The Duke and the Lass by Jessie Clever

Chapter 11

She felt like a cream puff.

This was not the worst of it, however.

She also looked like one.

Louisa had taken her to Beauchamp’s Boutique on a street chocked full of equally tasteful establishments. Della knew she should have remembered the name of the street. Louisa said it was London’s shopping district, but Della had been too overwhelmed by the traffic and people and noise so recalled very little of it. It was all just a blur in her mind.

It must have been for had she been thinking clearly, she never would have agreed to whatever it was she was wearing. But then, she hadn’t agreed, had she?

She closed her eyes and tried to picture the shop. Madame Beauchamp was a kind woman, probably a handful of years older than Della, which had been a relief. Della hadn’t been sure what to expect, and her mind kept conjuring images of Madame Liliberte, no matter how hard she tried to rid the woman from her thoughts. But Madame Beauchamp was nothing like that. For one, she smelled of roses, and her shop possessed nothing fouler than the lingering aroma of brewed tea.

Della couldn’t even have said if she had seen any of the gowns that were displayed about the shop. She had marched up to the proprietress and stated she wanted gowns in all the latest fashions and colors.

Della tried to remember what happened after that. She remembered a good deal of negotiating on the part of Louisa, but Madame Beauchamp had been dutiful in fulfilling Della’s requests.

Louisa had been right to try to negotiate with her. It was easily apparent that London’s latest fashions were made for women with a healthier complexion and smaller hips.

And a great deal smaller bosom it would seem.

Della adjusted her bodice, but it did no good. Distressingly, she pictured her breasts springing free at any moment, and if her luck continued as it had been of late, they would pop free and into her soup course.

She studied her reflection in the mirror of her dressing table, her eyes focused on the delicate button that held the top of her bodice in place.

One single, solitary, lonely button. It was all that was holding her bosom in, and Della did not like the idea of her modesty resting on so very little.

There was nothing to be done for it. She raised her chin. These were the latest fashions, and she would be the best duchess for Andrew.

“Almost finished here, Your Grace,” said Parker, the upstairs maid who had been promoted to Della’s lady’s maid.

Della thought it was rather unnecessary, but the butler, Mallard, had insisted. Now Parker expertly twisted Della’s hair into a perfect chignon with small curls escaping around her forehead to soften the appearance.

If it weren’t for the cream puff of a dress, Della might have felt pretty. But taking in the entirety of her appearance, she couldn’t help but feel her hairstyle was nothing more than the embellishment atop a petit four.

She released a breath and closed her eyes, the ever-familiar feeling of failure sending tears to her eyes. Tears she refused to shed.

She blinked and focused on her reflection. There was nothing for it. This was how she would appear at the dinner that would introduce her to London society, and that was that. Perhaps she could woo them with her debonair wit.

Her shoulders slumped, and she let her chin fall.

“Thank you, Parker.” She met the maid’s eyes in the mirror and forced a smile.

She gathered her wrap and reticule and made her way downstairs. There was no point in dithering. It would be best to get this over with.

Andrew was already in the foyer when she came down the stairs, and he turned as she stepped beside him.

She raised her chin and sucked in a breath, hoping to make herself at least appear smaller, but she knew there was no hiding the way the fabric strained across her bosom.

Andrew’s smile faded as he took her in. “You look…lovely.”

It hurt. It hurt so very much, and she fell back on the years of pretending everything was all right to keep her smile in place just then.

“Madame Beauchamp says it’s all the rage this season. The color is daffodil sunrise.”

“Daffodil and sunrise? That’s quite a lot of yellow,” Andrew muttered.

Her smile wobbled, but she caught it and spread her lips farther. “Yes, it is rather. Would you help me with my wrap?”

She was afraid if she attempted it herself, the buttons on her bodice would give up entirely.

He took the length of silk and draped it delicately over her shoulders. It was impossible to miss how careful he was not to touch her.

Since they had arrived in London, they had taken on a routine of sorts. He left in the early morning hours to attend to business matters or some such thing, he never did tell her what, and she busied herself with acquainting herself with the staff and the running of the household. Or at least, she pretended to do so. In reality, she hadn’t any clearer idea of what was expected of her than before she’d become a duchess.

There was an uneasy silence in the carriage for most of the ride to Ashbourne House. She had yet to meet Eliza, and Della’s stomach twisted with nerves.

“Eliza is the second oldest sister, correct?” Her voice was overly loud in the quiet of the carriage, and it was almost as though she startled Andrew from his perusal of the passing London landscape.

“Yes, Eliza is second eldest. I had hoped you would meet Viv before the Christmas holidays, but it seems they’ve had a good harvest in Margate, and they are staying to see things through.” He returned his attention to the window.

She relaxed her face. There was no point in smiling if he didn’t see it.

The carriage came to a halt faster than she’d expected, and suddenly her stomach tumbled until she was sure she would lose what very little she had eaten that day. She wasn’t sure exactly why, but the sweets that had given her comfort no longer proved useful, and she’d taken to noticing how her appetite remained small.

It was a curious thing, but she figured perhaps she’d obtained a heroic level of strain, and her body simply could no longer tolerate it. That sounded very much like her.

Andrew handed her down, and soon they were standing in the foyer of Ashbourne House.

The space was crowded with guests shedding their outer garments as uniformed servants took hats and wraps and cloaks. She was suddenly gripped with a desire to keep her wrap. Perhaps she could say it was part of her ensemble, but Andrew slipped it from her shoulders before she could say otherwise.

She felt exposed and vulnerable, and she drew in a breath, rolling her shoulders as if it might help her to disappear. Andrew took her arm and led her into a drawing room off the vestibule. She tried to remind herself it was only Andrew’s sister, but that somehow made it worse.

It was crowded where they stood by the door, and she scanned the room, wondering why Andrew didn’t shift them to a different spot. But then her eyes fell on Louisa in the opposite corner, and she smiled her glorious friendly smile in Della’s direction, and Della felt the pull and safety of familiarity like a magnet.

“Oh, there’s Louisa,” she said to Andrew and slipped her arm from his to go over to the woman.

Louisa’s smile slipped a little as Della stepped away from Andrew, and she hesitated, wondering what she had done wrong. It was only when she was halfway across the room that she realized they had been standing in some sort of receiving line as guests entered and greeted a couple who must have been their hosts.

Great bloody bollocks.

She’d already ruined it.

She froze, paralyzed at the thought of making things worse, and so she stood in the middle of the drawing room, and she could feel the weight of the stares of all the gathered guests like an anvil about her neck.

She had never been more aware of her cream puff dress and the straining button on which her entire reputation rested.

Her heart shattered.

Her first foray into London society, and she’d already made a mess of things. Andrew no doubt regretted saving her from her father. It was obvious she could never be the duchess he deserved.

And so, he could never love her.

The thought came out of the darkness with the quickness and severity of lightning. She tamped it back, but it refused to go away. Standing in the middle of the drawing room with all eyes of society bearing down on her, she could only think of one thing.

She wanted Andrew to love her.

The realization ran deep, shaking her to her bones, and she stood suspended in the middle of the drawing room, comprehending fully the futility of what she had tried to do.

She could never be Andrew’s duchess, and he would never love her.

It was so obvious to her now.

But then the strangest thing happened.

The tall gentleman who had been standing next to Louisa separated himself and came to stand beside her.

“It is rather masterfully done, don’t you think?” he asked without preamble. “I heard it was rendered by Chauvin himself.” The man looked up, his expression serious.

Not knowing what else to do or exactly what was happening, she followed the man’s gaze.

A mural was painted into the plaster of the ceiling. It was a pastoral landscape of muted design, delicately rendered and inspiring. It was rather lovely really.

“I can see how you would be arrested by its beauty. You must have an eye for art.”

She snapped her attention to the man beside her.

He was saving her.

This stranger whom she had never met was saving her from societal suicide.

She blinked, unable to move her gaze from his face. “Yes, it is. Quite beautiful that is. You say it was rendered by Chauvin?”

Who the hell was Chauvin?

The man was prevented from answering by the arrival of a second gentleman.

“Ah, I see you’ve noticed our murals. Ashbourne House has forty-seven in total. There’s no record of who painted them, but you can tell by the brush strokes and use of the muted palette that speculation would suggest it’s by Chauvin himself.” The man shrugged. “If only there were a way to prove it.”

“Yes, if only,” she muttered, unable to pry her eyes from the second gentleman.

He was so gorgeous it must have been a sin. For a moment, Della feared she had dropped into the middle of a Melanie Merkett novel. Who were these men, and why were they coming to her rescue?

“I’m so pleased you enjoy them. I hope you’ll take the time to explore the rest of the house after dinner. My wife would be happy to accompany you.” He gestured behind him to the front of the receiving line she had unwittingly abandoned at the woman who stood there, trying desperately to hide a smile as she cradled her rounded stomach.

Eliza.

It had to be.

Della felt something shift inside of her like a row of dominoes spilling over on one another.

These gentlemen were Andrew’s brothers-in-law. They had to be. And they had stepped in to save her from what would have been a disastrous introduction.

Her gaze traveled the length of the receiving line, desperate to find Andrew, but she stopped as she noted the expressions on the faces of those who still waited to greet their host and hostess. There were quiet whispers and curious glances, soft smiles and knowing nods.

But no one looked at her in judgment.

Not a single frown, wrinkled brow, or dismissive nod.

They were curious about her. That was all.

She raised her chin. “I should like that very much. Thank you, Your Grace.”

Finally, her eyes found Andrew. He stood toward the back of the line, his arms crossed over his chest.

He was trying to hold back a laugh, and the sight of it had her hopes falling.

Was that all she was to him? A source of mockery?

Perhaps he was right.

After all, her brothers-in-law would not always be there to save her.

* * *

She was perfect.

When she had slipped from his arm at the receiving line at the first glimpse of Louisa, it hit him how important it was that she like his sisters. He hadn’t realized until then just how much it meant to him that she get along with them.

He was well aware that he had earned the title of the Unwanted Duke thanks to the same sisters. Apparently, the infamous Darby sisters were too much for a prospective bride to comprehend, but watching Della’s face transform at the sight of one of them had something stirring in his chest.

Not for the first time did he think he had done the right thing in marrying her. To protect her had certainly been a consideration, but he wasn’t fool enough to deny there hadn’t been an ulterior reason to marry her.

Every night he found himself in her arms he knew the real reason he had been so quick to marry her.

But while the physical attraction was undeniable, it was her performance that evening at dinner that solidified what he already knew.

She was just so damn likable.

She made mistakes and still held her chin high. She laughed at unbearable circumstances that would drive others to disagreeable natures.

When he thought of marriage, he saw what others in society had and knew it would be far more bearable if he found a partner instead of a wife. Someone who was more than just filling the role society had determined for her. Someone…like Della.

He shifted uncomfortably at the thought, knowing how close he tread to a dangerous line. He couldn’t let himself get caught up in the wonder of his new wife should he let his guard down. They were not out of danger, and he couldn’t yet relax.

He was reminded of this as Dax approached him with a glass of port after dinner. They had adjourned to the drawing room where brandy and port were being served. It was customary for the gentlemen to remain at the table and smoke their pipes and drink while the ladies retired, but this dinner was rather informal as it was out of season, and Eliza had suggested they all retire to the drawing room after the meal for more conversation.

It was a perfectly calculated move, Andrew knew. It would give more of the guests at dinner an opportunity to speak with Della and solidify her place in society as the Duchess of Ravenwood.

He couldn’t have underestimated how important that was until Dax leaned in close on the presumption of handing him the glass of port.

“We uncovered some rumors at our club.”

Andrew gave no outward sign that he’d heard him.

“It seems the MacKenzie is making his way south.”

“Does he know who his intended target may be?”

Dax shook his head, sipping his own port. “From what I’ve gathered, the man has made his way to Bewcastle. I was hoping you may know why.”

Andrew turned the glass of port in his hands, careful not to squeeze it too tightly as a surge of something so primal it was almost frightening shot through him. So, the MacKenzie was on the hunt. It didn’t scare him. It only served to ignite his focus on his wife.

“Della’s grandparents reside in Bewcastle. She’s lived with them the better part of her life. I should think the MacKenzie might believe she tried to return.”

Dax shifted, a smile coming softly to his lips that did not match his words but would suggest to anyone watching that the two men were doing little more than swapping stories of horseflesh or cards.

“That is possible, but what will happen when he finds she is not there?”

Andrew’s eyes zeroed in on Della as she sat perched between Eliza and Louisa on the sofa while she spoke with two of the other ladies who had been invited that evening.

“I can only hope he may give up the hunt.”

Dax swirled the port in his glass. “I should think that unlikely, don’t you?”

Andrew was saved from answering by Sebastian’s approach.

“Did you tell him of the news from the north?”

Dax nodded. “Della’s grandparents are in Bewcastle.”

Sebastian glanced in Della’s direction. “He thinks she might have run away then. That’s promising, is it not?”

Andrew saw Sebastian in a different light since their conversation on the pavement in front of Ashbourne House. He had always seen the man as reserved, and at times, Andrew had wondered if he lacked all social decorum. But it wasn’t that at all. Sebastian simply had a way of homing in on what mattered and blocking out the rest. Andrew envied him such focus.

“It is rather,” Andrew replied.

He was hit with a sudden urge to see his wife home. The night, by his standards, had been a smashing success. Della was well and thoroughly introduced to society as his wife, and she had done it in such a way as no one could possibly forget. For how she had shone standing there in the middle of the drawing room staring up at the ceiling. How she was flanked by two powerful, well-respected dukes as she considered the mural there.

He knew the truth of it. He should have realized Della would not have had any sort of tutoring in what was expected of one in society. She likely hadn’t realized they were to greet their hosts first, but none of it mattered. For now, she was unforgettable. He had seen the way the other guests were enchanted by her.

To say nothing of Eliza’s brilliant strategy as a host. She’d invited a marquess and a marchioness who were distant cousins of Queen Victoria herself, an earl who had the ear of the prime minister, and a viscountess who it was rumored could end a lady’s reputation in society with the single refusal of an invitation. The viscountess was now seated adjacent to the sofa on which Della perched, and she leaned so far forward to hear Della speaking she may fall from the chair.

Yes, it was by all accounts an absolute success.

And now he wanted nothing more than to take her home.

That primal surge roared up in him again as he mulled over the new information of her father’s whereabouts. Andrew knew they couldn’t escape notice forever, but he was surprised to learn the MacKenzie was already on the move. He would have bet a guinea the man would have not been inclined to travel before spring, not wishing to subject himself to the cold discomfort of winter travel.

Which reminded him of another matter.

“Were you able to learn anything of the man’s doings in Parliament?”

Sebastian shook his head. “From what I’ve gathered, he is a sailboat without wind.”

Dax frowned. “The MacKenzie is so ineffective in the political sphere, I imagine he viewed his daughter’s marriage as the last attempt to gain footing there.”

Andrew felt the weight of this new element. “He may be even more desperate to retrieve her as I denied him the opportunity to negotiate a marriage contract.”

“Which means he was robbed of the opportunity to contractually win your fealty. A weighty thing in any political decision,” Sebastian said.

Andrew nodded gravely.

Neither Dax nor Sebastian answered and instead exchanged watchful glances.

“Then I think it’s best that we close ranks on this and keep an ear to any rumors that might come to town,” Dax said.

Andrew thanked his brothers-in-law for the information and bid them farewell before moving to the seating area to collect Della. But before he could interrupt, Louisa stood and pulled him aside.

“Andrew, you must do something,” she whispered.

He blinked. “Do what?”

Louisa moved only her chin in the direction of his wife.

“Your poor wife. She insisted on that monstrosity because the cut and fabric are the rage this season, but they do nothing for her. Can’t you see that?”

He could admit that it was difficult to see things clearly when it came to Della. Her personality and charm often distracted him from her physical appearance. She had worn nothing more than a tattered and sap-riddled gown for the better part of two days when first they’d met, and it hadn’t mattered at all to him. When she had appeared earlier in the evening, he’d been put off slightly by the vibrant yellow of the gown, but he knew he understood very little of fashion.

But he bent a critical eye to Della’s ensemble now and realized of what his sister spoke.

“What is that?” he whispered.

“It doesn’t matter what it is. It only matters that you must say something to her. I tried to get her to try something else, but she insisted on only what was in fashion this season. Not even considering what might display her attributes to an advantage.”

“You mean what she’s wearing is hideous.”

Louisa did nothing more than frown, clearly not willing to call her sister-in-law anything unpleasant.

Andrew sighed. “Are all of her gowns like that?”

Louisa nodded, her lips melding into a thin line.

The gesture was like a punch to his gut. In his mind he saw Della as she had entered the great hall of MacKenzie Keep, the worn hem of her traveling cloak and the washed-out grays of the gown beneath, the way she’d unconsciously tried to hide the toes of her worn slippers beneath the flounces of crinolines.

He no longer saw the yellow contraption in which she was ensconced. Now he saw only armor.

He squeezed Louisa’s hand and moved forward to interrupt the conversation at hand. The viscountess was reluctant to let Della leave, and only acquiesced when it was determined Della should come for tea soon.

Several long minutes later they were finally in the carriage.

He sank into the bench opposite his wife, his head throbbing with the weight of his thoughts. He absently rubbed at his aching temples as the carriage rocked forward.

“I’m so terribly sorry.”

He blinked, his gaze flying to Della’s face at the watery sound of her voice. In the weeks he had known her, he had never heard her sound so defeated.

“Whatever for?” He had been caught up in thinking how quickly he might get a letter to Ben to warn him of the MacKenzie’s journey south, that Della’s sudden interjection startled him, scattering his thoughts.

She crushed the edges of her cloak between her hands. “I’m so terribly sorry, Andrew. I promise it shan’t ever happen again. I’ll find a book. I swear it. I’ll—”

He raised a hand, the only thing he could think of to stop her incessant chattering. He couldn’t bear to hear her so remorseful.

“Della, whatever are you speaking of? Find a book? Find a book about what?”

She withdrew, sinking back into the bench as she hunched her shoulders as if to appear smaller. He hated it when she did that. Her chin remained firm, but she didn’t speak.

“Is this about the book you lost? I’m sure Louisa would be happy to take you to a bookshop—”

“It’s not about that. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have bothered you with it.”

He stared, unable to comprehend what sort of conversation they were having. He had to figure out how to tactfully acquire new gowns for her and get the letter off to Ben. Would it reach Ben in time? Would he be able to inquire about the MacKenzie’s travels in the village? Surely a belligerent Scotsman would be noticed by someone.

She watched out the window now, her gaze resolutely not meeting his.

He crossed his arms. “Della, do you like the gowns you purchased from the modiste?”

Her eyes were wide as though he’d startled her. “I was assured this is the height of fashion this year.”

“You didn’t answer my question. Do you like them?”

Her lips parted, but she didn’t say anything right away. “Do you think it unsuitable?” She plucked at her skirts like one would pick up a soiled handkerchief.

He leaned forward, elbows to his knees. “Della, do you like the gowns?”

Her brow wrinkled. “Why would it matter if I liked them?”

“Because you’re wearing them.” Before they had reached London, conversations with her had not been this trying. He worried what might have changed.

She dropped her hands in her lap. “That hardly matters. They’re fashionable. I want to present the title of Ravenwood in a favorable light.”

“The title of Ravenwood?” He pictured her that first night in her bedchamber, her hand plucking fingers of shortbread from a tin. He thought that Della wouldn’t care a fig about how she appeared in society. Why would she suddenly care now?

He didn’t know for sure, but he thought it had something to do with the neglect he had discovered in so many parts of her life.

Her chin remained firm. “Yes, it’s important that I perform my duties as the duchess appropriately. That’s why it was so—” She stopped abruptly, her eyes widening ever so slightly as if she remembered something. “Oh, never mind.” She turned her attention back out the window.

He leaned forward farther and snatched her hands from her lap, pressing them between his. “Della, what in God’s name are you talking about? Why are you wearing such a hideous gown and what are you sorry about?” His tone had turned sterner than he would have liked, but he was suddenly gripped with the sense he was losing control. And he couldn’t lose control. It was too dangerous.

She blinked, and for the first time, her chin fell. “You think my gown hideous?” Her voice was so soft and vulnerable, almost like that of a child.

“Della, that’s not—”

The carriage stopped, and he shot a glance out the window only to find they had arrived so quickly at Ravenwood House.

“Della, I—” He tried again, but the tiger had already thrown open the door and stood waiting for them to exit.

Della didn’t wait for him to hand her down. She slipped from the bench and calmly and quietly made her way into the house.