Can’t Buy Me a Duke by Bianca Blythe

CHAPTER NINE

The streets had longsince calmed, the strong sunlight had shifted to its evening display of pink and lilac, and Lucy scrutinized herself in the mirror. It was something she was not unique in doing: Rose, Mama and Isabella were also staring at her.

“You needn’t watch me dress,” Lucy said.

“I must!” Mama insisted. “You might be tempted to sit down and rumple all Rose’s efforts. Perhaps you might even lie down and destroy your chignon.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

Still, the idea was not dreadful. Her bed was generally a comfortable place to be. She stared at her reflection. “Do you think my hair has too many curls?”

“Nonsense. It’s impossible to have too many curls in one’s hair.”

Lucy scrunched her lips together. She was less confident in the veracity of that statement, despite Mama’s insistence.

“Everyone will be looking at me when I enter,” Lucy said miserably.

“Good,” Mama said. “Then the duke will be certain to find you.”

Lucy’s hair always resembled a beacon, and she scowled. “I’m certain he’ll find me anyway.”

Mama beamed. “My sweetheart. I am so happy to see you so confident.”

“Perhaps the duke is already falling in love,” Isabella declared.

“Truly?” Mama clapped her hands together.

“I—I.” Lucy swallowed hard. This was the plan she’d concocted, but guilt moved through her. “We’ll see.”

The statement was tepid, but Mama’s eyes still sparkled, as if Lucy had just declared that she’d seen Cupid himself and had been struck by his arrow.

“It’s simply a poetry reading,” Lucy said.

“A poetry reading that he insisted you attend as well,” Mama said. “I can’t imagine anything more romantic than poetry. It’s an excellent sign that he wanted to make certain that you attend it.”

“I think so too,” Isabella said. “In fact... Do you think I might be able to have a suitor too?”

Mama frowned. “The duke invited Lucy to a poetry reading. That’s not a marriage proposal. We must see how the night proceeds.”

Isabella’s smile faltered, and she drew back.

“He invited me to other things as well,” Lucy said hastily.

“Yes, he did.” Mama’s face brightened, and she chattered about the superiority of poetry over all other forms of writings and its marvelous ability to cause hearts to lurch and patter with ferocity.

Indeed, Lucy’s heart was lurching now, though it was only from nervousness. Finally, even Mama declared Lucy ready, and they proceeded toward Haviland Place.

Isabella and Lucy strode beside each other, following Mama and Papa. Her parents’ noisiness and ability to make vast amounts of money were equaled only by their energy and their tendency to stride swiftly.

“I can’t believe I missed the duke’s presence,” Isabella said. “And to think he called on you. Darling Benedict must have lauded your virtues.”

“Perhaps.” Lucy decided not to tell Isabella she’d offered to pay the duke to pretend to court her. That was the sort of thing one kept private.   

Lucy moved stiffly, conscious of the tightness of her stays. They dug into her shift with an unpleasant force.

The duke had confirmed he would be at Haviland Place, and Mama had insisted on Lucy looking immaculate. Unfortunately, looking immaculate did not preclude being uncomfortable, and that was the case now.

Finally, they reached Haviland Place. Lucy stepped into the townhouse. Ornate blue-and-white chinoiserie vases were perched on dainty sideboards with gilded legs. Heavy silver mirrors rested on sideboards, as if to make certain each expression of good taste was seen.

Isabella pointed to a set of shining armor clutching an ax. “That looks threatening.”

“Quite convenient for burglars if they forgot their weapons at home.”

Isabella giggled. “You mustn’t say such things. I’m not supposed to laugh here. This is a very serious place.”

“Indeed?”

“It’s a poetry reading. What could be more serious than that?” Isabella’s eyes shone. She adored poetry readings.

Personally, Lucy thought they were rubbish. She would far rather attend a lecture on some scientific happening than hear words strewn together describing platitudes, typically extolling the aesthetic value of flowers.

“It won’t be terrible,” Isabella assured her.

“It won’t be good,” Lucy said, suddenly nervous about meeting Sturbridge. How would she keep her heart from pitter-pattering at his presence? He’d been so pleasant toward her parents yesterday, talking at length with them.

“The Duke of Sturbridge is waving,” Isabella said.

“Splendid.” Lucy’s voice squeaked, but she waved back.

A few people turned in their direction.

“You must have made quite an impression on him during those dances,” Isabella said. “Our dance instructor would be very proud.”

“Perhaps it was not my feet the duke was admiring.”

Isabella’s eyes rounded, and Lucy giggled.

“I’m going to greet him.” Lucy moved past women wearing dresses with enormous puffed sleeves. The hems were adorned with ribbons and flounces. This might not be a ball, but no one could doubt the importance of this social occasion.

Finally, Lucy reached the duke. He’d procured a place at the front of the room and gestured to a seat.

“We meet again.” The duke’s voice rumbled in her ear.

Lucy sat beside him, conscious of people’s stares. She focused on sitting straight, as if it was perfectly normal to sit beside a duke.

But he wasn’t just a duke. He was a handsome duke.

Murmurings around her grew, humming like a hive of bees.

This was just what she had wanted. They were being noticed. Her plan was working perfectly. Soon Mama would have to let Isabella become betrothed with her viscount.

“Your eyes are shining,” he said.

“Perhaps.”

He chuckled. “I’m not sure they’ll be shining much after this performance.”

“You don’t expect it will be very good?”

“Not if you have poetic inclinations,” he said.

He was right.

The poetry was histrionic, despite the enthusiasm with which the countess spoke about the poet’s skills, but Harrison’s presence beside her occupied her mind more than even the most adeptly arranged sonnets could achieve.

*

THE POETRY READINGat Haviland Place turned into more poetry readings. Harrison had danced with Lucy at Vauxhall, strolled with her through Hyde Park, and asked sufficient hostesses to include her and her family at dinner parties to give everyone the impression they were courting.

Harrison’s favorite events remained balls. There was something delightful about dancing with Lucy in his arms. But then, even poetry readings and lectures were amusing with Lucy beside him.

Fortunately, tonight was a ball. Harrison strode through the heavy wooden doors that led to the ballroom, flanked by wig-wearing footmen, and joined the throng of partygoers.

He surveyed the guests, looking for Lucy’s vibrant hair.

Tonight, he saw Mrs. Banks first. Her cobalt turban, complete with peacocks and jewels, helped.

Mrs. Banks rushed toward him, dragging her husband and daughters. Her puffed sleeves wobbled at the sudden force. No doubt, the dressmaker had not anticipated the vigor of Mrs. Banks’s strides.

“Your Grace!” Mrs. Banks exclaimed. “How delightful to see you!”

Harrison opened his mouth to convey his similar pleasure at seeing her, but Mrs. Banks continued to chatter and pointed. “Is that your mother? The duchess? We must meet her.”

Harrison’s heart sank.

Mrs. Banks turned to her husband. “Don’t you agree, Mr. Banks?”

Mr. Banks nodded languidly, but he gave a longing look at the book he’d evidently smuggled inside. Harrison almost admired the man’s optimism. He seemed to perpetually believe he would be able to accomplish work. Hostesses usually made that possibility very unlikely.

Mrs. Banks clapped her hands. “Oh, you must take us to her and introduce us. It will be so nice to meet her.”

“Yes,” Mr. Banks agreed. “I find it’s always advantageous to observe a person’s parents. One can learn so many things that way.” 

Harrison’s chest tightened, and his mouth dried.

“Oh, Papa, it’s truly not necessary. Can’t you see he’s embarrassed?” Lucy pleaded.

“He’s embarrassed about his mother? A duchess? I’ve never heard of anything quite so ridiculous.” Mrs. Banks shook her head. “Though children, when you feel I am embarrassing you, just know if I were a duchess, you would still find me embarrassing. Isn’t it so, Your Grace? I’m certain she’s not that frightful.”

“And if she is, well, I’m sure you can think of something embarrassing to even things out,” Mr. Banks said with a smile.

“Yes.” Mrs. Banks beamed. “I’m quite happy to spill my drink on myself if it would make you feel better.”

Mr. Banks shot a nervous look at the glass of mahogany liquid his wife was carrying. “Surely that’s unnecessary.”

“To ease some embarrassment, it might be necessary.”

“You’re wearing white. You don’t want a sherry stain on your dress,” Mr. Banks said. “That dress is from Paris.”

“We can always visit Paris again,” Mrs. Banks said blithely.

“Perhaps it would be best,” Harrison suggested, “to only spill something on your dress if my mother does the same?”

“Oh, you are wise, Your Grace.” Mrs. Banks giggled. “I think that’s the way to go. See Mr. Banks, we have a plan. I will only spill something on my dress if his mother spills something on her dress.” 

“What if she spilled something on your dress?” Mr. Banks mused. 

“Well, in that case, I would—” she bit her lip. “Well, I would probably spill something on her dress to be even, but I wouldn’t like to do that.” 

“Quite good,” Mr. Banks said. “Duchess’s dresses are apt to be expensive.”

“Though,” Mrs. Bank’s continued, “it might be preferable if I were simply to spill something on my dress.”

“So, you would have two stains on your dress then?”

Mrs. Banks nodded eagerly. “She couldn’t feel guilty about marring my dress then. Now, Your Grace, will you lead us to meet your mother?” 

“It’s truly not necessary,” Lucy rushed to say.

“It’s fine,” Harrison said.

This was part of their arrangement. It hadn’t been something they’d specifically planned, but if they were truly courting, it would make sense for him to introduce her parents to his mother.

“She can be snippety,” Harrison warned.

“Snippety? Are you saying disagreeable things about your mother in front of us?” Mrs. Banks narrowed her eyes. “That is not something a good son does.”

Harrison gave a wry smile. “I just meant if she isn’t pleasant, it wouldn’t be your fault.”

“I’m certain she’s delightful,” Mrs. Banks said. “Utterly.”

“I hope so,” Harrison muttered. He led them to the duchess, conscious of his heart quaking.

As he narrowed the distance between them, the duchess noticed them immediately. A look of displeasure passed over her face, and he tensed.