Amanda StoNeS
Historical Regency Romance Author
A Spinster's Path to Freedom
First Chapters
Prologue
The wind whispered in the trees, ruffling the fresh, green leaves, and stirring Lorna’s chestnut brown hair where it peeked out from under her bonnet. She cuffed it back, staring blankly up at the new flourishing buds on the oak tree. They showed such promise, such new life, yet she stood by the grave of her mother, who had been just five-and-forty. Lorna bit her lip, which wobbled dangerously, about to betray her emotions. It was not sorrow she felt, not yet. She was still angry.
“Why, Papa?” she demanded. Her voice was strident in the silent church yard.
Her father, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners, shook his head.
“I do not know, daughter dear. I wish I did. God has His reasons, and we cannot ask.”
“It is not fair,” Lorna whispered. She looked down at the headstone. The roses she had laid there were wet with the gentle rain, and she gazed at them, barely seeing them. Her mother was not there to see them. Her mother was not there anymore.
It was wrong.
“Hush, dear,” Aunt Eloise murmured. “We cannot know what is fair. What is meant to be, is beyond our understanding. Marge is at rest now.”
Lorna stared up at Aunt Eloise. She was Papa’s sister, and so like him—her squarish face softened with wrinkles and warm with kindness, her gentle eyes filled with love. Aunt had loved Mama like a sister, too. Surely, she must also understand how unjust it was? Mama had loved life, had revelled in every minute. She had been so excited about being in London. And now, nobody in their family would go to London.
“She is not suffering any longer,” Aunt Eloise said gently.
“I know,” Lorna said sadly.
Mama had been badly ill. It had come so suddenly, and it had taken her so swiftly. Lorna glared up at the sky. She felt like a child, though she was seventeen. She had lost her Mama, and part of her wanted to scream her rage at the world, while part of her longed for someone to hold her and let her be a child again.
“Hush, dear,” Aunt said softly. Lorna realised she had made a noise of grief, and she looked up at Aunt Eloise, trying to hide the sorrow and pain on her face. Her aunt reached out and took her hand. “We should retire indoors. We will soon be cold and wet if we stand here any longer.”
Lorna nodded mutely, casting her hazel eyes back at the stone that marked her mother’s resting place. Behind her, she heard a choked sob. She turned around to see her little brother, Charles. Dressed in his black jacket and black knee-breeches, he looked small and frightened. He was fourteen, just three years younger than Lorna, but at that moment the gap seemed much larger. Her heart filled with tenderness, and she tried to smile at him.
“We should go indoors and get warm,” she murmured.
Charles just made a small noise of refusal, and she realised that he was crying, tears running down his face. She reached for her handkerchief and passed it to him, but he cuffed it away angrily.
“I’m not crying,” he stammered.
“Come,” Papa said, trying to force a lightness into his tone. “Your aunt is right. We need to get warm and find some dry clothing. Then perhaps we can listen to the pianoforte. Would you play us something, Lorna dear?” He was smiling at her, but she could see the sorrow in his blue eyes.
“Yes, Papa,” she agreed. She attempted a smile, but it felt false and left her uncomfortable, so she turned her gaze elsewhere. She was grateful for his suggestion—playing the pianoforte would allow her to occupy her thoughts with something other than the weight of the moment. She sorely needed the distraction of something so ordinary.
They walked silently down the path to Burwood Manor.
The Burwood chapel was not far from the Manor, but closer to the small village of Burwood, the centre of the earldom of which her father was the earl. Lorna gazed at the familiar landscape, but felt nothing for the sights and sounds that might once have brought her comfort. Sorrow was like a cold, heavy weight inside her. It was springtime, and they should have been attending her Season in London—her first Season. But with Mama’s passing, she would have no Season because she was in mourning.
It doesn’t matter, she told herself angrily. Mama is not here.
Missing her first Season was insignificant compared to the horror of that.
She heard a small cough and turned around. Charles was holding his handkerchief to his mouth, muffling the sound of his tears. Lorna glanced at him compassionately. He had shot up in height during his most recent term at Eton and was as tall as Lorna, if very thin. His voice was deep and gruff most of the time, and his face seemed stronger, firm-jawed.
We both look like Mama.
The realisation gave her a strange sort of comfort. She and Charles both had Mama’s long, slim face—somewhere between heart-shaped and oval, with slim, long noses and eyes with big eyelids. Charles had Papa’s firmer, squarish jaw and his hair was dark, like their mother’s. Lorna had thick chestnut hair that Mama always said came from her own mother, though Lorna only had a vague recollection of her grandma, and by then her hair was grey. Lorna reached up and touched her own thick, glossy hair—it was difficult to style, but her mother always said it was beautiful.
She glanced up and saw Aunt Eloise watching her with tenderness in her gaze.
“Marge was so proud of you,” Aunt Eloise murmured. “So proud of both of you.”
Lorna bit her lip. She did not want to think of Mama, of her pride and love, because if she did, the pain of loss would overwhelm her.
Whenever I look at my face, or my hands, I will see a part of you, Mama, she thought silently.
She gazed down at her fingers—long, slim pianist’s fingers that were so like her mother’s. She recalled her mother’s hands resting on the table or on the pianoforte keys, the ring Papa had bought her gleaming on her finger. She never took it off. Lorna’s heart twisted painfully. Papa must be suffering so much, and she could not bear the thought of his anguish, even though his sorrow offered a distraction from her own pain.
“Here we are,” Papa murmured. Lorna gazed out over the wet lawns, staring up at the grey bulk of Burwood House. Built in a much earlier time, it had the bulky profile of a fortress, with grey stone and crenellations on the roof. It was her home, and she loved it. Loss and grief for the fact that Mama was not there anymore hit her like a fist, mixing with the relief of being home again.
“Come on,” Papa said gently. “Let us go indoors.” He helped Aunt Eloise out first, and they all walked silently to the stairs and into the tiled foyer, where Mr Jackson took their wet coats and cloaks.
“The fire is lit in the dining room, my lord,” Mr Jackson informed them kindly.
“Grand,” Papa murmured, trying to smile. “Almost time for luncheon, eh?”
“I am not hungry,” Charles told him, turning to go to the stairs.
“I know, young man. But we must all take sustenance to keep up our strength. We may retire to the drawing room if you prefer. It is somewhat early for luncheon.”
Lorna winced, fearing Charles might storm off. He was angry and bewildered, struggling to make sense of it all far more than she. She walked quietly beside him up the carpeted staircase.
“Thank you, Lorna,” Aunt Eloise murmured as Lorna sat down at the pianoforte. “I am most grateful for your assistance in supporting the family.”
Lorna inclined her head, reaching for her sheet music. Mama had given her the book a year ago when she was sixteen. A memory flashed into her mind of her best friend, Caroline, confiding in her that she had a new hobby, even better than the pianoforte. Caroline had learned pottery-making from a friend, Rachel, whose father owned a pottery workshop. While it did not befit a lady as an accomplishment and Caroline practised in secret, Lorna had never seen her look so alive.
Perhaps I should attempt it too, she thought. The notion warmed her in a way that nothing else had.
She opened the book and began to play.
“You are a dear girl,” Eloise told her later as Papa went to change for lunch and Charles retired to his room to rest. “You are the lady of Burwood House, now. You would have filled your mother with great pride.”
Lorna looked away. The words were like a lead weight weighing down on her chest. She was seventeen—too young to be the lady of anything. But she was as much in charge of the household as her Mama had been. Papa would rely on her to organise the staff, plan the meals, balls and parties, and ensure the smooth running of the place as Mama had done.
They need me, she thought, swallowing hard.
Charles was lost and withdrawn, and Papa was doing his best to support him, but his own grief was too great. Lorna took a deep breath. Aunt Eloise was right.
“I shall try to manage the house and the staff as Mama did, Aunt,” she whispered.
She was the lady of the house now, and it was her duty to try.
Chapter 1
The whirr of the wheel made a soft murmur in Lorna’s ears where she sat in the small, wood-panelled room. She breathed in the earthy scent of wet clay and her lips tugged up in the corners, a small smile crossing her face—a rueful one. She was pressing too hard, and she knew it, but she had no idea what else to do.
“No…” she yelled dismally.
She laughed, as the wheel spun and the vase that she had been shaping leaned sideways instead of progressing upwards to a graceful curve.
Chuckling to herself, Lorna lifted her feet from the pedals and thumped her hands down on the wet clay that she had spent at least ten minutes mixing and preparing.
“That won’t do,” she said aloud, grinning and tucking a stray curl of chestnut hair back behind the scarf she had used to hold it back from her face. Turning the wheel with the pedals was hot work in the little room, and, despite the cool springtime weather outside, her brow was damp with perspiration.
After eight years of working on this craft, one might think I could refrain from making the things lean sideways, she thought to herself with a grin.
She thumped the clay back into a round lump, frowning at the consistency. It had gone a little dry. If it dried out too much, she would not be able to use it again, and so she settled down at the wheel, turning it with her feet, holding her hands steady. She had learned the craft of pottery eight years ago from Caroline, and since then she had progressed from simple bowls to graceful vases. She had mastered the art of mixing colours for the glazes that adorned her creations, and though few were aware of her work in the small shed—only Caroline, Charles, and a handful of the servants—she took immense pride in the dishes, pots, and vases she could now shape with her own hands.
A knock at the door made her look sharply up from her work as she reached the top of the vase she was shaping. She frowned, ignoring it for a moment, and then, as she lifted up her palms, wet with the clay, from her completed work, she called out to the person who had knocked again.
“Come in.”
Mr Jackson’s head appeared, a nervous smile lifting the corners of his mouth. “My lady,” he began, his expression becoming more serious. “I regret to have to disturb you. Your father summons you. It is dinnertime.”
“Oh.” Lorna blinked. “Is that the hour already?”
The butler inclined his head. “I regret that it is, my lady. Ought I to inform him that you are delayed?” He raised a brow.
Lorna hesitated. She would have relished a few more moments in her small, secret workroom at the back of the house, away from the ceaseless demands of the household. But as the lady of the house, she could not neglect her duties. To miss dinner would disrupt the entire routine, and Papa, still withdrawn, was easily unsettled by any change.
“Thank you, but I shall be there directly,” Lorna said firmly, taking a deep breath.
“Very good, my lady.”
When the butler had withdrawn, Lorna stood up, running her hands across the cream-coloured cloth apron over her dress. She always wore her oldest, most threadbare dress in her little workshop haven. A green muslin gown whose dye had faded, the hem of the skirt was wearing through, the collar coming loose. She went to the pottery bowl in which she kept water—one that she had made herself for the purpose—and washed her hands. Then, she removed her apron and the scarf from her hair, pausing to adjust her appearance in the small looking glass that she had placed there for just such a purpose.
“Not bad.”
She chuckled. Thankfully, her maid, Adah, knew that she worked on her pots, or it would be difficult to explain why her hair was sweat-soaked and marked with the tight scarf, the curls and ringlets tumbling down from their style.
She paused in the doorway to see that she was not observed before crossing the garden and hurrying into the house.
“A chignon, please, Adah,” she requested as she sat down at the dressing table. “A simple one, if you please. It is just me, Papa, and Charles tonight.”
“Of course, my lady.”
Adah worked diligently styling Lorna’s thick chestnut hair. It was hard to make it curl because the strands were so thick. Left to its own devices, it formed a chestnut river that ran down to her waist. Lorna glanced up from the book of clay recipes on her knee, studying while Adah worked, and caught sight of herself in the looking glass.
“Not bad,” she murmured, as Adah rolled the long, thick hair into a bun and attempted to curl the stray locks into ringlets.
“You look as pretty as a picture, my lady,” Adah declared warmly.
Lorna just smiled. She did not feel pretty. At five-and-twenty, she felt already old. Most of her friends, with the exception of Caroline, were already out of society again, having had successful Seasons years before. Her first Season had taken place when she was nineteen, two years following Mama’s passing, and it had been a little hasty and badly planned, since she had to organise it mostly by herself. Aunt Eloise had helped a little, but Aunt had been sick that year, suffering a terrible fever during the months of the Season. She had met nobody, and her attendance in the subsequent six years had been almost the same.
“I hope I shall not attend again,” she murmured to herself as she drifted down the stairs.
It was springtime—late April—and the thought of going with Papa to London was horrible. Another Season, watching girls almost a decade younger than herself sashaying around the floor in sparkling white dresses would do nothing but make her miserable.
“Ah! Lorna.” Papa smiled as she walked into the dining room. He was pale after a winter spent mainly indoors, working on the household accounts and his investments, and educating Charles in the estate business. Lorna swallowed, trying to distract herself from her worries. Worrying about Papa had become habitual since her mother passed away. Papa and Charles consumed her mind, leaving room only for her beloved pottery-making. “There you are. I thought it was unlike you to be late.”
“I must beg your pardon for my tardiness,” Lorna murmured, walking to take her seat on Papa’s left at the long table. Charles was already seated on his right. At two-and-twenty, newly returned from Cambridge, where he had read History, he was a tall, handsome young man, his countenance bright with the promise and excitement of youth. He beamed.
“Lorna. We were just remarking on how diverting it will be when we go to London.”
“I am certain it will be,” Lorna said lightly, reaching for her napkin. Mr Jackson stood by the wall, waiting to pour the drinks, and Papa inclined his head, summoning the butler to begin.
“It will be grand! So many diversions, so many things to see. We’ll have a terrific jaunt.” Charles sounded delighted.
“I have no doubt that you will,” Lorna murmured, inclining her head in thanks to Mr Jackson.
“You are to come too, of course,” Charles said at once, then stopped, his expression changing. “By ‘we’, I am referring to you and I,” he added, as if it were a matter already settled. Despite his years at Cambridge, being separated from his family, especially from Lorna, was still difficult for Charles. He had never quite recovered from Mama’s loss in that way.
Lorna looked at her father, who was observing their exchange with a thoughtful air. “I imagined that I would remain at home, Papa?” Lorna said evenly, holding her father’s gaze. “I would be better placed to manage the household in your absence.”
Papa shook his head. “No. No, Lorna.” He smiled, giving her a glimmer of the Papa she had known when Mama was still with them. She drew in a breath, her heart aching. She loved seeing him smile. “You must go with your brother,” he insisted gently but firmly. “You need some diversion. Staying out here, managing the household in the country… that is no life. You need to go to London. It is the centre of everything.”
“But Papa…” she paused. He had looked so pleased at the thought of her accompanying Charles, and she was reluctant to disappoint him.
“Lorna, you have to come. I cannot possibly attend Almack’s on my own.” Charles looked affronted.
Papa gave a sigh, his expression serious. “Charles is right, Lorna,” he said gently. “I cannot leave the estate, but you know how important it is for Charles to be properly introduced into society. It is the centre of everything. You must go with him. It will be good for you, too.”
Lorna felt a twinge of reluctance at the thought of leaving the familiar comfort of the estate, but she knew she could not disappoint her father.
Charles, noticing her hesitation, smiled reassuringly. “You must, Lorna! How am I to navigate this season without you? You must help me find a proper match. You know better than anyone what I need.” He looked at her with a grin. “Besides, it shall be most diverting.”
Lorna let out a sigh. Her brother’s big, boyish grin was irresistible. She looked from Charles to Papa. He gazed back at her, a contentment she had not seen in a long time in his pale blue eyes.
“I will…” Lorna paused. She did not want to go. Yet, a part of her, seeing the smiling joyfulness of the two people she loved most in the world, wanted to say yes. “Of course, I will go with you.”
“Hurrah!” Charles exclaimed, beaming at her before setting his napkin on his knee.
“I am most gladdened that you agreed, daughter.” Their father addressed her as the butler moved around the table, serving the soup. “I have correspondence from Eloise here, and she will be most delighted to hear that you are to visit too.”
“Will Aunt Eloise be in Town for the Season?” Lorna asked, surprised. Her aunt claimed often that the spring and summer months in London were too oppressive and hot for her, and she retired often to her country estate. The only time she had actually been in attendance for a Season was for Lorna’s first Season, and at that time, she had been ill.
“Yes. She has decided to remain in London. Her son Matthew will be there, and she plans to host a ball,” Papa explained.
“Oh?” Lorna felt her stomach twist queasily. The thought of a ball was horribly unpleasant. Not as dreadful as Almack’s, where all the debutantes would be, but any form of social event in London was unsettling for her. She flinched, bracing for the whispers and stares. She had earned a reputation for attending several Seasons without success.
“Yes,” Papa said, drawing her attention back to the moment. “She wishes to introduce her son, who is now Viscount Carringwood, to society, and also Charles.” He grinned at Charles, who looked down a little nervously.
“I do hope there won’t be too much fussing,” Charles said quietly.
Papa chuckled. “I’m afraid no one can hold your aunt back from her fussing.”
Charles looked away. “Well, it is only one evening,” he said sullenly.
Lorna smiled. “It is only one evening, quite so. And I suppose there must be lots of exhibitions and museums in London?” That was one thing that would be enjoyable for her as well as for Charles. There might be pottery and ceramic collections that she could visit, to get ideas for her own creations.
Her father smiled. “Indeed, there are.” He shook his head, his eyes cloudy. “Sometimes you are so like dear Marge, it astonishes me.” He looked away. Lorna looked down, pleased by the compliment—her mother was beautiful—but also sorry to have upset him.
Their mother had loved porcelain and pottery too, and Lorna often thought that it was from her that she had inherited her fascination with the craft. Mama’s collection was beautiful, but she had focused a great deal on older works imported from Germany or Holland—Delftware was a favourite. Lorna was more interested in the innovations and techniques happening in her own country. And London was the place to see them.
It was yet another reason to go. Papa and Charles brought life and warmth to the house, and stepping out of her comfort zone would certainly be unpleasant. However, London offered the opportunity to visit the pottery collections, where she could seek new inspiration for her work.
“Hurrah!” Charles declared. “I wish to visit the museum.”
Their father grinned and nodded. “Yes, yes, Charles. You should be able to attend the museum and the botanical gardens, and whatever else takes your fancy.”
“There is so much to see!” Charles exclaimed; his voice filled with excitement as he daydreamed aloud. “And so many things to do. So many diversions. We must attend Gunter’s teashop, and go to Hyde Park, and the opera.”
“All in good time,” their father murmured.
Lorna chuckled. “We are to be there for months, Charles,” she reminded her brother gently. “We needn’t see the whole of London in a week.”
“Let’s see it in a week!” Charles declared happily. “And then spend the rest of the three months seeing our favourite parts more carefully.”
Lorna grinned at the weary expression on Papa’s face, then glanced at her brother, her heart swelling with affection. She was not particularly pleased at the thought of spending months in London. But being with her brother—such a beloved, infuriating, and wonderful soul—was enough. She would do anything to see him smile, even endure the Season in London.
Chapter 2
The big Landau coach rattled down the road, the crest of the Duke of Erendale painted in vivid red and green on the side. In the coach, Luke leaned backwards and gazed out of the window, watching the trees and bushes move faster than he had expected past the windows. They were using a team of four beautiful, matched bay coach-horses, and they were remarkably powerful, pulling the coach at a trot. Luke focused on the horses—catching glimpses of them as the coach rounded each bend—and tried to ignore where they were going and everything else around him.
“I say, Luke! You are not already sleeping, are you?”
His father’s voice shattered his willful ignorance of everyone else in the coach. Luke blinked with surprise, then shook his head.
“No, Papa. I am awake. It is only seven o’clock in the evening, after all,” he added a little crossly.
“I thought you were sleeping. You are unusually quiet,” his father commented. As the Duke of Erendale, Papa was used to people obeying him and doing as he expected. Luke shrugged.
“I had a great deal to think about,” he replied lightly.
Beside Papa, Mama smiled her brief, beaming grin. Luke smiled back. Her long oval face with its high cheekbones was symbolic of love and home to him, and, in so many ways it looked like his own. Like him, she had a slim nose, a softened chin, a gentle mouth, and observant eyes. Unlike his mother, who had black hair and eyes that were almost the same shade, his eyes were blue, and his hair was the same honey-warm blond as his father’s.
It is good to see them again, Luke thought. Especially Mama.
He ran a hand through his honey-coloured hair wearily. Despite his distaste for travelling to London, he still felt happy to be reunited with his family after a year on the Continent. His eyes moved to the window of the coach, watching the familiar oak-lined road, the green grass waving in a soft evening breeze. The sky was mistily pink where the sun moved to the horizon, and rain clouds hung in the pale blue sky. He was undeniably returned to England.
“We can expect to arrive on time,” Papa murmured. Luke glanced at the pocket-watch he held and felt his stomach twist with a mix of discomfort and irritation. After a year away, his father’s incessant need to stay ahead of every matter began to grate on his nerves. He himself had travelled through France with naught but a knapsack and his fencing gear, staying at inns along the way until he reached his destination. He had spent six months in Paris, training with the masters of the art, and during that time, he had never once felt the need for the rigid control his father insisted upon. Punctuality, certainly, and dedication—but Papa demanded to know what everyone was doing every minute of the day.
“I think it may rain later,” Mama murmured.
Luke smiled at her. “It always does,” he said lightly.
“I hope not,” Papa said a little crossly. “If it should rain, the coach will be slowed. And we need to arrive at the same time as your brother.”
Luke let out a sigh. His elder brother, the heir to the dukedom, was staying at the family’s London townhouse for the Season. He and his wife, Lady Portia, would also attend the ball.
Luke fiddled with his tight, high collar and gazed down at his hands. They had been sun-bronzed during his travels in France, but now, having returned in the winter, they had lost all their colour.
Probably just as well, he thought with a rueful smile. Papa would have thought I was a journeyman.
He laughed to himself. He was certain that was what he had looked like in Paris. The fencing school there had taught him a great deal, and he shut his eyes again, wistfully. It felt so strange to be back in England. Part of him ached for France, while part of him felt as though he had never been abroad, plunged straight back into England and the social conventions and rules of his family.
“Now, Luke,” Papa was saying. Luke blinked, surprised out of his train of thought. He had been watching the approaching city. “I must have your attention for a moment.”
“Yes, Papa?” Luke asked, just a trifle annoyed.
“I intend to introduce you to a lady at the ball. Lady Genevieve. She is the daughter of a most estimable associate of mine. I would appreciate it if you were to dance with her.”
“Papa…” Luke began, feeling a rush of anger. He had been without his father’s dictates for a year, and it felt strange to experience them again.
“She is most suitable, Luke. It would be an advancement for you, too. And I dislike that you live in London unsettled. It would be better for your reputation were you to take an interest in Lady Genevieve.”
Luke felt his hand clenching with annoyance. Not only had he travelled independently on the Continent through territory that was recently hostile to England, but he was also thirty years old. He did not need to obey anyone.
“You can at least meet her, Luke,” Mama said gently.
Luke let out a sigh. “I shall meet her,” he promised his mother softly. “And I shall dance with her once. Not necessarily more,” he added, his gaze holding his father’s.
His father shrugged. “Fine. Fine.” He sounded annoyed. “But you would be foolish to turn down such an opportunity. She is refined, well-regarded, and has a spotless reputation. To do otherwise would be folly.”
Luke looked out of the coach window and said nothing. They were rattling over the cobbled streets of the city, moving up towards Kensington. The townhouse was somewhere nearby, if he chose to look for it, but he focused instead on the rest of the sights and sounds around him. It was his first time in London for a year.
I wonder if Mr Randell is still working for me. He grinned at the thought. Mr Randell was his manservant—the only servant he employed in his small London lodgings besides his cook and a maid to clean. After his year abroad, he would be unsurprised to find Mr Randell and the rest of the staff had found more gainful employment elsewhere, though his allowance, and returns on his many investments, paid their salaries even while he was away.
Luke watched the familiar sights appearing as they rounded the corner. Hyde Park was on his left, and they moved onwards and upwards, heading towards the biggest, most fashionable residences in the Kensington area.
I have not missed London high society, Luke thought with a rueful smile.
He had always disliked the ton. He was the son of a duke, albeit the younger son, and he was expected to behave in a certain way, which did not suit him. Sons of dukes were either paragons of propriety or wild, rakish figures who drank from dusk until dawn. Luke was neither.
I just wish to make my own choices.
He could feel the coach was slowing and soon they would be at the ball that he did not want to attend. He let his mind wander back to Paris, recalling the marble-faced buildings, the wide streets lined with trees, the elegance of the city and the warm sunshine. It was already so distant. He yearned for it more than ever.
Papa’s voice woke him from his daydreaming. “Here we are.”
“It does look most fine,” Mama murmured as she gazed out of the coach window. Luke smiled warmly. His mother was such a gentle soul—she would find some good in almost anything.
“And we have arrived punctually,” Papa replied as he opened the door and jumped out. “Which is good.”
Luke waited as Mama alighted from the coach before jumping down. The hard cobbles jarred his ankles, but he barely noticed; too busy staring up at the tall stone-dressed building opposite him. A lit pine torch bracketed to the wall lit the way up the stone steps, and he could see bright lamplight pouring out of the doorway. He breathed in, the cool evening air refreshing him despite his nerves. It was already dark, though it was only seven o’clock. He glanced over at Mama. Papa was already going up the steps but paused and turned at the sound of horses coming up the street.
“Thomas. He is also most punctual.”
Luke turned to see the coach rattling in where theirs had just turned. He sighed to himself. He loved his elder brother because he simply could not help it. Thomas was sweet and affable and kind. He was also strait-laced, lacked much of a sense of humour, and did everything exactly as he should. He was one of those duke’s sons who was a model of good behaviour.
Luke waited by the stairs with his mother as the coach stopped and the doors opened.
“Thomas! Good evening,” Mama greeted her elder son warmly as Thomas strode out of the coach. He had inherited Mama’s dark hair and dark eyes, and he had the same thin, chiselled features as she did. He embraced their mother warmly.
“Mama! How delightful to see you. Papa. Greetings.” He inclined his head to their father respectfully. Then his eyes widened, and his lips stretched in a huge grin that Luke did not doubt was genuine. “Why! Luke! It has been an age!” He reached out his hand for Luke to shake, then clapped him on the shoulder. “I swear you are tanned!”
Luke grinned. “If I am, it is merely a tenth of how tanned I was in summer.” He bowed to the tall lady who stood beside Thomas. “My lady. It is a pleasure to see you.”
“I am pleased to see you, Luke.” Portia’s voice was low and refined, just as Luke recalled it. She smiled, showing very white, very straight teeth. Her eyes were black, like Mama’s, her hair brown and piled on her head, a small navy-blue turban in lace covering it as a nod to her married state. Many married ladies no longer kept the tradition of wearing hair coverings, but Portia had found a middle ground that would offend nobody. Her long gown was navy blue silk covered in a dark gauzy layer, and a silver chain gleamed discreetly at her throat. She was like Thomas—elegant, gracious, and exactly as society expected her to be. Luke always felt just a little uneasy in her presence.
“We should go inside,” Papa grunted.
Thomas smiled. “Ever punctual, Papa.”
“It is fitting, Thomas. It is fitting,” their father murmured and turned to walk up the stairs. Thomas grinned at Luke, and the two of them stepped aside to allow Mama to follow the duke up the stairs. Luke stood back for Portia, and then Thomas followed. Luke walked up behind them. That was not a hardship, since he could breathe the cool, refreshing air a second or two longer. It carried the scent of flowers, and he found himself hoping earnestly that there was a garden somewhere. He could spend most of the evening outside. He looked up as they went through the big doors. He had not thought that Carringwood House—the residence of the Viscount of Carringwood—was quite so large and grand.
Their hostess and host—a sweet-faced older lady with sparkling blue eyes, and Viscount Carringwood, her son—greeted them at the doorway.
“I am most delighted to have you with us,” Lady Carringwood murmured, curtseying to Papa and Mama.
“We are most grateful for your kind invitation,” Papa murmured.
“Indeed, Papa. Indeed.” Thomas smiled warmly.
Lady Carringwood curtseyed and greeted Thomas and Portia, then inclined her head to Luke.
“And Lord Luke. Delightful.”
“Delighted, my lady,” Luke murmured and bowed low. He always felt a little awkward at social gatherings.
They went down the stairs to the ballroom. Thomas turned to Luke.
“You must have so many adventures to speak of.”
“Well…” Luke felt his cheeks flush. He did not know where to begin and felt a little awkward with the family all around, listening.
“Dashed warm in here,” their father grumbled. Luke would usually be annoyed at his father for interrupting, but in that moment, he felt somewhat grateful. At least it distracted Thomas from his questions.
“Is there a door anywhere?” Luke asked.
His gaze moved around the room. It was a large ballroom—the whole residence was large—with a white marble floor, white walls and long windows that faced into what he presumed was the garden. Despite their punctual timing, a few other guests were already there, and a low murmur of conversation filled the room. The chandeliers were all lit, casting bright golden light down on the scene. Gentlemen in dark jackets and knee-breeches stood about chatting with ladies in dark or pastel gowns. The murmur of talk was punctuated with the sound of laughter and glasses clinking.
“I see a door,” Thomas commented, interrupting Luke’s silent observation of the ballroom. “Over there by the window. And there is a refreshments table,” he added, smiling at Portia. “May I have the honour of fetching you something to drink?”
Portia smiled and thanked him, and Luke gazed over at the door. Perhaps he could make regular escapes outside. The candles were the three-hour variety, which meant that the ball was only three hours long, since, after that time, the room would be dark.
“Luke, dear. Could you tell me…is that Lady Etherstone over there?” his mother inquired.
“I believe so, Mama,” Luke agreed, squinting to see where his mother was looking.
“I have not spoken to her in an age! Come with me, Luke?” she asked him.
“I would be glad to, Mama,” Luke assured her gently.
They went across the ballroom to join Mama’s acquaintances. Just as he was beginning to engage in conversation with Lady Calverham, the daughter of the Earl of Etherstone—now married to the Earl of Calverham and with a few children—he felt a hand clap firmly on his back. He spun around, annoyance evident on his face.
“Papa. I…”
“Son. I wish to introduce you to someone.” The duke’s gaze was hard, and Luke knew better than to argue. He might have, but Lady Claverham was there, watching them closely, and he did not wish to upset her.
“My lady,” he murmured, bowing low. “I must beg your pardon for my sudden departure.”
“Of course.” She smiled at him, gave a more guarded smile to his father, and turned to join her parents. Luke followed his father across the ballroom.
“Son, might I have the honour of presenting you to Lady Genevieve?” his father asked a little stiffly.
Luke nodded, trying to hide his annoyance at his father.
The lady before him was a little taller than average, with soft honey-coloured curls ringleted about her heart-shaped face. She had wide blue eyes and a neat, pretty mouth and she dropped a perfect curtsey. It was just the right depth for the social status of the man she greeted. She smiled up at him.
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lord,” she murmured.
“The pleasure is mine, my lady,” Luke answered formally.
Papa cleared his throat, indicating a tall man with greying brown hair who stood just behind Lady Genevieve. “May I present the Earl and Countess of Wayshire?”
“Delighted to make your acquaintance,” Luke replied, bowing low to them. Lady Wayshire had the same honey-coloured hair as her daughter, greying at the edges, and wide blue eyes. Her face was a soft oval and she seemed friendly as she smiled at Luke.
“Such a pleasure to meet you, my lord.”
“We heard that you had been jaunting about the Continent,” Lord Wayshire added, giving Luke an indulgent smile. Luke felt his shoulders tighten. The man’s manner was lighthearted and condescending at once, and Luke suspected his father’s influence in that. Whatever his father had said to the earl and countess about him, it was clearly a misrepresentation.
“I was travelling on the Continent, yes,” he replied stiffly.
“Oh! How delightful!” Lady Genevieve gushed. “I have always wished to travel. Did you travel extensively?”
“I went to Paris,” Luke answered a little gruffly.
“Paris! Now that is surely the finest city!” Lady Genevieve declared, clasping her hands. Her eyes grew wide with delight that seemed genuine.
“It is a fine city,” Luke admitted.
“To walk down the Champs Elysees! And see the Seine. How wondrous it must be,” she exclaimed raptly.
Luke shrugged. “Wondrous enough, I suppose,” he said mildly. He felt reluctant to discuss his experiences in Paris. This was merely polite conversation, but Paris and his time there held more meaning for him than light dinner-table chatter. His time there had changed him fundamentally, increasing his skill in his most favoured pursuit in the world. It had been a lifetime dream.
“Come, Luke! You cannot resist talking to such a fine lady, eh?” his father demanded. Luke felt his cheeks drain of colour, anger mixing with surprise.
“I…” He began, but no words came. He could not reprimand his father for embarrassing him—that would simply make it worse. He had no idea what to say.
“The orchestra is tuning up,” his father added, giving Luke an expectant glance. “Soon, the dancing will begin.”
Luke frowned at first, unsure what he was intending; then it dawned on him. His father wanted him to ask Lady Genevieve to dance.
Luke fought to hide a scowl at his father, and he turned to Lady Genevieve.
“Might I have the honour of this dance, my lady?” The words were tight in his throat, warring with his anger at his father.
She curtseyed, her eyes moving modestly downward. “I would be most delighted, my lord.”
Luke took her white-gloved hand, cursing his father silently. He walked with her to the dance floor.
The music of a waltz was playing, and Luke stood with his hand behind Lady Genevieve’s shoulder-blade, the other holding her hand. While some took the waltz as an opportunity to sneak their hand to a lady’s waist, Luke recoiled from the very thought of such impropriety.
They stepped onto the dance floor.
As the waltz began, Luke could not help but admire her dancing. It was well-timed, graceful and skilled. Her soft, silk skirt swished close to his legs as they whirled, her back straight, her steps perfectly in time with the tune. Perhaps his only complaint might be that it was a little too skilful—there was nothing individual or unique about it. It was polished, fine and graceful, a superb performance that he was sure she had practised a hundred times.
They moved slowly and almost flawlessly about the room and, as the waltz changed cadence, they slowed with it. The dance wore on, well-executed turns followed by graceful whirls and fine footwork. It was beautiful and effortless, but it felt like an age was passing as they danced. Luke itched with awkwardness and racked his brains for something to say, but he had never been good at idle chatter, especially not while dancing. He said nothing. He could hear other people talking around them, but no inspiration struck.
As the music slowed further, they slowed and then stopped, exactly at the correct moment. Luke bowed and Lady Genevieve curtseyed.
“Thank you, my lady,” he murmured as the other dancers congratulated each other and politely applauded.
“Thank you, my lord,” she answered in a low, soft voice. She gazed up at him and then turned, walking back into the ballroom.
He stood where he was for a moment, thinking. The dance had been flawless, and he should have felt wonderful, yet oddly, he felt only relief. It had all been a little too polished, a little too insincere. While Genevieve was no doubt charming and well-versed in all manner of social skills, there had been no warmth in her interactions. He would have had as much joy talking to a porcelain figure on the mantel somewhere. All her responses were just right, according to society, exactly what he would have guessed her to say.
He made his way slowly to the door that led into the garden. It would be good to have some respite from the heat and from the oppressive expectations of his family.