know. He passed the others back and then slipped a guinea from his pocket and dropped them into her hand. “It’s a pleasure doing business with you. Shall we meet every Monday? Would you like to come to Ripley and Sons?”

  Victoria blinked and swallowed a misgiving. She’d accepted his money. There was no going back now. She stood and he quickly followed. “Mondays at one o’clock would be fine and I would prefer to meet here in the park, if that’s all right with you.”

  He nodded and tipped his hat. “As you wish, Miss Arthur. I bid you good day.”

  As he strode off, Victoria squeezed the gold coin in her hand and finally peeled the duke’s portrait from her chest. She scowled at his judgmental stare. “No one asked your opinion, Your Grace. Some of us have very few choices.”

  Chapter Six

  “You really should thank me for securing this invitation, Victoria,” Louisa declared from her side of the carriage, flipping her blonde hair smugly. “You will not often have the chance to mingle with the likes of the Marquess and Marchioness of Northfield.”

  “I give you my sincerest thanks, Louisa.” Victoria offered the sugary smile she reserved only for her cousin, but inside she cringed. Only this morning she had fervently prayed that Louisa hadn’t climbed high enough on the social ladder to rub shoulders with the likes of the Duke of Taviston. Prayer denied. Apparently, Louisa’s social ambitions were coming to fruition; the Northfields were high in the instep indeed.

  “Do try not to be as crass as you were the other evening. I do not want your behavior reflecting badly upon Mr. Browne and myself.” Louisa looked at her in reproof.

  Victoria stared back innocently, though she knew how untoward and desperate her behavior toward Mr. Beckersley had been. “I shall do my utmost to live up to your lofty standards, dear cousin.”

  Yesterday morning’s debacle notwithstanding, she would most definitely act with all circumspection this evening. She could not, would not, be seen by the duke.

  Louisa’s shrill voice cut across Victoria’s wayward thoughts. “Mr. Browne, you will use this opportunity to talk to the marquess about your latest venture, won’t you?”

  He slid his sharp brown eyes away from the window and glanced briefly at his wife before turning back to the view outside. “Of course I will. As soon as you ascertain whether any other potential investors are present, let me know.”

  “You may count on me.” And that ended their discussion.

  While his attention was elsewhere, Victoria distracted herself by studying Barrett Browne. Nearing forty, he might once have been more handsome than not, but his walnut-colored hair now lay across his head in thin strips and due to his predilection for any kind of pastry whatsoever, he tended toward portly. Victoria assumed he was intelligent, at least in business matters, since he had acquired his wealth through investments in shipping. However, he rarely deigned to talk to her, so she didn’t know much else about his personality.

  The marriage of Barrett and Louisa Browne didn’t make much sense to her. On a superficial level she could understand it—he didn’t seem to relate well to people and Louisa considered herself a first-rate charmer. So, Louisa assisted him in making business connections at social functions. But Victoria had heard some wicked rumors about Barrett Browne while living on hi
s estate and she often wondered if he possessed any feelings at all for his wife. It didn’t appear so, as they rarely spent any time together and never seemed to speak of anything other than investments. A brief pang of sympathy for her cousin struck her, but then she dismissed the thought. Louisa seemed more than happy with her marriage, odd though it was.

  “Here we are then. Come along, gel.”

  Mr. Browne’s deep baritone interrupted her thoughts. They had arrived at Northfield House. Would tonight be the night she finally found someone to take her away from the Brownes? Probably not, but there was nothing for it but to try.

  TAVISTON STEPPED OUT the front door of his house and headed for Berkeley Square and the home of his close friend, Edmund Spencer, Marquess of Northfield.

  It wasn’t the done thing to arrive at a ball, or any social event, on foot but Taviston didn’t care. It seemed a ridiculous practice to order up his carriage, ride the short few blocks to Berkeley Square and then wait in a long line of carriages to be discharged at the front door. By walking he was able to arrive at the ball in seven minutes, whereas if he had taken his carriage it would surely have taken at least forty-five. Not to mention he spared the grooms and coachmen wasted time.

  He had yet to encounter a matron of society brave enough to admonish him for his shortcut. The ton no doubt considered him eccentric for his unfashionable mode of transportation. So be it. He had no qualms about being labeled unfashionable, eccentric, aloof, boring, et cetera as long as he wasn’t branded scandalous. That he wouldn’t abide for himself or his family.

  Taviston would not have missed this ball for anything. First, he owed it to Northfield to show up in support. Second, he had given his word to his mother that he would be there. Third, through a rather injudicious perusal of that rag Hither and Yon, he had read of a young lady who seemed to embody just the qualities he was looking for in a wife—Lady Tessa Colvin, eldest daughter of the Earl of Bedlington.

  The ton was all atwitter about this girl, claiming her to be a diamond of the first water. She sounded like an angel—tall, willowy, golden blonde hair, blue eyes, and a face that knew no imperfection. Everything he had heard about her matched up perfectly with his own ideals. Northfield and his wife Jane knew everyone. Taviston was sure he could coax an introduction to Lady Tessa from them.

  Suddenly the clamor of his surroundings snapped him out of deep thoughts. Horses whinnied and clomped their hooves, carriage wheels squeaked, and the chattering members of the ton crowded around the entrance to Northfield House. Taviston fell in behind an older couple and proceeded up the front steps. Once inside he stepped to the side, where a footman relieved him of his cloak, hat, and cane then aided him in dusting off his shoes. Finally he worked his way back into the receiving line to greet Northfield and his bride.

  “Taviston! I never thought you’d come to such a dreary affair.” Despite his words, Northfield’s tone was warm and he heartily shook Taviston’s hand.

  With his tawny blond hair and friendly hazel eyes, no one had ever described Northfield as aloof or standoffish, but he was Taviston’s closest friend nonetheless. They had met at Eton and continued their friendship through their studies at Oxford. As Northfield had married last Season, the two men hadn’t spent as much time together in the past year. But Lady Northfield was a lovely woman, both in beauty and personality, and she made Northfield extraordinarily happy, so Taviston didn’t begrudge the times lost.

  “Come now, Northfield, I would not miss your debut as a society host. Who else is there that could keep you from getting above yourself?”

  Northfield chuckled and turned to his wife. “Darling, look what the cat dragged in.”

  “Your Grace, welcome! Pay Northfield no mind; we are quite happy to have you.” Jane, Lady Northfield, executed an elegant curtsy and raised her hand to Taviston.

  He bowed over it. “I am delighted to be here, my lady. You will be a great success.” After exchanging a few more pleasantries he relinquished his place to those behind him, silently vowing to find the Northfields later and question them about Lady Tessa Colvin.

  Taviston stopped at the top of the stairs to admire the ballroom. He was right; the marchioness would be a success. The grand room looked absolutely stunning with the walls draped alternately in a shimmering silver fabric and a glossy emerald silk. Jane had been free with the candles and their light reflected off the silver to create a shining sea of sparkles. There were fresh flowers and greenery artistically placed in wall niches and on pedestals throughout the room. The ladies of the ton would have a hard time finding fault with Lady Northfield’s abilities in the social arena. Northfield was lucky and Taviston hoped he could find the same good fortune in a wife, possibly even meeting her tonight in the person of Lady Tessa.

  He first thought to find out as much as he could about her. No need to request an introduction if she was not the “paragon” he was looking for, as his mother so eloquently put it. However, as he surveyed the ballroom in the hope of spotting the young lady, he noticed a flash of white rapidly zigzagging through the crush. He had an idea of who that petite person with the sandy hair crashing about the ballroom might be.

  It surprised him to acknowledge Miss Forster’s presence. Though she had told him she attended the Wallingfords’ rout the other evening, he couldn’t imagine how she knew the Northfields. However, since she was here, perhaps he should demand an explanation for that feline invasion of his home.

  Taviston spent the better part of the next hour attempting to hunt her down. Unfortunately, he soon realized the difficulty in tracking such a small quarry in a large, overcrowded room. And if he didn’t know better, he might think she was purposely trying to evade him. But that was impossible. She could have no idea he trailed her; he had not come within thirty feet of her yet.

  Regrettably, he had to be social as he made his way around and across and through the crowd. A few determined mamas dragged their frightened or overly enthusiastic daughters over to meet him. He kept his interactions as perfunctory as possible. These ridiculous presentations tried his patience beyond reason.

  “Your Grace.”

  Taviston halted his slow progress at the clipped words and turned to find a trio watching him expectantly. The Marquess of Linslade grinned slyly. Beside him stood the stern-faced Countess of Asbury and a raven-haired beauty.

  Here we go again.

  “Lady Asbury, Lady Julianna, may I present His Grace, the Duke of Taviston.” Linslade didn’t bother to phrase it as a question.

  Taviston’s own polite smile had worn itself out in the past hour. His latest attempt was rather meager as he greeted the two ladies. While Lady Julianna did possess an uncommon beauty, highlighted by her heart-shaped face and green eyes, she didn’t meet his strict standards for his bride and her very presence prevented him from wringing an explanation out of Miss Forster, whom he had now lost again. He didn’t have time for this mating dance.

  Still, the young lady performed her role and did her best to attract his attention. Nevertheless, Taviston focused on his earlier intent, keeping an eye out for any flash of snowy white ruffles. His ears stayed attuned to Lady Julianna though, and her intelligence and engaging charm impressed his guarded soul. How unfortunate her allure was wasted on him.

  A slight movement off to his left captured his interest, but he didn’t acknowledge it outwardly. After politely extricating himself from Lady Asbury and her daughter, he melted into the crowd, flanking around a certain marble pillar until he could unobtrusively observe the person who had just been spying on him. He pulled up short as he took in the vision that was Miss Forster.

  She wore the most God-awful evening gown he had ever seen. The entire dress consisted of layer upon layer of white fluffy ruffles, including the sleeves. No, upon further observation he saw the ruffles actually alternated layers of fabric and feathers.

  Taviston tried not to be too critical, but truthfully, well, the dress brought to mind, yes, there was the image, it brought to min
d—poultry. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind of that picture, but didn’t have much success. It shouldn’t surprise him that Miss Forster had no fashion sense. She certainly lacked common sense, so perhaps she had been deprived of any kind of sense at all.

  As he continued to examine the object of his search, he grudgingly admitted to himself that she, or more likely her maid, at least had a flair for hair. The light brown locks didn’t appear to be overly thick, but they were artfully arranged in an elegant topknot.

  Glancing around, Taviston noted several more mamas and their ambitious daughters within striking distance. Alone and at a standstill, he was an easy target. Now was the time to corner her.

  When she peered around the pillar to scan the spot where he’d been only moments ago, he stopped a respectable distance behind her and exclaimed, “Why, Miss Forster.”

  She turned slowly to face him, a crushing look of horror on her face.

  “How delightful to see you in such an appropriate setting,” he continued on, “as opposed to oh, say, the entry hall of my home at seven o’clock in the morning?”

  She took a step towards him. “Shhhh! Lower your voice.”

  As she looked up into his face his breath seemed to stutter, stopping and then restarting awkwardly. She was too near. Much too near.

  Appearing to read his mind, she hastily stepped back. Her features firmed into a semblance of control. “Your Grace, I sincerely apologize for disrupting you and your household that morning. I truly hope I didn’t disturb anyone else in your family.”

  Her words might have been simply that, polite words that meant nothing, but the way her eyes warmed to a heartfelt blue convinced him she was in earnest. He nodded his acceptance of the apology. Still, his curiosity persisted.

  He took a step forward, once again eliminating the space between them and lowered his voice as she had requested. “Would you care to explain how your mangy feline came to be sleeping on my chest?”

  Miss Forster stood mute before him for far too long, gazing intently at the aforementioned part of his body. Slowly she raised her face to look up at him. Her cheeks were suffused with color and her eyes had darkened slightly with what appeared to be a hint of desire.