Amanda StoNeS
Historical Regency Romance Author
A Wallflower's Convenient
Duke
First Chapters
Chapter 1
Blanche stood before the tall looking glass in her bedchamber, gently adjusting the sprigs of lavender threaded through her loosely braided hair. Her gown was modest but tasteful, perfectly suited for the scholarly lecture she was soon to attend at the Royal Society. Today’s discourse promised to touch upon recent archaeological discoveries, and the very thought of it stirred that familiar flutter of anticipation in her chest.
As she reached for her shawl, the door swept open with a practised swish. Lady Isabella Wicksford entered, her expression already clouded with exasperation. Blanche turned, the quiet excitement that had filled her beginning to dim.
“Must you squander yet another day chasing after dusty relics and forgotten ruins?” Lady Wicksford demanded, casting a disapproving glance at her daughter’s attire. “Really, Blanche. It is not the sort of pastime that reflects well upon a young lady of your station.”
Blanche drew a steadying breath. Her mother’s disdain for her intellectual interests was hardly new. “It is a lecture at the Royal Society, Mama. Mr Pratt, who was a close friend of Father’s, is delivering the address. I find great comfort in attending.”
Lady Wicksford frowned, her gaze sharp. “Your father’s eccentric pursuits brought us nothing of value, Blanche. His preoccupation with those dreadful artefacts left us with a tarnished reputation and a house full of worthless relics gathering dust!”
Blanche’s heart sank at her mother’s words, the sharp contrast between their perspectives stinging like an unhealed wound. She clasped her hands together, searching for the right words to defend her late father’s legacy.
“Father’s collection was his passion, Mother. It connected us to him, and I find comfort in preserving his memory through the artefacts,” Blanche explained, her voice carrying a quiet determination.
Lady Wicksford shook her head, dismissing Blanche’s sentiment. “Were it not for my careful maneuvering, we would be social outcasts among high society. I have laboured tirelessly to preserve our standing, and yet you persist with this reckless fascination for antiquities, do you not see how it imperils everything I have so diligently secured?”
Blanche’s eyes lowered, her fingers tracing the pendant around her neck — the mosaic fragment she had found with her father. She was not blind to the financial strain her mother faced, but the sacrifice of her father’s legacy seemed too great.
“I understand, Mother. I only wish to honour Father’s memory and preserve the things he loved,” Blanche whispered, her voice holding a hint of sorrow.
The dowager viscountess’s gaze softened momentarily, but the weight of societal expectations pressed upon her. “You must reflect upon the consequences of your actions, Blanche. Society does not look kindly upon eccentricity. The time has come for you to set aside these romanticised notions of honour and attend, instead, to the realities of our situation.”
It was hard for Blanche not to get upset by this remark. She knew that she was never going to be seen as good enough in her mother’s eyes. Her father adored her and shared her passions, they had shared so much, but with him now gone, life was starting to feel very challenging.
How could she ever find a way to be herself while also avoiding her mother’s wrath now that she had no one to sneak her away to lectures such as this one?
“Blanche, must you truly squander the entirety of the Season poring over these trifling relics? Can it be so great a burden to turn your attention, for once, to the matter of securing an eligible match?” Isabella’s voice was sharp, cutting through the quiet ambiance of the room. “This is the very moment when you ought to be seen, to cultivate connections, yet you choose instead to bury yourself in antiquities. I confess, I cannot fathom it.”
Blanche looked up from her feet, meeting her mother’s stern gaze. “Mother, you know I am not interested in the Season. I do not care for dancing with gentleman who are looking for a wife on the meat market. It is humiliating for everyone.”
Lady Wicksford interrupted with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Your father’s eccentricities led to our low social standing. You are on the verge of one and twenty, Blanche. It is time to prioritise securing a match before you teeter into spinsterhood! I cannot help you, if you will not allow me to.”
Blanche’s brows furrowed, her resolve strengthening. “I cannot marry merely for the sake of it, not where there is no shared passion or understanding. I will not resign myself to a union devoid of true companionship. The Season is naught but a grand arrangement of titles and connections, and I have no desire to be a party to such artifice. You know this, we have spoken of it before. Why will you not heed me?”
Lady Wicksford dramatically threw her hands up, frustration etched across her features. “You are impossible, just like your father! You live in a world of fantasies and dreams. Mark my words, Blanche, do not blame me when you find yourself a sad and lonely old maid!”
The words hung in the air, stinging like a slap to the face. Blanche felt the weight of her mother’s expectations pressing upon her, but she refused to let them dictate her path. Determinedly, she stood and reached for her bonnet, her eyes reflecting a mixture of hurt and defiance.
“I shall not abandon the pursuits that bring me joy and understanding, Mother. If securing a match means sacrificing my passions, then I would rather forge another path,” Blanche declared, her voice steady. “I choose the path that brings me joy, because that is all I want from life. Not every woman requires a husband to feel she has accomplished something of worth.”
“You think you know everything, Blanche, but I can assure you, you will regret this one day. You will wish that you had listened to me, but by then it shall be far too late.”
Lady Wickford’s warning lingered in the room, but Blanche remained resolute. With a final glance at the relics that adorned her surroundings, she departed, leaving the echoes of her mother’s disapproval behind. The Royal Society awaited, and Blanche refused to let societal expectations confine her.
She truly did not think that she would ever regret the choice to follow her heart and to do what she wanted with her life, regardless of her mother’s warnings.
***
The grand lecture hall extended a welcoming embrace to Blanche, adorned with polished mahogany doors and resonating with hushed whispers of anticipation. Taking her seat beside Penelope, a surge of excitement coursed through her. The air thickened with intellectual curiosity, a shared passion binding the refined ladies and gentlemen assembled for the Royal Society’s lecture.
Now this was the place where Blanche felt accepted, where she did not feel like she needed to change who she was to impress anyone. It was where she felt happiest.
These people understood her, just like her father did. Even if her mother would never take the time to get to know who she was and what she liked, these people did.
Most of all, Blanche was excited to see her best friend, Miss Penelope Hayward.
No one understood her as Penelope did. She was her kindred spirit—the one soul who truly grasped her yearning for something beyond the ordinary. With Penelope, Blanche could speak freely, without restraint, no matter what trials life placed before her.
Seated alongside her, Penelope leaned in, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. “Blanche, have you heard? The Duke of Brooksdale is here today!”
Arching an eyebrow in surprise, Blanche discreetly glanced around. Penelope’s eyes subtly gestured towards a dark-haired nobleman in an exquisitely tailored charcoal waistcoat, his athletic build contrasting the sea of pastels and lace surrounding him.
“The Duke of…. Who?” Blanche echoed in a whisper; her curiosity piqued. The reclusive Duke had become a mystery since inheriting the title two years prior, rarely seen in public.
Nodding, Penelope’s excitement was contagious. “Rumour has it that he has transformed the Brooksdale Estate into one of the foremost antiquities collections in England. They say it rivals even the most celebrated collections in Town!”
“Oh my,” Blanche gasped. “Now that I would like to see.”
Penelope giggled. “I am sure it is truly fascinating.”
Blanche’s gaze lingered on the enigmatic Duke. His presence, seemingly distant, held a certain magnetism. Murmurs around him hinted at his reputation for both wealth and seclusion. The thought of a kindred spirit, someone who shared her deep appreciation for antiquities, stirred newfound curiosity within Blanche.
As the lecture commenced, Blanche’s attention wavered between the esteemed speaker at the podium and the mysterious Duke in the audience. The discourse on archaeological discoveries became a backdrop to her wandering thoughts. She found herself stealing glances at the Duke, intrigued by the enigma that surrounded him.
Who was this man with the slightly messy dark hair and the crisp tailored suit? What was hiding behind those piercing green eyes of his? And why was her heart racing as she drank him in?
She wanted to fix her attention upon Mr. Pratt’s words, yet it proved no easy task.
Perhaps, once the lecture concluded and the guests were permitted to examine the ancient tools more closely, she might at last direct her thoughts to what truly mattered.
***
In the grandeur of the exhibition hall, Blanche quietly observed the imposing figure of the Duke of Brooksdale. He stood before a display of ancient tools, his dark hair contrasting with the muted tones of the artefacts. While he cut quite the striking figure, a brooding aura surrounded him, making him an enigmatic presence in the midst of the scholarly crowd.
Musing on the possibility of a shared passion for antiquities beneath that stern facade, Blanche contemplated the dedication mirrored in the Duke’s reputation for transforming Brooksdale Estate into a celebrated collection. The idea of finding a kindred spirit, someone who viewed ancient treasures with the same reverence, drew her closer.
Beside her, Penelope tittered mischievously, her eyes following Blanche’s gaze. “Blanche, the Duke… he is quite the handsome gentleman, do you not think? I wonder why he has secluded himself away from society for such a long time.”
Torn between intrigue and reservations about the Duke’s enigma, Blanche sighed. “He does cut a striking figure, Penelope, but there is a certain brooding air about him.”
Penelope laughed softly. “Hardly the charming type to ask a lady to dance, I would wager.”
A wistful smile touched Blanche’s lips. “I should not wish to dance, Penelope. What I would fancy is an intriguing conversation. A discussion about artefacts and the influence of Roman antiquities, perhaps.”
Penelope arched an eyebrow, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Blanche, my dear, the Duke hardly seems like the type to engage in intellectual banter. He is more likely to be found brooding in a dimly lit study than charming a lady with his wit.”
Nodding, Blanche conceded to societal expectations. “Indeed, Penelope. But, oh, if only I could engage with him as an intellectual equal. To discuss the intricacies of ancient civilisations without the constraints of formality. It is a shame that we would have to be introduced officially before I could even approach him about such things.”
Perhaps she could ask Mr. Pratt… but Blanche did not want to get the gossips talking about them. She did not want anyone to get the wrong idea when it was his mind that she was interested in. That and his intriguing collection…
A sadness washed over her as she realised how much her father would have liked to know about the Duke’s collection too.
Her father would not have hesitated to approach the Duke and to ask him all about what he had at home. He would have eagerly engaged the mind of the gentleman who shared his interests, and Blanche would have been introduced to him that way.
Losing her father a couple of years ago to the illness that swept through his body and stole her father from her, was the worst thing to happen to Blanche. It had left her adrift in a sea of misunderstood grief. Her mother, Lady Wickford, had chosen a different path, one paved with appearances and social climbing. To her, timeworn fragments of mosaic or corroded coins held no greater importance than the glittering promises of eligible society gentlemen.
She was still not sure how she was supposed to go through life without him. There were days, like this one, where it felt absolutely impossible. Especially when she felt like her mother was being particularly difficult with her.
How could Mother not understand that Father’s spirit lived on in these relics, in the very air of the lecture hall where the past and the present coexisted? As Mr. Pratt caught her attention while he delved into the significance of each artefact, Blanche fondly recalled the times when her father and she had explored ancient ruins together, the joy of discovery etched across their faces.
Lady Isabella’s inability to fathom the profound meaning these artefacts held for Blanche was a source of constant tension. To her, they were inconsequential trinkets compared to the glittering promises of advantageous marriages. But to Blanche, each piece was a vessel of memory, a connection to the profound companionship her father and she once shared.
It was an argument that was never going to have a conclusion. Not if they continued to butt heads the way that they had been doing recently…
***
The air outside the lecture hall was crisp, carrying the echoes of intellectual discussions that lingered in Blanche’s mind. As she made her way home, the fading twilight bathed the familiar town house in a warm glow. But her mind remained in the past, and in everything that she had seen today.
Ascending the stairs to the entrance, Blanche felt a strange sense of detachment from the society she was expected to navigate. Her mind continued to linger on the artefacts, the whispers of history, and the melancholy tinge of her father’s absence.
Maybe even the mysterious duke that she had seen today…
As she reached the top of the stairs, a stern-looking gentleman, a complete stranger to her, descended. Their eyes briefly met, his gaze unwavering and mysterious. A chill traced its way down Blanche’s spine, and for a moment, she wondered if her mother had entertained an unexpected visitor. The atmosphere around the man felt peculiar, leaving a lingering sense of unease.
However, the strange gentleman passed her without a word, his steps echoing down the stairs and fading away into the distance. Blanche hesitated, curiosity stirring within her, but chose not to dwell on it. The townhouse was ever a revolving door of social calls, and her mother was well known for entertaining guests in the relentless pursuit of advantageous connections.
With a shake of her head, Blanche dismissed the brief encounter and continued inside. The warm embrace of the familiar walls greeted her, momentarily dispelling the eerie feeling that had settled upon her. The scent of polished wood and the soft glow of lamp light enveloped her as she made her way through the corridor.
It was easy to let her thoughts drift back to the artefacts, to the intellectual refuge she had found at the lecture. Perhaps the stern-looking gentleman was an incidental presence, a visitor unrelated to her own world of passion and scholarly pursuits. In the privacy of her room, she allowed the relics to weave their stories once more, temporarily casting aside the mysteries that sometimes lingered in the hallways of her home.
Chapter 2
The London manor loomed ahead as Philip Brooks made his way home, his steps weighed down by the remnants of the archaeology lecture that clung to his thoughts. The streets buzzed with the bustling activities of high society, a stark contrast to the intellectual refuge he had briefly found at the lecture.
Upon entering the manor, Philip could feel the weight of societal expectations settling upon him like a stifling cloak. The grandeur of the entrance hall, the polished marble floors, and the echoes of aristocratic chatter painted a scene of privilege that Philip had grown accustomed to but seldom appreciated.
In the parlour, his mother, Lady Brooksdale —Evelyn—, awaited with afternoon tea. She looked up from her book, a genteel smile gracing her features. “Philip, dear, you are just in time for tea. How was the lecture?”
Philip joined her, exchanging the weight of his thoughts for the delicate porcelain cup in his hands. “The lecture was tolerable, Mother,” he replied, the weariness in his voice betraying the complexities that lingered beneath his composed exterior. “Mr. Pratt certainly possesses a rather singular perspective.”
“I see. So you learned nothing of note?”
Philip offered his mother a one-shouldered shrug. “It is always a pleasure to examine relics, though not all are pieces I should care to add to my own collection.”
Lady Evelyn raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. “And what of your sister Emily’s ball tonight? Shall we be graced with your presence?”
Philip set down his teacup with a beleaguered sigh, his gaze momentarily distant. “Must I attend, Mother? There is little that could be more tedious than enduring the silk-gloved sharks of the ton. Especially with Lady Dunn in attendance.”
Lady Evelyn’s expression softened with understanding. “Philip, you must not let the past dictate your present. Sophia Dunn is but a fleeting presence in our social circles. It is time you look to the future and the possibilities it may hold. Besides, she may not even be there…”
“You know she will. Her husband is a business associate of Emily’s husband. There is no conceivable chance she will not be in attendance.”
Philip met his mother’s gaze, the conflict within him evident. The wounds of heart break and betrayal still festered beneath the surface, and the prospect of facing Lady Sophia, a reminder of a painful past, loomed ahead.
“But your sister will be so terribly upset if you do not attend,” his mother reminded him. “She much prefers to have you in attendance at all her events. I am sure that she is already looking forward to seeing you.”
“I understand that, but…”
Philip sank into the plush cushions of the parlour chair, the mention of Lady Sophia Dunn hanging heavy in the air. His mother, the dowager duchess, observed him with a discerning gaze, recognising the pain etched across his features. He trailed off mid-sentence, unable to articulate the memories and emotions that Lady Sophia’s presence evoked.
With gentle understanding, Lady Evelyn completed his thought, her voice quiet yet perceptive. “It is still difficult for you, is it not, Philip?”
He nodded, a bitter taste lingering in his mouth. The wounds of heartbreak resurfaced with each thought of Sophia, the woman who had left him shattered. The pain was a raw and unhealed ache, a reminder of a love lost.
Would he ever be able to recover from the love that he once lost?
Lady Brooksdale placed a comforting hand on his, offering solace in her touch. “Facing Lady Dunn stirs painful memories, my dear. But you cannot shrink from life forever. It is no way for a man to live.”
Philip shook his head, bitterness seeping into his voice. “I would much rather spend the evening poring over the new Greek ceramics I acquired at auction—far more enlightening than navigating the treacherous waters of the ton.”
His mother regarded him with a pitying look, a blend of sympathy and concern in her eyes. “And what, pray, shall I tell Emily and Benedict if you refuse to attend?”
Guilt flowed through Philip’s veins, but he tried to remain steadfast and strong in his decision. “Mother, if you explain to Emily, she will understand…”
“She understands the importance of family more. She will see your absence as a personal slight.”
It might have been a guilt trip, but Philip felt his resolve weakening. The idea of upsetting Emily was a little too much for him.
Reluctantly, he nodded, conceding to the inevitability of the social obligation, because there was no other outcome to this conversation and he knew that all too well. “Very well, Mother. I shall attend—for the sake of family duty.”
Lady Brooksdale’s expression softened with relief. “Are you quite certain? We shall all be most pleased if you do.”
With a reluctant nod, Philip resigned himself to the demands of societal obligations, mostly because his mother was right; he did not want to let his sister down. The ball awaited, and he would navigate the intricate dance of high society, concealing the vulnerabilities that lingered within. As the tea grew cold and the parlour embraced the hushed ambiance of unspoken truths, Philip prepared to face the glittering facade of the ton once more.
A palpable relief filled Lady Evelyn’s eyes, but she did not stop there. With genuine warmth, she declared, “You have such love to give, Philip. If only you would let your guard down, I know you could open your heart again.”
Her words hung in the air, a hopeful plea that sought to penetrate the fortress around his heart. As she squeezed his hand warmly, Lady Evelyn rose to exit the parlour, leaving Philip to grapple with the inner turmoil that threatened to consume him. The prospect of encountering Lady Sophia Dunn at the ball loomed before him, an unwelcome ordeal he was resigned to endure—for the sake of family and duty.
***
The grand ballroom of Emily’s London estate shimmered with the soft glow of chandeliers, the air alive with the melodies of a waltz. The dancing was in full swing, couples gracefully twirling across the polished floor. However, for Philip, the suffocating weight of societal obligations loomed once more.
His eyes inadvertently sought out Lady Sophia Dunn, her laughter mingling with the strains of the music as she danced with her husband. The sight reopened old wounds within Philip, a painful reminder of a love that had crumbled, leaving him shattered. The intimacy they shared on the dance floor was a cruel spectacle, and Philip found himself unable to stomach their presence any longer.
Desperate for respite, he excused himself from the ballroom, the grandeur of the occasion only intensifying the ache within him. The terrace offered a temporary escape, a sanctuary where he could catch his breath amidst the cool night air.
As he stepped onto the terrace, the soft glow of moonlight cast shadows on the ornate railing. The quietude was interrupted by the gentle murmur of voices, and Philip spotted his long-time friend, Lord Cedric Wainwright, leaning against the terrace balustrade.
“Cedric,” Philip greeted, his voice carrying the weight of the emotions that churned within him.
Cedric turned, a knowing look in his eyes. “Philip. Escaping the grandeur of the ball, I see.”
Philip offered a wry smile. “More like escaping the ghosts that haunt the dance floor.”
The two friends shared a silent understanding, the unspoken wounds of the past lingering in the air. Philip reached for a cigar, and Cedric produced a match, their ritual a comforting routine amidst the turmoil.
As the tendrils of smoke curled into the night sky, Philip found solace in the presence of a friend who knew him well. The camaraderie they shared on the terrace offered a welcome reprieve from the suffocating atmosphere inside.
“So, how have you been, Philip? Have you had any remarkable finds of late?”
“Indeed,” Philip replied, a trace of amusement in his voice. “I encountered Baron McGeary at the archaeology lecture earlier. It seems he has inherited his grandfather’s antiquities collection and is now most eager to part with it. He has invited me to view it in three days’ time—an invitation that conveniently coincides with a musicale his wife is hosting.”
Cedric raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. “An unusual choice of timing, I must say. Why not any other day?”
Philip chuckled wryly. “The baron believes that having a duke in attendance will elevate the status of her event. A calculated move, no doubt.”
Cedric let out a low whistle. “Ah, the subtle politics of high society. No doubt you shall be putting the Baron into his wife’s good graces by gracing the event with your presence.”
Philip’s laughter echoed humourlessly. “Indeed. It is remarkable how appearances hold such sway in these circles. But if gaining access to his collection serves my own purposes, then I shall not complain.”
“Baron McGeary’s antiquities collection,” Cedric mused, “sounds like an intriguing prospect. Do you suppose there will be anything of true merit among his holdings?”
Philip took a long drag of his cigar, exhaling slowly. “Mayhap. Yet it is not merely the artefacts that interest me, but the intricate dance of power and influence that swirl around them.”
Cedric chuckled, the sound carrying a mixture of camaraderie and understanding. “Ah, my friend, you navigate the treacherous waters of high society with a keen eye. Perhaps there is more to be gleaned from this collection than meets the eye.”
The moon cast a soft glow over the terrace as Philip and Cedric continued their quiet conversation, the tendrils of smoke from their cigars mingling with the night air. Cedric’s words carried a weight of sincerity as he remarked, “Your father would have been immeasurably proud to see you carry on his legacy, Philip—expanding the family’s renowned antiquities collection into one of the foremost in England. I have no doubt he is smiling down upon you even now.”
A flicker of emotion crossed Philip’s face; a glimmer of contentment ignited by Cedric’s words. In that moment, he felt a connection to the late Duke of Brooksdale—his beloved father—who had nurtured his passion for antiquities and intellectual pursuits.
“Yes,” Philip replied, his voice carrying a subdued warmth. “My father instilled in me a deep appreciation for the treasures of the past. The artefacts are not just relics; they are ties to the fond memory of a parent who understood the value of nurturing curiosity and intellect. I am not sure that many people understand as much.”
The memory of his father, who had tragically passed away eighteen months ago from a sudden fever, lingered in the air. Despite the challenges of upholding the responsibilities of his inherited nobility, tending to the precious artefacts became more than a duty — it became a connection to the cherished moments spent exploring ancient ruins and uncovering the stories hidden within. There was real excitement when it came to learning this history, and Philip did not think he would ever be able to get enough of it.
Philip’s gaze drifted to the moonlit gardens, the artefacts he had amassed becoming a living testament to the legacy of the Brooksdale family. Cedric’s acknowledgement of his efforts, coupled with the shared understanding of the burdens carried by nobility, brought a subtle comfort, which was why he would always continue to seek out these artefacts and maintain his collection. Nothing could be more important to him than that.
It was not a lifestyle that many understood, which was why he did not spend too much time at social events such as this one. Philip felt like he was on his own path in life, and that was something he did not mind.
There was nothing wrong with being different, as long as it brought him joy.
Chapter 3
Blanche was not looking forward to this evening at all. She did not know why she had to attend the musicale with her mother. Just because Lady Wicksford was best friends with Lady Jane Mcgeary, the baron’s wife, did not mean she should be forced to go with her.
But Lady Wicksford would not let Blanche get away with it, so she had dressed accordingly in preparation for the evening ahead. She wore a gown of sage-green satin, its high neckline lending an air of demure sophistication. The fitted bodice and matching skirt fell in graceful lines, while long lace sleeves veiled her arms with modest refinement. The gown’s full skirt fanned elegantly about her feet, the rich fabric catching the candlelight with every movement.
But even with her hair tied up into a complicated-looking chignon, Blanche did not feel like she looked fancy enough. The weight of her mother’s expectations hung in the air, and Isabella’s exasperated glare halted her in the doorway, reminding her that she would never be enough.
“Blanche,” Lady Wicksford hissed, her voice a sharp under tone of urgency. “This evening, you must be on your very best behaviour. The guest list includes highly eligible gentlemen, and I will not have you tarnishing our standing with your scholarly daydreams.”
“I know, Mother. I shall behave,” Blanche half-heartedly agreed.
“I am quite serious, Blanche. You are perilously close to spinsterhood,” Isabella continued, her tone a stern reminder. “Indulging in your academic fancies will do nothing to secure you a suitable match. Your task this evening is to charm, to exhibit grace, wit, and the modest femininity expected of a lady. If you insist on prattling about mouldering artefacts and dead languages in their presence, you will all but ensure your ruin.”
The warning was delivered sharply, each word a command etched in the air. Blanche felt the weight of societal expectations press upon her, the confines of propriety closing in. As she nodded obediently, the vision of scholarly daydreams and the intellectual pursuits that defined her seemed to recede into the background.
With one last admonishing look, Lady Wicksford allowed Blanche to proceed. As Blanche descended the grand staircase of her family’s town house, she felt the weight of her mother’s expectations settle upon her shoulders like an oppressive mantle. Isabella’s exasperated instructions echoed in her mind, and Blanche bit her tongue to suppress any protest that threatened to escape. She knew too well that challenging her mother’s directives would only invite a blistering lecture on the duties of a genteel young lady and her supposed failure to attract a proposal during her first Season.
That was not a conversation that she wished to have again.
Once outside the home and seated inside the carriage, Blanche allowed herself a moment of silent rebellion, her gaze fixed on the passing cityscape. The lively discussions of scholars and thinkers, happening just beyond the polite earshot of a genteel lady, taunted her like distant music, a melody of intellectual pursuits that remained elusive.
But Blanche knew that just for one night, she could not think about any of it. Even if she did not desire to attract a gentleman at the musicale, she would still have to behave with grace so that her mother did not see through her.
Then maybe they could go just one day without an argument.
The entrance to the McGearys’ musicale was a spectacle of opulence, and as Blanche and her mother swept into the lavish surroundings, she could not help but feel the weight of societal expectations pressing upon her. The elegantly adorned guests and the strains of a melodic piano created an atmosphere of refinement that seemed both captivating and stifling.
As Blanche’s gaze swept across the room, it caught on an imposing figure near the pianoforte — the Duke of Brooksdale. His broad shoulders were emphasised by a fine black velvet waistcoat that accentuated the athleticism of his frame. In that moment, time seemed to slow as their eyes briefly met.
His piercing green gaze held a depth that made Blanche’s breath catch in her throat. A flutter pulsated in her chest, a reaction she berated herself for. It was a visceral response to a stranger, one who likely regarded her as just another simpering society miss.
A sensation she became more convinced of as he rapidly dragged his eyes away from hers.
The Duke of Brooksdale, though clad in the finest of evening attire, seemed a stark contrast to the other gentlemen in attendance. His brooding demeanour and the piercing green eyes she briefly met hinted at a depth that set him apart. A woman Blanche could only assume was his mother exuded the refined elegance befitting her station, yet an air of restraint clung to him.
Lord and Lady McGeary, in their attempts to fawn over the distinguished guests, appeared blissfully unaware of Philip’s lack of enthusiasm. A well-practised smile graced his lips, but the lines of his face betrayed a certain detachment.
Blanche could not help but wonder at the incongruity between the societal expectations of the evening and Philip’s apparent disinterest. As the other guests whispered their speculations and exchanged glances, she observed the Duke of Brooksdale navigating the social intricacies with a palpable sense of reservation—one that she understood all too well.
A subtle tension lingered in the air, and Blanche found herself drawn to this enigmatic figure in the midst of the elegant gathering. The contrast between the polished façade of societal interactions and Philip’s subdued countenance only fueled her curiosity.
Eventually averting her eyes, Blanche focused on the task at hand — upholding her mother’s expectations and making a favourable impression on the eligible gentlemen in attendance. At least, that was how she wanted it to seem. The delicate dance of propriety demanded her attention, and she could not afford to be distracted by the brooding Duke.
Lady Wicksford guided her through the social intricacies, introducing her daughter to notable figures while keeping a watchful eye on her manners. Blanche forced a polite smile, her mind preoccupied with the fleeting eye contact with the gentleman who lingered near the pianoforte. The Duke of Brooksdale remained in her thoughts, his enigmatic presence casting a shadow over the genteel façade of the evening.
He was unnerving, in a way that brought Blanche to the precise of anxiety.
How on earth am I to survive the night? She thought.
Seated alongside her mother, Blanche took in the opulent surroundings of the McGearys’ musicale. The lavish setting, resplendent with the strains of a piano and the melodic notes of accomplished musicians, enveloped the guests in an atmosphere of refined sophistication. She was starting to feel a little excited, and grateful that she came along tonight. Meeting gentlemen might not have been a lot of fun, but the show was sure to be.
Penelope and her parents occupied nearby seats, which meant Blanche was entertained by her friend’s lively critiques and spirited insights as the show started.
“Well, I must say, the opening pianist displayed a delightful finesse, but I could not help but yearn for a touch more passion in their execution. Music is not merely a series of notes; it is an emotional journey, and tonight’s voyage started on a rather reserved shore.”
The words were a welcome distraction. However, try as she might to immerse herself in the music, Blanche’s gaze frequently wandered to the side, where the Duke of Brooksdale sat with his mother. She could not seem to help herself. The lingering fascination with the brooding Duke tugged at her thoughts, a magnetic pull that transcended the allure of the musical compositions.
How she longed to engage with him in conversations about his antiquities collection — the artefacts, the stories behind them, the shared passion for the treasures of the past. The prospect of delving into intellectual discussions with a kindred spirit ignited a spark of yearning within her.
Yet, the reality of her societal constraints weighed heavily. A young lady daring to speak openly about artefacts in the company of gentlemen—and especially of a duke—would all but invite her mother’s swift and painful censure. The rigid dictates of grace, charm, and modest femininity loomed ever large, a stifling force against her quiet yearning for true companionship—one built upon intellect and shared passions, rather than mere pleasantries and propriety.
Eventually, Blanche started to notice that her mother’s eyes seemed to be continually drawn in the direction of the Duke also. Lady Wicksford ‘s attention, usually reserved for matters of societal standing and advantageous matches, was fixated on the Duke of Brooksdale with an unusual fervour.
Blanche stole glances at her mother, trying to discern the source of such fascination. It was an anomaly for Mother, who typically displayed a disdain for scholarly gentlemen and their pursuits. The Duke, brooding and enigmatic, seemed an unlikely object of her mother’s interest, despite his title.
Yet she continued to dart gazes his way, with an intense interest in him.
The unease that prickled the back of Blanche’s neck grew with each passing moment. Her mother’s inscrutable expression offered no clues, leaving Blanche to wonder what could have captured her attention so completely. The musicale, an event crafted to showcase eligible matches, was an odd setting for Mother’s sudden preoccupation with a scholarly figure. Lady Wicksford ‘s cryptic look, a subtle blend of fascination and intrigue, rarely boded well. Blanche could sense the undercurrents of a scheme unfolding, hidden beneath the veneer of societal niceties.
As the last notes of the musicale performances lingered in the air, Blanche found herself engaged in a lively conversation with Penelope about the various compositions and what they liked about them all. The strains of melodies still resonated, and the room buzzed with post-musicale discussions among the guests.
Amidst the chatter, Blanche noticed her mother approaching, wearing an oddly flustered expression. Lady Wicksford ‘s usual composed demeanour seemed momentarily unsettled, a detail that did not escape Blanche’s notice. Curiosity and concern flickered in her eyes as the dowager viscountess reached them.
“Blanche, my dear,” Mother began in strained tones, her hand delicately fanning her face as if to dispel an invisible discomfort. “I find myself suddenly feeling quite faint and unwell. I fear it is the stifling heat of these crowded rooms.”
Blanche’s brows furrowed with genuine worry, but she maintained her composure. “Mother, we should find a quiet place for you to rest…”
Lady Wicksford nodded with a degree of urgency that struck Blanche as peculiar. “Yes, the blue parlour will be the best room for me to recover. I believe I left my smelling salts there. It would be most unseemly if I were to cause a scene and embarrass us all by swooning.”
Penelope, sensing the seriousness of the situation, offered her support. “Would you like me to assist you?”
“Oh no,” the viscountess insisted before Blanche could even think about responding. “I should not want to humiliate myself in front of you. I would only like Blanche to come with me. Please, my dear, let us go now…”
Blanche shot her friend a confused look before she agreed to her mother’s demands. “Of course, let us go right away…”
“Hold on,” Lady Wicksford barked, her now stark attention elsewhere. “I believe Jane is calling me. I shall just see what she needs. I will meet you in the blue parlour momentarily.”
Blanche was left standing with a furrowed brow, a perplexed expression etched on her features. Her mother’s behaviour seemed erratic, and the urgency of her request appeared to dissipate with each hurried step. The need for smelling salts and the urgency of finding a quiet place for rest seemed to have been abandoned in favour of a casual encounter with an acquaintance. It left Blanche standing amidst the genteel throng, grappling with the enigma of her mother’s behaviour.
“What on earth is happening?” she asked Penelope.
“I am not sure,” Penelope admitted. “But knowing your mother, I think it best for you to wait where she is expecting you.”
With a resigned sigh, Blanche chose to venture off alone in search of the elusive blue parlour. The grandeur of the McGearys’ residence offered a labyrinth of opulent corridors, and Blanche navigated the intricacies with a sense of purpose. Her mother’s seemingly capricious request lingered in her thoughts, a puzzle yet to be unravelled.
Perhaps all would make sense once they were alone. If Mother had a plan of some kind, then she hoped it would all make sense once she had finished talking to Jane.
The door to the blue parlour swung open, revealing a haven of serenity amidst the bustling energy of the musicale. As Blanche stepped into the room, her eyes widened in awe, and her breath caught in her throat. The cosy parlour, meant for repose and tranquillity, was an unexpected treasure trove of antiquities that seemed to echo the cherished collection of her late father.
The room was a veritable trove of antiquities, each artefact a testament to an enduring reverence for history and the allure of bygone eras. Delicate statuary, timeworn scrolls, and relics of forgotten civilisations adorned the shelves and tables, their presence imbuing the space with a sense of timeless intrigue—far surpassing mere opulence.
Blanche’s gaze swept over the room, and she felt an immediate connection to the artefacts that surrounded her. It was as if the Baron had gathered pieces of history, each holding a story waiting to be uncovered. Her heart fluttered with a mixture of nostalgia and wonder; the air itself imbued with the resonance of centuries gone by.
Her eyes settled on a mosaic fragment, a piece that seemed to beckon her with its intricate patterns and vibrant hues. As Blanche approached, she felt an inexplicable pull toward the artefact. Running her fingers over the ancient tile, she marvelled at the craftsmanship, the skill of hands long gone but leaving their mark on this tangible piece of history.
Nostalgia welled up inside her, a poignant reminder of her late father’s cherished collection. The mosaic fragment, forged centuries ago, seemed to bridge the gap between the past and the present. In that quiet moment of reflection, the parlour became a sanctuary where Blanche could commune with the artefacts, much like the intimate connection she shared with her father during their archaeological explorations.
As Blanche stood enraptured by the mosaic fragment, tracing the intricate patterns with her fingertips, she became aware of approaching footsteps. Expecting her mother, she turned with a gentle smile, ready to share the serenity of the room filled with antiquities.
To her astonishment, it was not the viscountess who entered the parlour, but the Duke of Brooksdale himself. His Grace — Philip — crossed the threshold with the composed bearing of a man accustomed to command, his brooding countenance tempered by a quiet, almost introspective air. His eyes, a striking shade of green, swept the room with contemplative deliberation before coming to rest on her.
Blanche’s breath caught. Their eyes met, and in that suspended instant, the world narrowed to the silent understanding exchanged between two strangers unexpectedly entwined. This was not supposed to happen.
What am I to do now?
His gaze lingered — not in impertinence, but in fascination — drawn to the delicate pendant at her throat. The Roman mosaic fragment, once unearthed by her late father, gleamed softly against her skin, its ancient artistry whispering stories of a world long past. It was a piece of her heart, and now it lay bare to the scrutiny of the Duke.
Rather than retreating, he advanced — not hastily, but with a quiet certainty that defied the bounds of propriety. There was an undeniable gravity in his manner, a sense of purpose that eclipsed the expected conventions of an introduction.
“Pray forgive the interruption, Miss,” he said, his voice low and resonant, each word carefully measured. “But I confess I was struck by the remarkable pendant you wear. It is most uncommon… and undeniably evocative.”
Blanche, unprepared for such directness from one of the highest-ranking men in the realm, felt a flicker of unease stir beneath her corseted calm. His presence — tall, composed, and unyieldingly intense — unsettled the tranquil air of the parlour, sending her thoughts scattering like petals in a breeze.
However, the scholar’s curiosity that defined her essence quickly overrode trepidation. This was the moment that she had been waiting for after all.
“It is a mosaic piece from a Roman Fort that I once visited with my father. I enjoyed the piece so much that I had it transformed into a pendant.”
The Duke of Brooksdale’s gaze lingered on the pendant, his eyes absorbing every intricate detail of the mosaic piece. There was a brief silence, filled only by the hushed whispers of the room’s ornate furnishings.
“A Roman Fort, you say?” he finally replied. “How fascinating. You say you visited the fort with your father?”
“Oh yes, my father was a great collector of artefacts like this one. Until he passed away.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” the Duke smiled. “Unless of course, he forced you to join him on such missions.”
“Oh no, quite the opposite. I have always enjoyed them.”
The Duke, shrouded in an air of mystery that clung to him like a well-fitted cloak, took a measured step closer. His gaze lingered on the pendant, as though seeking to unravel the secrets woven into the ancient mosaic. Then, at last, his eyes lifted to hers.
When he spoke, his voice was low, almost contemplative.
“Your love for history is evident, Miss. It is a rare quality, and I find it quite enchanting.
May I ask your name?”
Blanche felt a flicker of unease, though whether it was due to the impropriety of such an exchange or the unsettling intrigue the Duke stirred within her, she could not say. This is all wrong. And yet, she did not care enough for society’s dictates to silence her own curiosity.
“I am Miss Ipswich, daughter to the late Viscount of Wicksford.”
“And I am Philip Brooks, the Duke of Brooksdale.” His grin grew wider. “Perhaps we share a similar appreciation for the mysteries that time bestows upon us.”
Blanche, though initially taken aback by the Duke’s directness, found herself intrigued by the layers of complexity in his character. She nodded, the conversation weaving a delicate tapestry of shared appreciation for history and artefacts.
“Your Grace, might I inquire about your own interest in history?” Blanche asked nervously. “I am certain you have encountered many remarkable artefacts. You have a very famous collection, from what I have heard.”
As the Duke and Blanche engaged in lively discourse over their shared passion for history, the parlour seemed to dissolve into something beyond mere ornament and propriety—a sanctuary for like minds. The pendant, once nothing more than a fragment of mosaic, now served as a silent conduit, a bridge between two souls drawn together by their reverence for the past. In that moment, the weight of expectation faded, leaving only the quiet thrill of discovery—a shared longing to unravel the narratives hidden within the artefacts that had shaped their lives.