The Desirable Duchess Read online

  “Have you been feeding it the right stuff?”

  “I suppose so. Chap in the regiment said he knew of another chap who had one of these and told me what it ate. Eats like a horse, anyway.”

  “Its wings aren’t clipped. Weren’t you frightened it would fly away?”

  “Haven’t let it out the cage.”

  Edward sank back in his seat and closed his eyes. “Wake me up when we get there. I’m devilish tired and my corset is deuced uncomfortable.”

  “Why wear it?”

  “Because,” said Edward sleepily, “my evening coat is an example of Weston’s best work and I couldn’t get into it without my corset.” Then he promptly fell asleep.

  The duke surveyed him with affection. Edward’s very presence was making thoughts of marriage fade away. The duke realized that a return to a certain amount of loneliness had started him thinking about marriage. The bird shifted awkwardly on its perch. “Poor thing,” said the duke. “I shall make sure Miss Lacey buys you a very large cage so you can at least hop about.”

  Edward was slumbering so peacefully when they arrived at Wold Park, home of the Laceys, that the duke felt a pang of remorse at having to awaken him for what was surely going to turn out to be little more than a provincial children’s party.

  The house was blazing with light from top to bottom. The duke sighed. He hoped that the Laceys were as rich as he had heard them to be. In the short time since he had become a duke, he had been alarmed at the way mothers of hopeful daughters nearly bankrupted their husbands in their efforts to entertain him.

  He woke Edward, and then both men entered the hall, a footman following, carrying the bird and the duke’s gift.

  The butler relieved them of their cloaks, and, taking their presents from the footman, the duke and Edward walked into the Yellow Saloon, where they had been told the guests were being received. Mr. and Mrs. Lacey stood at the entrance. The Yellow Saloon, the Green Saloon, and the Blue Saloon, all on the ground floor, had been opened up for the festivities. The walls were draped in swathes of silk and huge arrangements of hothouse flowers scented the air.

  Alice Lacey was enthroned in a large chair at the end of the Yellow Saloon. She was surrounded with friends, and a table beside her was piled high with presents.

  Edward thought she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. The low-cut white gown showed the excellence of her bosom. A small fairylike diamond tiara was set amongst the burnished curls of her auburn hair and a thin string of diamonds was about her neck. Edward drew a deep breath. “Worth fighting for,” he murmured. “That’s the sort of lady I used to dream of on the battlefield, a true English rose.”

  Both men approached Alice, who stood up and curtsied. She shyly accepted the duke’s gift and then exclaimed in surprise at the mynah. “How wonderful,” she cried. “What is it called?”

  “Polly,” said Edward, pleased at the effect of his gift.

  “Oh, that is too ordinary,” said Alice. “What is it?”

  “A mynah,” said the duke. “A foreign bird. I would suggest it needs a larger cage.”

  The bird hunched on its perch and looked at Alice with bright, inquisitive eyes. “I am sure it is a he,” Alice said, laughing. “I shall call him Oracle… because he looks so wise. What does he eat?”

  “Loves fruit,” said Edward.

  Lucy Farringdon lifted a bunch of grapes from a bowl and gave it to Alice. “See if he will take one.”

  Alice held out a black grape, which the bird eyed inquisitively. She laughed with delight when Oracle seized it in his beak.

  “He should talk, but he don’t,” said Edward.

  “I am sure he shall.” Alice summoned a footman and said, “Tell the smith I want a very large cage for this bird as soon as possible.”

  “What about my present?” said the duke. “Am I to be outclassed by Mr. Vere?”

  She smiled at him and unwrapped his gift. She opened the lid. “My Heart’s Desire” tinkled out. A shadow crossed Alice’s face and she quickly snapped the lid shut. That had been their tune, hers and Gerald’s.

  “My present displeases you?” demanded the duke sharply.

  Alice rallied. “No, Your Grace, it is vastly pretty… and so very kind of you to have brought it to me.” She put it carefully on the table with the other gifts and turned her attention back to the mynah.

  The duke and Edward bowed and walked off to talk to the other guests. But when they found themselves alone for a moment, the duke said, “My present seemed to give her pain.”

  “Nonsense,” said Edward. “You’re only huffy because she liked mine better.”

  And as the evening wore on, the duke thought he must have imagined that shadow on Alice’s face. It was very much a country house party. They danced and performed charades while the fathers and mothers retired to another room and played cards. Alice sang for them in a light, pleasant if weak voice, and Lucy, who had become a great favorite with Edward, played the harp. Other young ladies performed, all vying with one another for the duke’s attention. He tried not to watch Alice too openly, for he had to admit to himself that he found the girl captivating. By the end of the evening, he had made up his mind to marry her. She would make a beautiful duchess. She would inherit her parents’ lands, which would in the future be added to his own, and the duke, like all aristocrats, was ever practical.

  Alice laughed and talked and flirted, not too boldly, but in a well-trained way. Her fond parents looked on and smiled. Their party was a success. The ices were perfect, the orchestra good, and their honored guest was enjoying himself.

  They had never quite got over having such a very beautiful daughter and so had assumed that anyone with such riches and beauty must be perpetually happy.

  They did not guess, they could not guess, that after the party was over, when a red dawn was rising and the carriages of the guests were disappearing down the long drive, their daughter sat in her room, listening to the duke’s music box, with tears of grief for her lost Gerald rolling down her face.

  Alice began to guess her future in the following weeks. The duke was a constant caller. He was always courteous and correct, but there was a warmth growing in those normally cold eyes of his. One slight word from her would have stopped his attentions, but Alice, who felt she would never fall in love again, decided she might as well encourage the attentions of this duke and please her parents, who had done so much for her. Autumn moved into winter and there were sledging parties and skating parties, Christmas festivities, and more work for Alice to do among the poor to make sure they had enough to keep them warm.

  Oracle, the mynah bird, was her only solace. She talked to it in the privacy of her room, where it hopped freely about its now huge cage. Little by little, she began to let it out, where it flew about the room and perched on the furniture and listened to her mourning for Gerald with bright, wise eyes until she could almost persuade herself that the bird understood what she was saying. But it did not speak. It either screeched or squawked or perched on her shoulder and leaned affectionately against her cheek making a crooning noise.

  Spring spread slowly over the countryside, and bird cherry starred the hedgerows and daffodils grew on the lawns. When Alice went on a drive with the duke, it was usually in the company of others. Edward Vere was still staying with the duke and appeared to be becoming increasingly fond of Lucy. All the county seemed to accept the fact that Alice was the duke’s intended bride.

  But when her parents, dewy-eyed with pride, told her that the Duke of Ferrant had asked for her hand in marriage, it came as a cold shock. She begged for a little more time. Startled, they said that the duke was calling to see her that afternoon, that she had encouraged his affections, that she was being missish, and they looked so outraged at any suggestion that she should be other than over-the-moon with rapture and delight that Alice wearily gave in.

  Betty, her maid, dressing Alice’s hair for the great visit, broke into rare speech. “I have always thought,�
� said Betty to Alice’s reflection in the mirror, “that it is as well to draw back from something before it is too late. If you refused His Grace, there would be a great fuss and your parents would be very angry with you… and everyone would think you a fool. But time would pass and they would forgive and forget. It is your life and your future happiness you must think of.”

  “Thank you, Betty,” said Alice wearily, “but I must go through with it. I will never love another man the way I loved Sir Gerald.”

  Betty twisted a curl delicately into place. “As to that, miss, did you ever really know Sir Gerald Warby?”

  “What can you mean?”

  “I mean that servants hear more than their masters or mistresses and I have heard some stories about Sir Gerald that might suggest he is not the gentleman he appeared to you.”

  “Enough, Betty. Never dare speak to me in such a manner again. I am only lucky to have had the love of such a fine man. He left because I was not worthy of him.”

  Betty relapsed into her usual taciturn silence.

  Alice walked slowly down the stairs, feeling as cold and lifeless as a well-dressed doll. She was wearing a gown of pale blue jaconet muslin made with a gored bodice and finished with a tucker of fine embroidery. The weather was still chilly, and so she wore a Norfolk shawl around her shoulders—a shawl that her mother plucked away with an exclamation of impatience outside the drawing room, saying with a hiss, “He has ten minutes to make his declaration. Act prettily, miss.”

  The duke was standing by the fireplace when she walked in. She stood before him like an obedient child.

  “Do you know why I am come?” he asked gently.

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “And will you do me the inestimable honor of agreeing to become my wife?”

  A short silence. Then she said again, “Yes, Your Grace,” in a flat voice.

  He had to confess he was disappointed. He had begun to desire her more and more as the days had passed. But she was a young virgin, he reminded himself sternly. So he drew her to him and planted a kiss on her cold forehead. “There is no reason to be afraid of me,” he said. “I am not going to press any intimacies on you at this stage. We will get to know each other a great deal better in the days leading up to our wedding in the summer.”

  Her eyes flew to meet his. “The summer! S-so soon?”

  “Your parents have informed me that in view of this forthcoming marriage there is no need for you to attend the London Season. Nor is there any need to delay the wedding beyond this summer, is there?”

  “Oh, no, not at all, Your Grace,” said Alice, with dreadful politeness.

  “This will not do, Alice,” he said, with a quick frown. “We had come to be easy in each other’s company. Let us return to our usual friendship. How is Oracle? Has he pronounced yet?”

  “He is a very silent bird,” said Alice, somehow relieved that the marriage discussion was over—so that she could pretend it had never happened. “I talk to him daily, and he seems to understand what I am saying.”

  “Clever bird. Now I know the interests of the poor of the parish are close to your heart and so I wanted to discuss improvements to the almshouses with you.”

  He talked on, and by the time Alice’s parents entered the room, the couple were sitting side by side on the sofa, chatting amiably.

  All Alice’s fears rushed back as her parents congratulated them both. The duke took his leave, and Mrs. Lacey immediately began to discuss plans for the wedding.

  Somehow Alice could not even voice her doubts and worries to her friend, Lucy. Lucy was in love with Edward Vere, the duke was Edward’s friend, and therefore the duke must be all that was good and kind.

  Then all the wedding arrangements took over and Alice had to be pinned and fitted for her trousseau. The sunny days flew past, quicker and quicker, like a speeding mail coach, until Alice decided she must never think of Gerald again.

  On the evening of her wedding, Alice said mournfully to her mynah bird, “I must say good-bye to Gerald and never, ever think of him again. But I shall never love any man more.” The bird squawked and hopped to the floor in front of her, its head on one side.

  “But you shall come to the wedding breakfast,” said Alice, “and everyone will spoil you and feed you lots of grapes. You will have a place of honor behind my chair.”

  Betty appeared and silently started to get her young mistress ready for bed.

  When Alice was finally climbing into the high bed and the maid had retired, she suddenly heard the sound of a horse’s hooves thudding up the drive. She ran to the window and looked out, but all was in darkness, and there was no balcony or belvedere outside her bedroom window to stand on and look over. That was the way Sir Gerald used to ride up to the front door, hell-for-leather. From below came the sounds of a bitter and noisy altercation. She opened the window. Her father’s voice rose sharp and angry and edged with fear, “Get you gone. And if you come here again I shall shoot you.”

  With a gasp, Alice seized a wrapper, swung it around her, and ran downstairs. As she reached the hall, the great main doors were being locked and bolted by two of the footmen. Her mother stood there in her dressing gown, holding a candle, ashen-faced.

  “Who is it? What happened?” cried Alice.

  All looked up at her, all still as if frozen to the spot, her father, his fists clenched, her mother’s face blanched, the footmen, and the butler.

  Then her father moved forward. “Go to bed, my dear. Nothing for you to worry about. Some wild Irishman who thought his doxy was a servant here. I sent him about his business.”

  Mrs. Lacey quite visibly rallied. “Such uncouth men frighten me,” she murmured. “Come, Alice.”

  Alice allowed herself to be led back upstairs. When she had heard the sound of those horse’s hooves, for one glorious moment she had thought it was Gerald riding back to her.

  But before she went to bed, she reminded herself fiercely that Gerald had rejected her, had written that awful letter to her. To dream about seeing him again was silly and childish.

  The morning was taken up with the long, laborious process of dressing. Her gown was of white silk embroidered with silver thread and seed pearls; her headdress of pearls and gold and real white roses. A hairdresser had been brought down from London to arrange her hair.

  I am going to be married. I am going to be a duchess, she thought over and over again, but none of it seemed real. She could not think of the duke as a real person; she saw him more as an authority figure, more as someone who had commanded her to marry him—although he had not—like a royal command, rather than a request, and she buried deep in her heart the guilty thought that if she had refused him, he would have accepted that refusal without protest. Now it was too late to turn the clock back. What had they talked about? Well, they had talked about books, about agriculture, about wildflowers, about plays, about working for the poor, about a multitude of subjects… and yet never about their real feelings.

  The wedding service was to be held in the village church of St. Paul’s, with the wedding breakfast afterward in her home, Wold Park. As she sat by the window in her sitting room, stiff and regal in her finery, maids scurried about packing up all her belongings into large trunks for removal to the duke’s home.

  The relatives on Alice’s side would all be her father’s. She had never seen any of her mother’s sisters or brothers. Mrs. Lacey had ruthlessly cut herself off from the merchant class. But she might have relented and asked a few of the more presentable ones to the wedding had not her daughter been marrying a duke. Mrs. Lacey sparkled with pride and happiness.

  The time came for Alice to go downstairs and, with her father, travel in a flower-bedecked carriage to the church. It was a perfect summer’s day, heavy with the scent of roses. All the tenants, in their finery, waited outside to give Alice a cheer and then follow the carriage on foot. Some threw flowers into the carriage. Alice wished veils were still fashionable, for she found it a great strain to smile and l
ook happy.

  From the minute she arrived at the dark little church, it all seemed like a dream.

  She gave all her well-rehearsed responses, barely looking at the duke, although conscious of the finery of his white silk wedding coat. Lucy, in blue muslin and pink roses, was bridesmaid, and Edward Vere was bridesman.

  And then it was over. The bells in the old steeple rang out over the countryside.

  Alice emerged, blinking in the sunlight, on the arm of her husband. Her husband! She stole a look up at his face. He looked much younger and very happy. She took her place in the carriage, bewildered by the noise of the bells and the cheering of the villagers and tenants, by the rain of rose petals and small bouquets. One little bouquet of pink roses landed in her lap. She saw there was a note attached to it, a little spill of paper. She stole a look at the duke. He was smiling and waving to the crowds. She opened the little piece of paper and looked down. The few words made her gasp. “Meet me in the rose garden at two, Gerald.”

  She crushed the note in her fingers and stared around her at the crowds, looking for that beloved familiar face but not finding it. Why had he written to her, this day of all days, just when she was married to another?

  She looked back at the church clock. Noon. She would need to make some excuse to slip away from the festivities.

  Long tables were spread about the lawns so that all the villagers and tenants could share the wedding feast.

  Inside, the duke led his new bride to the top table. Behind Alice, Oracle peered brightly from a gilt cage decorated on top with a white bow.

  During the wedding breakfast, Alice smiled automatically and ate and drank little, her eyes always straying to a clock on the mantelpiece at the other end of the room. At five minutes to two, she murmured to the duke, “Excuse me for a moment.”

  “Don’t be long, my love,” he said. “The speeches are about to begin.”

  Alice left the room quickly and passed through the chain of saloons to a small morning room at the end that had French windows opening onto a terrace. From there, she could descend to the rose garden.