Can’t Buy Me a Duke by Bianca Blythe

CHAPTER ONE

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“LUCY ALICE BANKS,”Mama’s voice barreled through their Grosvenor Square townhouse, evidently unperturbed by the abundance of thick marble and the presence of startled servants. “Get down here! At once!”

Lucy scurried from her room. Mama, Papa, and Isabella stood in the foyer. The crystals from the chandelier above made their clothes glimmer, an unnecessary addition to the shimmery overlay over Mama’s and Isabella’s gowns and their jeweled necklaces.

Both of Mama’s arms had settled on her waist, and she glared with a ferocity soldiers might envy when seeking to intimidate their well-armed enemy. “You were reading.”

“I—”

“Your dress is creased. You must have sat down after Rose prepared you.”

“I’m sorry, I—”

“Never mind.” Mama flung a pelisse at her. “Put this on. Let’s hope Sir Seymour is stingy with his candles.”

Lucy nodded dumbly and slipped the pelisse on. The ivory spotted fox trim was unnecessary in the warm June weather. Mama had chosen it more for its vast expense than its practicality.

The butler opened the main door and shot Lucy a sympathetic look. No doubt, all the servants had heard Mama’s increasingly frantic tirades on the importance of appearing immaculate, exuding femininity and charming a man into marriage. Unfortunately, Lucy hadn’t succeeded at any of those tasks, particularly the latter and most important.

Mama and Papa hurried toward the coach. Isabella moved briskly after them, striding easily despite her stays and the need to ensure her hem remained mud-free. They scrambled inside, then the coach jerked to a sudden start. The horses hurried toward Sir Seymour’s townhouse.

Finally, the horses stopped before an austere townhouse. Golden light glowed from a set of large windows, and music streamed faintly toward them.

“We’ve arrived!” Mama lunged for the door handle and hurried from the coach. The others followed, though at a slightly slower pace than Mama.

The steps and pavement were devoid of chattering ton members, and Lucy’s heart fell. Normally, there was a long queue entering any ball. Had everyone already entered?

Lucy followed her family up the steps and braced for the crush of people inside. She prepared herself for clashing scents of floral and musk, and the jostling of people as they moved into a too-small place and spent too long craning their heads toward the ceiling, declaring the artist of whatever celestial and cherub-swarming ceiling superior to Michelangelo and Titian. She almost felt the barely restrained glowers of swift-moving footmen.

A violin screeched, and after her family had changed into their dance slippers, they ventured into Sir Seymour’s ballroom. The walls were the serene green commonly found in duck ponds, and the floors were dark wood. Footmen in old-fashioned pantaloons and wigs flanked the banquet table as if to guard it. None of them glowered and none of them moved swiftly.

Sir Seymour marched toward them, and his face reddened from the exertion, the color emphasized by his white hair. Mama exchanged glances with Papa, then approached the host.

“Are we early to the ball?” Mama asked.

“Early? No such thing as early!” Sir Seymour’s eyebrows pushed together.

“I meant not many people are present,” Mama amended.

“Ah, quite, quite,” Sir Seymour said. “Only the best of the best come here.”

Mama gave a pleased smile. She craned her neck toward the few guests mingling about the banquet table, but Mama’s expression sobered. “I don’t recognize anyone.”

“Then I shall do the introductions,” Sir Seymour said jovially. “I hunt with them in Yorkshire.”

“Ah,” Mama said.

Lucy scanned the ballroom for any acquaintances. The ballroom was mostly empty. A few elderly women huddled near the fireplace, while their even more elderly husbands tottered about the punch table. They had heavy white sideburns that seemed formed in the view of offering extra warmth on chilly northern days. A lone violinist played in one section of the ballroom, even though most hosts and hostesses made sure at least a string quartet was present. The violist did not make up for the lack of accompaniment with talent, and perhaps the advanced age of the guests was not the sole reason for the empty dance floor.

“It seems awfully sparse here,” Mama said.

“Sparse? Nonsense!” Sir Seymour grumbled. “Exclusive. Highly exclusive.”

A footman gave a muffled snort, and Sir Seymour glared.

The footman lowered his silver platter. “Would you care for a drink, my lord?”

Sir Seymour snatched an entire glass of brandy and downed it. He placed the empty tumbler back on the tray, and it clinked loudly. He then took another glass of brandy and grinned.

“There’s some event at Almack’s,” Sir Seymour said. “Those blasted proprietesses consider themselves exclusive. Obviously, everyone is missing out.”

“Oh,” Mama said. “I didn’t know about that event.”

“Then I reckon you weren’t invited.”

Mama stiffened.

“I wasn’t either.” Sir Seymour grabbed a flute of champagne from a waiter and slurped it down. “Damned snobs.”

“I thought all English were snobs,” Papa observed drily.

“Oh, yes.” Sir Seymour nodded rapidly. “But most English snobs aren’t as disagreeable looking as the proprietresses of Almack’s. Revolting group of women, that’s what I say!”

“You told them that?” Papa asked.

Sir Seymour gave a toothy grin and nodded his head rapidly. “Banned for life, I am. Think of that! Me, a baron from the great county of Yorkshire.” Sir Seymour leaned closer to Lucy’s family. “Yorkshire is the most wonderful county in all of Britain. Have you visited yet?”

“No.”

Sir Seymour heaved a disappointed sigh. “Americans. So uncultured.”

“We’ve visited Bath though,” Mama said brightly. “And some of the countryside.”

“Ha! Some of those buildings in Bath are ancient. Created by Romans. All distasteful. Bunch of Italians.”

Mama’s smile tightened, though she valiantly continued the conversation. “The Roman Baths are lovely. I do recommend it.”

“But can you hunt there?” Sir Seymour pressed. “Can you shoot game? Do falcons and foxes roam about those limestone travesties?”

“Falcons don’t roam,” Lucy said.

Sir Seymour fixed his beady gaze on her. “I personally ascribe to the notion that women should be seen and not heard. Sometimes they shouldn’t even be seen.”

Lucy flinched.

Sir Seymour raked his gaze over Lucy’s figure with obvious concentration as if to count every freckle and compare every curve to those found in artists’ manuals.

Mama clutched hold of Lucy’s elbow, then grabbed Isabella. “Come, girls.”

Sir Seymour smirked as Mama marched them from the baron.

“That, young ladies, was an insult.” Mama glanced back at Sir Seymour. “From that vile man. Utterly abhorrent.”

Isabella’s face remained calm. “No doubt, he misspoke.”

Mama narrowed her eyes. “He intended it as an insult. Though, Isabella, I’m certain he didn’t include you.”

Isabella shot a worried glance at Lucy, and Lucy’s heart tumbled.

Mama was correct. He hadn’t meant Isabella. Isabella exuded perfection.

Every man loved Isabella’s large, wide-set eyes, just as every man loved her silky hair. Gentlemen adored her heart-shaped face and were apt to suddenly muse about the beauty of cheekbones, even though Lucy was certain none of them had given much thought to cheekbones and their potential for beauty before meeting Isabella.

Everyone remarked on Isabella’s beauty to Lucy since they were small girls, as if they were all bewildered that Lucy, who had so clearly turned out all wrong, was the sister of someone so striking.

Isabella’s personality was similarly devoid of flaws. A writer of maudlin allegories could not have concocted someone of better character. Isabella was kind and sweet. She didn’t possess an actual halo, but people swarmed about her all the same. It didn’t take them long to discover her beauty, and they flocked to her, offering her their meager jokes and compliments as tribute.

Lucy was accustomed to men rapidly approaching Isabella and commenting on her beauty before shooting Lucy disgruntled, obviously disappointed glances. Lucy didn’t resemble Isabella. Lucy’s figure was too rounded, a fact even the most expensive fabrics and most advanced fashion cuts failed to mask. Isabella resembled a dainty doll. No amount of ribbons and flounces and puffed sleeves ever made her look ridiculous. She always appeared exquisite.

There’d been a time when the prospect of attending balls had excited Lucy. She’d even been excited about visiting England, but she soon learned London balls were no different than New York ones. Both involved sitting in the smoky sections of the ballroom, waiting in vain for someone to ask her to dance.

Mama glowered at Lucy. “You are humiliating me.”

“I-I’m sorry, Mama.” Lucy’s voice trembled. Even though she wasn’t particularly fond of the value everyone placed on being beautiful, she abhorred not attaining that trait.

“All that money on a French modiste,” Mama wailed, throwing her hands up with such violence the diamond bracelets on her wrists created an angry clang. “You’re wearing the height of fashion, and yet. . .”

“It doesn’t matter,” Lucy said mournfully.

Mama blinked abruptly. “We’ll find you a husband.”

“I don’t want a husband.” Lucy wrapped her arms together and pressed them against her chest.

A husband was just a man one had married. Considering the generally unsatisfying behavior of men, marriage lacked appeal.

Suddenly, the door to the ballroom opened, and half a dozen men entered. Unlike the men already at the ball, these men were decidedly on the correct side of thirty-five. They were tall with chiseled features that the flickering candlelight adored. They shot wide grins at everyone. Their skin was sun-kissed, and they emanated health.

“More guests!” Mama clapped her hands. “The Duke of Sturbridge is here. Think of that.”

“And Lord Benedict Brooke.” Isabella’s long eyelashes fluttered, and a dreamy expression drifted over Isabella’s perfect features.

“Yes, yes,” Mama said. “Though Lord Brooke is a viscount. Sturbridge is a duke. And that’s quite the best thing to be. His mother lives next door to us.”

“Yes, Mama.” Isabella’s gaze remained transfixed on Lord Brooke.

Lord Brooke had the same flaxen hair as Isabella, and the same bright blue eyes. His coiffure was immaculately curled, but he never displayed the arrogance of some of the fashionable men who spoke about Beau Brummel in the same wondrous manner physicists adopted when speaking about Sir Isaac Newton.

The men swaggered into the ballroom. Other women turned toward them, no doubt appreciating their broad chests and towering heights and clear skins.

“Oh, my!” Mama fanned herself vigorously, unconcerned with damaging the expensive lace. “Perhaps this will be an interesting ball, after all.”

Lucy nodded reluctantly. For a moment, she’d almost hoped Mama would insist they leave, and Lucy could finish her book. Still, she hadn’t looked forward to Mama’s accompanying anguished statements.

“Once dear Lucy marries, I think the Duke of Sturbridge might be perfect for you, Isabella,” Mama said.

“Truly?” Isabella scrunched her lips, even though she’d warned Lucy on occasion that lip scrunching might lead to unflattering lines. “He is rather roguish. People say he has no intention of ever marrying.”

Mama shrugged nonchalantly. “Men can be persuaded to marry, especially men in need of heirs. The important thing is whether or not he has money.”

Papa cleared his throat with such force that several elderly guests stared. Clearly, Papa’s vocal capacity was not daunted by their decreasing auditory abilities.

Mama’s cheeks pinkened. “Obviously, money isn’t the only important thing. Some men have money and are tolerable.”

“Tolerable?” Papa bit into a small artichoke tart.

“Suitable,” Mama corrected impatiently.

Papa raised his eyebrows.

Mama’s shoulders slumped, and the faux flowers sewn onto her dress seemed to swallow her. “Wonderful. Obviously, that’s what I meant.”

“Obviously,” Papa repeated, then offered Mama a canapé.

“Anyway,” Mama said. “The Duke of Sturbridge’s suitability for Isabella does not matter. Lucy must marry first.”

“Truly?” A mournful look crossed over Isabella’s impeccable features. Isabella seldom appeared anything but content, and Lucy drew her eyebrows together.

“Naturally.” Mama jutted out her chin, oblivious to Isabella’s uncharacteristic frown. “I won’t have you marrying first.”

“You’re our baby,” Papa said fondly.

“And Lucy will never marry if Isabella marries first,” Mama chattered merrily. “People are already suspicious of her age. It wouldn’t do to have her also have an already married sister. What would people think!”

“But that won’t mean she’ll be a spinster forever,” Isabella said.

Mama sighed, and a sorrowful expression sailed over her face. “But that’s exactly what it will mean. Remember Aunt Dorinda? She’s older than me. Once I married, she never did.”

“Maybe she didn’t desire marriage,” Lucy said.

“And willingly stay with my parents her entire life?” Mama wrinkled her nose. “Sweetheart, they must somehow have formed a good impression on you, but no one would desire that fate.”

“Your mother is absolutely correct.” Papa had evidently recovered from Mama’s unromantic proclamation that money was essential for prospective suitors to possess for the opportunity to demean his in-laws.

“You remind me of Aunt Dorinda.” Mama smoothed a lock of Lucy’s hair.

“If she’d been a redhead,” Papa said.

Lucy stiffened. “My hair is auburn.”

Mama and Papa exchanged sympathetic glances as if to commiserate that their children would make outrageous statements into adulthood.

“I warrant Lord Brooke wants to join us.” Papa hastily changed the subject and waved a gloved hand toward the viscount.

Lord Brooke was indeed shooting frequent glances at them. The candlelight glowed over his golden locks, and his round, pleasant face made him resemble an overgrown cherub.

“May I dance with him?” Isabella pleaded.

“How do you know he wants to dance with you?” Mama asked.

Isabella bit her lip and was suddenly silent.

Lucy crinkled her brow, as if she were still being taught by her governess and was contemplating a particularly difficult mathematics problem.  Was it possible her sister had somehow formed an . . . attachment? No, that was unlikely, despite Isabella’s beauty. Surely, it was unlikely. Perhaps Isabella had opted to stay in London, staying with her friend Emmaline, while Lucy and her parents went to Bath, but that didn’t mean Isabella had already found a potential husband.

A vague unease stomped through Lucy. Isabella was younger than Lucy. Had she already found love? On her own?

Was Lucy already Aunt Dorinda? Lucy suddenly felt even more frumpy and conscious of the wrinkles on her gown.

“Do smile, my dear. I won’t have the men thinking you’re grumpy,” Mama continued, oblivious to the smirks of the other partygoers. “We New Yorkers already have terrible reputations here.”

“I don’t think smiling is necessary,” Lucy said, but her heartbeat sped, and she pasted a too-wide smile on her face.

“Of course, it’s necessary,” Mama’s voice was shrill.

“Now, fill your dance card,” Papa said.

“They don’t do dance cards here,” Mama scolded him.

“That is a problem,” Papa said.

Her parents squabbled, and Lucy wandered away, conscious of her lack of dance partners. At some point, balls had become tricky. They were filled with people conversing, but Lucy had to pretend she was happy being alone.

No wonder people extolled marriage. It must be nice to always have someone with whom to speak and dance. The musicians played quickly, unperturbed by their task of forming the perfect note on their stringed instrument and equally undaunted by the task of remaining in utter harmony with one another, despite the flurry of voices about the banquet table and stomping of feet on the dance floor. At least they had something to do.

The season had started a month ago, and once wide-eyed debutantes now glided about the room with smug superiority, confident in their ability to receive requests for dances and accustomed to a flurry of compliments. Last year Lucy had been in Bath, but now she was in London. She missed Bath’s honey-colored townhouses and its abundance of hills that assured all the carriages drove slowly and revealed startling, beautiful images of the town and city. She despised London’s flatness, even if the wide streets were convenient to carriages.

Heavens, Lucy even missed her home. She’d never considered herself much of a New Yorker, but this past month she’d missed the bustling city. The staid sophistication of Grosvenor Square felt constraining.

Lucy approached the refreshment table. She brushed past women wearing sleek ivory gowns. The gowns lacked the excessive adornment of the Parisian creations Mama had purchased for Lucy, and even though she was certain her gown was more expensive, she suddenly felt gauche.

Lucy picked up a crystal tumbler of punch. The coquelicot color of the liquid failed to incite excitement. The bobbing orange and strawberry slices were similarly invigorating, but she sipped it tentatively.

“It’s that Banks girl.” An alto voice sounded behind Lucy, and she stiffened. “The American. You heard about her.”

“Everyone’s heard about her,” another, more high-pitched voice said.

Giggling sounded.

Lucy’s heartbeat quickened.

They were speaking about her. Lucy quelled her instinct to rush from the ballroom, handkerchief in hand. It was tempting to pretend she’d lost her hearing and simply smile placidly like some of the Greek statues that dotted the room. Perhaps that option was ineffective, lest these people decide to test her hearing capabilities, speaking louder in a narrower distance while also escalating the vileness of their comments.

Lucy swung around. Some of her punch may have slid from her crystal tumbler, and some of it may have spilled onto her dress, which unfortunately, most definitely, was a pale pastel yellow.

Two women giggled, not bothering to cover their mouths with their elaborate oriental fans.

Lucy recognized them: Lady Letitia and Miss Aurora Fairbanks.

The two women stared at her. Their cheeks didn’t redden with embarrassment, and Lucy’s throat dried.

Lady Letitia’s thin eyebrows arched up. “My dear, you’ve ruined your dress.”

“She’s already ruined her reputation,” Miss Aurora Fairbanks whispered at a volume she must know Lucy was certain to still hear.

Lady Letitia giggled and flapped her fan.

Lucy hurried away.