The Shy Duchess

Emily sipped at her tea, and remembered the terrible event that had led her to this place. She had always been shy as a child, and her mother had long urged her to open up, to make friends. Emily herself longed for friends, but knowing what to say to new people was never easy. Until she made her début in London and met a certain Mr Lofton, a handsome young man who seemed to like her very much. Too much, as it turned out. She agreed to walk with him in the garden at a ball one night, and he grabbed her and attempted to force his kiss on her.

In her revulsion, she trod hard on his foot and kicked him on the leg, making her escape as he howled with pain. “Teasing whore!” he called after her as she fled in tears. And thereafter he never talked to her again, though she never forgot the terrible smothering feeling of his kiss. If that was what came of letting her guard down, she would never do it again. She retreated into herself, and did not tell her parents or brother what had happened. She only wanted to forget it.

But sometimes, like now, the memory haunted her once again.

Her mother, who noticed none of Emily’s inner turmoil, gave a deep sigh, setting the ribbons on her cap to fluttering. “But they must have a proper house, of course! One large enough for entertaining. One like Devonshire House or Manning House, really. If only they had someone to help them as they deserve.”

Someone like the Duke of Manning, owner of that grand Manning House? Emily reached for her teacup with a sigh of her own, thinking of the look in his eyes when she refused to dance with him. So puzzled. Ladies surely seldom refused a duke, especially a young, handsome one. Yet how could she tell him of her awkwardness on the dance floor? She felt so silly when she thought of it all.

“Yes, Mama,” she said.

Her mother shot her a sharp glance over the toast rack. “You did not dance last night, Emily.”

Emily glimpsed the ragged edge of her thumbnail on the cup’s gilded handle, and she quickly tucked in her fist to hide it. “One must be invited to dance first, Mama.”

“I cannot believe you received not one single invitation! You are by far the loveliest girl this Season.”

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, Mama.”

Her mother snorted. “I may be your mother and thus biased, but I am not the only one who sees your beauty. You simply do not use it to its full advantage! If you would smile once in a while when a gentleman speaks to you, show a bit of encouragement. When I was your age I had at least ten offers, and I was not half so pretty.” “And you chose Papa?”

“He was an earl.” Her voice turned wistful, as if she was caught up in old memories. “And very handsome, too, back then. I did not know …”

Emily knew what her mother’s younger self could not, that long line of feckless Carrolls who had frittered away the family fortune until there was only an old title. It merely went to show that name, title and handsome face didn’t always equal a suitable match. That men could be so deceptive, just like Mr Lofton was. But her mother couldn’t apply that hard-earned lesson to her own daughter now.

“I suppose there is Mr Rayburn,” her mother said dourly. “He is always very attentive to you.”

That was true. Mr George Rayburn was attentive whenever they met at parties or in the park, and he was handsome enough with his black hair and bright blue eyes, his slim figure and broad shoulders. But there was something in those fine eyes Emily did not quite trust when he looked at her, something not quite true in his smile when he kissed her hand and paid her compliments. She was probably just being foolish. All the other ladies seemed to like him very much. “I thought you did not like Mr Rayburn, Mama. He has no title.”

“True enough, but he does have a fortune, or so everyone says. At this point we cannot afford to be too choosy, my dear.” Her mother shook her head sadly at the prospect. “Well, there is one more grand ball left this Season, Lady Arnold’s soirée. It is the last chance before everyone dashes off to the country. I insist you dance at least three times there, Emily.” “Mama!”

“Yes, at least three. And I will hear no excuses. This is our last chance, do you hear me? Our last chance.”

Before Emily could answer these gloomy words, the butler mercifully arrived in the breakfast room with the morning post on his tray. Her mother seldom showed such desperation outwardly, with harsh words and eyes glittering with unshed tears. It made Emily’s stomach hurt to think she had been such a disappointment, that she could not help them. She couldn’t even help herself.

“There is a message for you from Miss Thornton, Lady Emily,” the butler said, handing her a note on pale pink stationery.

“Oh, wonderful!” Emily cried happily. She eagerly tore open the missive as her mother separated invitations from the bills. The stack of bills was always so much higher these days.

Jane Thornton was the one good friend Emily had made in London for the Season. The youngest of three daughters of a baronet, Jane was lively and fun. She could always draw Emily out of her shell and make her laugh, both at the follies of society and at her own serious ways. Jane had been gone for a fortnight, attending on a sick aunt, and Emily had missed her. Parties were no fun at all without her company.

But now it seemed Jane had returned, and was eager to hear all about the Orman ball. What little Emily could tell her, anyway, from what she observed behind her palm tree. She definitely would not tell Jane about falling into the Duke of Manning!

“Miss Thornton wants me to go driving with her in the park this afternoon, Mama,” Emily said. “May I go? I don’t think we have any other engagements today.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” her mother said impatiently with a wave of her hand. She seemed quite distracted by her letters, which was a good thing. She usually didn’t like Emily spending too much time with Jane, since the Thornton girls needed to find matches as well.

Emily took a deep breath and carefully added, “And may I go out this morning? I should visit the shops and find some new ribbon for my gown for Lady Arnold’s ball.”

“Certainly. Just don’t pay too much for it. The cost of ribbons has become quite shocking.”

“Of course not. I am always very careful about ribbon.” Emily hastily finished her tea and hurried from the breakfast room before her mother could recollect some reason to keep her at home. Or worse, decide to go with her to the shops.

Emily had very important work to do that morning, and her mother could absolutely have not a hint of it.

Emily hurried down the street, dodging around the thick crowds intent on their own business, too lost in her thoughts to notice her maid Mary, who scurried to keep up, or the displays in the shop windows. The feathered and flowered hats, the bolts of rich silks and delicate muslins, held no interest for her.

She was late, and that would never do. If only Amy hadn’t waylaid her as she headed to the door, intent on going over every detail of last night’s ball! It was nearly impossible to get away from her sister-in-law once she settled in for a coze. And Emily could hardly tell Amy and her mother why she was in such a rush to be gone.

She turned away from the busy thoroughfare, down a quieter side street. The lane was much narrower here, the cobblestones shadowed by the close-built buildings. There were no bright shop windows, only discreet little signs by dark-painted doors announcing attorneys and employment agencies. All quite respectable, but not an area her mother would want her to frequent or even know about. To Lady Moreby, London began and ended with the fine neighborhoods of the ton.

With Mary close behind her, Emily turned again, to an even quieter little square. No one was around at all, except for a maidservant sweeping one stone entryway.

It was this dwelling that was Emily’s destination. “Good morning, Nell,” she said. “How is everyone today?”

Nell gave her a wide smile of welcome beneath her mobcap. “Good morning, Miss Carroll! All is well enough here, as always. A new girl arrived yesterday. She’ll be a new pupil for you soon enough.”

Emily laughed. “Excellent! I do like security for my position. I should hate to think I wasn’t needed here any longer.”

“Oh, that will never happen, miss! You’ll always have pupils here. Everyone looks forward to Tuesdays, just to see you.”

Emily couldn’t help but smile as a warm, sweet feeling took hold of her and spread to her very fingertips and toes. After the tension of the ball and the cold weight of her mother’s disappointment, she could feel herself finally relax. Here, she could be herself, just Miss Carroll, and be accepted for it. Needed.

“I love Tuesdays as well,” she said. “Is Mrs Goddard about?”

“In the office, miss. She’s expecting you.”

Emily left Nell to finish her task and stepped through the doorway. It was a dwelling just like the others on the street, tall and narrow, red brick with plain windows curtained in heavy dark velvet. Next to the glossy black door, a polished brass plaque read “Mrs Goddard’s School For Disadvantaged Females”.

The sign did not say the “disadvantaged females” were former prostitutes seeking a new, respectable life within these quiet walls. Or that one of the school’s teachers was Lady Emily Carroll, plain Miss Carroll, as she was known here. It would be quite ruinous if anyone ever found out her association with women of low morals.

It was her secret alone, and sometimes this work was her one truly bright, worthwhile moment all week. These women needed her—and she needed them. It was only there that she knew she was useful, where she could indulge her desire to help people.

She paused next to a looking glass in the small foyer to remove her bonnet and tidy her hair. The fine, pale strands always slipped from their pins, making her look more schoolgirl than teacher. She smoothed them back and scrubbed at a smudge on her cheek, barely noticing the curve of her dimpled chin or the wide green eyes that sometimes were the only things anyone noticed.

Emily paused to stare into those eyes, bright with exercise and the excitement of her Tuesdays. Her parents had always considered her—and their—best asset to be her prettiness. They had told her that since she was very young. She knew better than to put all her hopes on something so ephemeral and empty. Looks would pass soon enough, and while they were here it wasn’t enough to gain her family what they wanted—a ducal son-in-law.

But what could she do except marry? How could she even begin to find out who she was, really, deep down inside? She was always lost and sad, seeking love and approval, a purpose to her life—until she was fourteen years old, and Miss Morris became her governess.

Emily had never known anyone like Miss Morris before. The young governess was so lively, so passionate about learning, and people and the world. She’d made Emily feel passionate about them, too, had made her see the world and herself through new eyes. She was surely not just shy, mousy, pretty Lady Emily Carroll—she was herself, smart and loyal, with a great deal of love in her heart and a lot to offer.

Miss Morris took her on nature walks in the country, teaching her about the world around them, rocks, flowers, trees. In London, she took Emily on educational walks of a different sort. She took her out of Mayfair and into the poorer streets, showed her the true desperation and sadness, and taught Emily how she could use her assets to help others.

It was a great revelation, and Emily had never completely despaired of herself after that. Perhaps she did not have the lively wit society valued, the flirtatious wiles to attract men, but she did have other things to offer. And she would never settle for less than a life—and a husband—of serious purpose and calm steadiness. The Duke of Manning was surely not that.

“Emily! There you are, my dear,” a voice called, pulling Emily out of her daydreams.

She turned to see Miss Morris, now Mrs Goddard, standing in the office doorway. Though the white cap on her brown curls and her grey silk dress were plain and austere, her dark eyes were bright with laughter, her lips creased in a smile.

“I’m so sorry to be late,” Emily said, hurrying to kiss Mrs Goddard’s pink cheek. To see her was always so wonderful, like seeing her second mother. “My sister-in-law wanted to talk, and—”

“Quite all right, my dear. I know how hard it can be to get away. Liza has got the girls started on today’s lesson.” Mrs Goddard led her up the stairs to the first floor, where all the classrooms lay. The women who came here seeking a new life under Mrs Goddard’s charity were given lessons of all sorts, beginning with reading, writing and simple sums. They moved on to deportment, sewing, cooking, elocution, whatever might help them find a new, respectable livelihood. They also lived in the house, in rooms on the second and third floors.

When Emily first came to help her former governess last year, she taught reading and a little sewing. Now she taught some French and fine embroidery to girls more advanced in their lessons who wanted to be ladies’ maids and milliners. To help them in even such small ways, to see them find a new way in the world, made her concerns about not becoming a duchess seem silly indeed! These women lived with the terror she felt when Mr Lofton tried to kiss her in the garden every day, only on a far worse scale than she could ever imagine. The women needed her help, and she was never happier than when she was here being useful.

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Carroll!” her pupils called when she stepped into the classroom. A row of young ladies in fine black gowns turned to her with smiles of welcome.

Emily laughed happily. Maybe she disappointed at home, but not here. “Bonjour, mesdemoiselles! Comment allez-vous aujourd-hui? “

Chapter Three

“It’s about time you got home. I’ve been waiting an age.”

Nicholas had barely stepped into his library at Manning House, the afternoon post and various messages from his estate managers in hand, when he was brought up short by his brother Stephen’s words. Stephen lounged in an armchair by the fire, a snifter of brandy in his hand and the newspapers open on his lap and scattered across the floor.

“I see you’ve had no trouble passing the time, though,” Nicholas said. “I just got that case of brandy from the wine merchant.”

“And excellent stuff it is, too,” Stephen said with a laugh. He tossed off the last of his drink and sighed happily. “You always do have the best brandy, Nick, and the best chef, too. I had luncheon earlier, it was superb. I should visit you in town more often.”

“You come often enough as it is,” Nicholas said. He tried to sound grumpy about the unexpected invasion of his life and wine cellar, but in truth he was glad to see his brother. He was always glad to see any of his family. Life in town could be a lonely, dull affair, and their affectionate jokes and banter, their exuberant pranks, always kept that coldness away. With them, he did not have to think so very much. He did not have to remember. He could just be Nicholas, living in the here and now.

But they were all very busy of late. Stephen had inherited their mother’s estate at Fincote Park, where she had retired in quiet sadness after their father, the duke, eloped with his lover Lady Linwall. Stephen worked hard to transform it from a place of dark memories into the finest stable and racetrack in England. Their half-brother Leo helped him in that task, travelling the Continent in search of suitable horseflesh for the stable. They sometimes heard from him, but not often.

And their half-sisters, Justine, Annalise and Charlotte, were occupied with their own growing families. They wrote often, usually to gently enquire when he, too, might enter the blessed, blissful state of wedlock as they had.

But he doubted he would ever find such great matches as theirs, love pairings all. He had tried that once, and it all ended in pain and despair. He knew his duty well enough, to provide heirs for the dukedom, and he would do it. Just not quite yet.

And since he had returned from Italy he had felt a strange distance from his family. He had lost the lightness of heart he once had with them, and he could sense their worry. He just didn’t know how to reassure them—or how to find the joy in life again.

For some reason, an image of Lady Emily Carroll flashed through his mind. He remembered catching her in his arms last night as she tumbled from the stairs, the soft, warm feel of her body against his. She smelled of warm summer roses, and her bright hair brushed like silk against his cheek. She felt surprisingly sweet and alive.

In that startled moment, she had laughed and blushed, clinging to him as she found her balance. They called her the “Ice Princess”, and usually he thought they must be right. She was so quiet, so watchful, her pale green eyes taking in everything around her, seeming to judge them and find them wanting.

At that house party at his family’s pleasure house, Welbourne Manor, she hadn’t joined in the games and laughter. She hadn’t chased around the gardens or played hide-and-seek in the attic. Nicholas did know his duty; it had been ingrained in him since he was a child. It struck him at that party that Emily Carroll was exactly the sort of lady to fulfil that duty—pretty, well born, well mannered. A fine hostess for a ducal estate, and a fine mother for future dukes and ladies, at least as far as looks and pedigree went. Her parents had once been friends with his father, and would surely welcome the match.

But then there would be the making of those dukes and ladies, and Nicholas didn’t relish the idea of an ice princess in his bed. He was lonely, true, yet was he that lonely? No, not yet.

At the ball, though, in that one moment, her quiet, pale mask slipped and he glimpsed a light deep in her eyes. Which was the real Emily Carroll?

It was maddeningly intriguing.

“You’re quiet today, Nick,” Stephen said, pulling Nicholas back into the present moment and away from thoughts of Emily Carroll.

“Sorry, I was just attending to some estate business and it has me distracted,” Nicholas said. He dropped the post on to his desk and sat down on its edge, crossing his arms over his chest. His valet would fuss about the crushed cravat, the wrinkled waistcoat, and cluck about how a duke should “keep up appearances”.

But Nicholas feared he couldn’t always be a proper duke. His father had been dead many years now, perished of a fever in Naples with his new wife Lady Lin-wall, and so very much had happened since then. Yet Nicholas still felt he was learning his role, still trying to fulfil all his many responsibilities.

“It was dull stuff, and I’m tired from it,” he said.

“You, Nick? Tired? Never!” Stephen cried. “You’re the one who could always swim across the lake and then ride five miles, all before breakfast. I would wager you were up playing cards and visiting wenches all night, and that’s why you’re tired. Here, have some brandy and it will revive you.”

“I will have some brandy, before you drink it all, but I think you would be surprised at what really occupied me last night.” Nicholas sat down in the chair next to Stephen’s, reaching for the bottle.

“What, no gaming hells? No house of ill repute?”

“Not unless you count Lady Orman’s ballroom.”

“You were at a society ball?” Stephen said incredulously. “I’m all astonishment. You do need a brandy.”

“Yes, I do. Our sisters are always telling me I need to do my duty and marry, so I thought Lady Orman’s was a good place to start.”

“They don’t give a fig about your duty, Nick. They just have starry romance in their eyes since they married, and they want everyone to be the same. Especially us.”

“Hmm.” Nicholas took a deep, burning drink of his brandy. “Is that why you’re in town, then? To find a wife?”

“Good gad, no! I’m much too young to marry, though Charlotte says otherwise. I’m here to inspect a sale coming up at Tattersalls. A promising-sounding mare is in the catalogue, I hear. Though I dare say it was much the same at Lady Orman’s.”

Nicholas laughed, remembering the parade of giggling, white-clad débutantes and their mamas, so eager to meet an eligible young duke. And Emily Carroll, who seemed not at all interested in giggling, parading or eligible dukes.

“So it was,” he said. “I’d forgotten what the London Season was really like—a giant horse sale. I’ve been buried in the country too long.”

“You couldn’t help it. Father’s estates were in a bit of a mess after he died, and you had to set them right again. Not a simple task, and one I do not envy.”

“Well, I wish I was still in the country now,” Nicholas muttered.

“I was just there, and it’s not much better than town.

I stopped to see Charlotte and Drew at Derrington on my way to London.”

“And how is our sister?”

“Big as a house now, and anxious for the baby to arrive. But she had plenty of energy to prate at me about the marvels of marriage and domesticity! And she had two new pugs, as well. Four is too many, I say.”

“I shall be sane and avoid Derrington, then.”

“That would be wise, at least for now.” Stephen hesitated for a moment, then said, “Did you see no lady who caught your eye at the ball, then?”

Lady Emily’s green eyes flashed through his mind again, bright and full of laughter. Not cold at all. Nicholas shoved away the image and took another drink. “Never say you’re playing matchmaker, too, Stephen.”

“Of course not. I would be absolute rubbish at it. I just thought—well, it might be a good thing if you could find someone to help you. Someone sensible and kind. And pretty, of course.”

“What lady of sense would want to put up with our family? Your pranks would drive her away in no time.”

“I could control myself, and so could Charlotte and the others, if there was someone you wanted to impress. Someone you wanted to like us.”

“There is no one at present. But I will keep your words in mind.” And indeed he would. His sisters’ concerns he was accustomed to by now, but Stephen didn’t seem to notice such things. If he thought Nicholas needed “help” with his ducal work, his worries and loneliness must be showing.

That would never do at all. He never wanted to worry his family. Maybe if he did marry they would all be content for a while—until they found something else to fret about.

“We should go out tonight,” Nicholas said. “Since you’re in town so seldom, Stephen, you must make the most of it.”

“You’re not going to drag me to some stuffy ball or musicale, are you?”

“Not unless you have some terrible urge to go to Lady Arnold’s ball, no. We could go to the club, maybe, play some cards. Visit Mrs Larkin’s house, if you’re of the inclination.”

“Excellent! And I have tickets for a masked ball at Vauxhall, as well. I’ve heard that soprano Signora Rastrelli has a fine voice, and she’ll be performing there.”

“And a fine bosom, I would wager.”

Stephen laughed. “That, too.”

Soon after, Stephen departed for his own lodgings, since he refused to stay in Manning House, and Nicholas was left with his piles of ledgers and a brandy-induced headache. It was a good thing his brother was in town, he thought as he sat down behind the desk. Maybe what he needed was some fun, some distraction. Some drinking, a card game or two, some Italian opera singers with fine bosoms. He needed to feel like Nicholas again, and not just the duke.

But first, he did have to be that duke. He sorted through the thick stack of newly arrived invitations. The Season was winding down, yet that didn’t prevent one final, frantic flurry of parties before everyone scattered their separate ways. He laid aside the few he would accept, along with bills to see to and a letter from his estate manager at Scarnlea Abbey about repairs needed. Soon enough he would be there to see to them himself.