A Duchess in Name Read online

“The funeral is to be held tomorrow at eleven at St. Martin-in-the-Fields. The procession will leave here at ten. I’ve arranged for six coaches, which should manage everyone comfortably. I was able to compile a list of appropriate pallbearers with the assistance of your father’s business manager—”

  “You compiled it?” Andrew cut her off.

  “Yes. Time was short. Arrangements needed to be made, and your mother was indisposed.”

  He snorted in disgust. “Indisposed.”

  Was he was angry at his mother or at her for her presumption? It had been awkward stepping in to settle things, but when she’d arrived, the servants were in disarray and the lady of the house was keeping to her rooms. When she’d summoned the duke’s business manager, he readily provided her with a list of what needed to be done to prepare for the funeral.

  One of the many surprising things she had discovered about herself over the past eight months was that she possessed an astonishing propensity for taking charge. This was a situation needing someone to step in to manage it, so she had, almost on instinct. In the space of an afternoon, she’d set things to rights, organized the funeral and settled the house. It was a good thing, since her lush of a mother-in-law still had not seen fit to present herself below stairs.

  “I’m sorry you were imposed on in such a way,” Andrew said. “This wasn’t your burden to bear.”

  “I prefer to be useful. It was no imposition.”

  Her husband was silent for a moment, eyes narrowed. “We owe you a debt. You won’t be called upon again to perform those duties. I’ll handle any necessary details going forward.”

  While she wouldn’t say he was being kind, he was certainly treating her better than he had on their wedding day, and his gratitude seemed genuine enough. But he’d turned on her before without warning, so she didn’t intend to let her guard down with him.

  The sound of a coach slowing before the house drew her attention to the window. Visitors were unlikely at a time like this. Moments later, Morris knocked at the door and ushered in two wide-eyed young ladies. The older of the two was perhaps fifteen, in the midst of blossoming into a pretty young woman. The younger was no more than ten or eleven. The older girl shared Lord Dunnley’s dark hair although her eyes were dark, not light. The younger girl had thick red-gold hair and pale blue eyes, along with a smattering of freckles across her nose. There was no great resemblance among them, but these must be her husband’s sisters.

  “Louisa! Emma!” The transformation that overcame him stunned her. His face lit up with a wide smile, and he was on his feet in a heartbeat, rushing across the room to embrace them. Both girls seemed equally delighted to see him, their wary expressions transformed into joy. He pulled them close, kissing their cheeks and whispering to them, making both girls laugh in delight. Something in her heart clenched tight at the unexpectedly sweet moment. There was the man she remembered from their brief interactions before the wedding. She’d begun to think she’d imagined him.

  Although she did her best to leave them to their private reunion, the elder girl peered over Dunnley’s shoulder and spotted her. He glanced back at Victoria, the smile fading from his face. Ah, yes, that gentle man no longer existed for her.

  “Louisa, Emma.” He cleared his throat, all the delight draining out of his face. “You have not met my wife, Victoria, now the Duchess of Waring.”

  The younger of the two—Emma—stepped forward first, before Louisa could move.

  “It’s very nice to meet you,” she said with practiced slowness. She held a hand out, every bit the somber little daughter of a duke. Victoria took her hand, smiling in encouragement.

  Well, her husband might be determined to hate her, but she wasn’t about to take it out on his two young sisters, especially not now. “It’s so good to meet you, too, but you must call me Victoria. After all, we’re sisters now. I’ve always wanted a sister. You’re so fortunate to have Louisa.”

  Louisa wavered, her manners clearly urging her to welcome Victoria but her brother’s coldness making her hesitate. After seeing her sister greeted warmly, she stepped forward, hand extended.

  “It’s an honor to meet you, Lady Louisa,” Victoria said, trying to set the girl at ease by speaking first.

  Louisa seemed encouraged by her deference and she smiled. “The pleasure is mine, Your Grace.”

  “Please, ‘Victoria’ for you, too. We’re family.”

  “We were sorry to have missed your wedding,” Louisa ventured, casting a quick glance at her brother as if to gauge his reaction. He scratched the back of his ear and kept his eyes on the carpet rather than engage in the conversation. Fine, let him hang back and glower at her.

  “I’m sorry you could not be there, too. It was quite a grand affair.” She looked to Emma and smiled conspiratorially. “There were two kinds of cake.”

  “Two?” Emma asked in awe.

  “Spice cake and a white cake with raspberry filling and candied flowers on top. And champagne punch,” she added, with a glance at Louisa. That earned her another shy smile from the older girl. “I’m so glad you’ve arrived, ladies. I need your help.”

  “Ours?” Emma asked, as if the very idea of anyone needing anything from her was preposterous.

  “Yes, yours. I have no idea what to tell Cook to make for dinner. I’m sure there must be family favorites, but as I’m such a new member, I don’t know them. You must tell me what your favorite family dinners are.”

  Emma glanced from her sister to her brother and back to Victoria. Louisa spoke up. “We eat together rarely, Your—Victoria.”

  Considering the parents, that answer wasn’t unexpected. “Well, you must tell me what your favorites are, Lady Emma. We’ll start there, and perhaps they’ll become our favorites, as well.”

  Emma looked pleased at being appealed to in such a way, and it was gratifying to have made the girl feel important, especially at such a difficult time. When she glanced up at her husband again, his face was no longer a mask of distaste. In truth, she couldn’t guess his thoughts at all.

  Chapter Eleven

  Five minutes before the coaches were scheduled to take them to St. Martin-in-the-Fields, the new Dowager Duchess of Waring finally stirred herself to appear below stairs, looking like anything but a shattered, grieving widow. She wore a smart black taffeta gown and an enormous hat set at an elegant angle, the black veil brushing her cheekbones. She was as pale as always, but more from the liberal use of alabaster powder than the pallor of grief.

  Even the arrival of her children the day before hadn’t been enough to draw the woman out of her self-imposed seclusion. No one seemed to mind, though, and Victoria certainly didn’t miss her. Besides, it gave her a chance to get to know Dunnley’s sisters a bit, and she was finding she liked them very much. Louisa was cheerful and lively, constantly overflowing with conversation. Emma was much more reserved, but an intelligent and thoughtful girl. Neither seemed much distressed by the death of their father, and she suspected it was because he’d been as cold to them as he had been to her husband.

  When the dowager duchess finally sailed down the stairs, both girls froze, their eyes fixed expectantly on their mother. Her husband was watching his mother, too, but there was no expectation in his expression, only a jaded resignation. The dowager duchess stopped at the foot of the stairs and adjusted the buttons on one of her black kid gloves before finally glancing up to see her son and two daughters.

  “Ah, yes,” she said to the girls, “I’d heard you’d arrived. It’s good you were able to reach London in time.” She didn’t spare her son a glance.

  Victoria waited, almost holding her breath, for some fond reunion of mother and daughters. The girls went to school in Scotland. It had to have been many months since the dowager had seen them. Instead, she cast one appraising glance over both of them and, apparently finding nothing of inter
est there, turned her attention to the mirror over the hall table to adjust her veil.

  “Has my coach arrived yet?”

  Victoria’s hand tightened around Emma’s shoulders, wishing she could shield the girl from her mother’s indifference. She’d felt that sting herself too often. “Not yet, Your Grace. The hearse is outside. We’re awaiting the arrival of Lord Bartleby to complete the pallbearers.”

  The dowager brightened. “Oh, are the rest here? Lord Iverson, perhaps?”

  “Well, yes, I believe Lord Iverson is with the others in the library.”

  “I think I’ll just pop in and say my hellos. It’s been an age since I’ve seen Ivey.”

  She moved toward the library, but Dunnley’s hand snaked out and grasped her upper arm, hauling her up short.

  “Really, Mother? Today? You can’t wait twenty-four hours?”

  The dowager sneered, the expression marring her lovely face. “Don’t tell me you miss the bastard.”

  Behind her, Victoria sensed Louisa drawing Emma away where she couldn’t hear the confrontation between their brother and their mother.

  “I’m asking—no, I’m demanding—that you restrain yourself. Don’t cause an embarrassment today, for the girls’ sakes.”

  The dowager’s expression filled with frustration at being thwarted as she yanked her arm free of Dunnley’s grip.

  “You’ve become a pompous prig since your ascendency to the dukedom, my son.”

  “No, Mother, I simply know how to behave and on this one day, I’m demanding you do the same.”

  They held each other’s gazes in a tense standoff. His implied threat hung between them. As the new head of the family, her fate was in his hands and she knew it. Letting out a disgusted huff, she reached up to tug her veil into place.

  “Very well. I’ll wait in the morning parlor. Alone.”

  Dunnley watched her go, his expression stormy and his jaw set. Victoria was still staring at him when he swung around to look at her.

  She searched for some meaningless platitude to ease the awkwardness. “Everyone handles sorrow in their own way.”

  He let out a humorless huff of laughter. “Sorrow. Indeed. Perhaps only that he didn’t die much earlier.”

  With that shocking pronouncement still hanging in the air, he turned to join the men in the library. Victoria went in search of Louisa and Emma, more certain than ever that the girls were in dire need of a friend, at the very least, since it was clear they had no mother.

  * * *

  The endless funeral service was over and the coffin containing the earthly remains of the dissolute seventh Duke of Waring had been interred in the crypt below. Andrew sighed in mild relief. There was no grief for the father he scarcely knew, didn’t love and wouldn’t miss. From the accounts he could gather, his father had been drinking himself steadily into oblivion for the past several years until a seizure of the heart took his life prematurely but not unexpectedly.

  Now the family and smattering of friends stood under front portico of the church, waiting for carriages to be brought around. Although she’d kept herself in check for the duration of the service, his mother was now engaged in a blatant flirtation with Lord Iverson. He was too weary of her to attempt to rein her in again.

  Victoria was standing a few feet away in quiet conversation with Louisa and Emma. If he didn’t know better, she seemed to be attempting to distract them from the spectacle their mother was making of herself. Whether or not it was intentional, he was grateful the girls were being spared the embarrassment.

  His mother let out a peal of laughter and clutched at Iverson’s arm. It sounded lighthearted and flirtatious, almost obscene under the circumstances, and it set his teeth on edge. Now she could no longer fling her lovers in his father’s face, she seemed determined to fling them in his.

  Determined to put a stop to her behavior before the whispers could start, he took a step in her direction, but then he spotted the Carsons moving to intercept him. Mrs. Carson, her face a paroxysm of false sympathy, was fitted out in the first style of mourning fashion, nothing but black, and yet she managed to make herself look gaudy and overdone. There appeared to be the greater part of a dead raven artfully arranged on her large hat.

  He quickly turned away, seeking out Victoria and his sisters out of desperation.

  “Ladies, are you well?”

  “We are well, Your Grace.”

  “Very good,” he said. “Our carriage should be here soon.”

  The girls saw their second cousin, the young Caroline Denham, and slipped away to say goodbye to her, leaving Andrew uncomfortably alone with his wife. There was only a moment to feel the awkward silence before Hyacinth Carson closed in on them. He groaned under his breath. Surprisingly, Victoria did the same thing.

  “Your Grace,” Hyacinth purred. “May I express our most profound condolences on the loss of your dear father?”

  He gave a brief nod in acknowledgment. Mrs. Carson turned toward her daughter and her false show of sympathy dropped away. “It’s a shame you’ll spend the rest of your first year of married life in mourning colors. Black doesn’t suit you at all, Victoria. You look so dour and dull.”

  Anger flared up once again on his wife’s behalf, partly because the woman was so crass and partly because Victoria looked better than he’d ever seen her. He opened his mouth to put Hyacinth in her place, but Victoria spoke before he could.

  “It doesn’t matter what I wear, Mother. I hardly circulate in the first set in London these days.”

  Hyacinth laughed to offset the tension. “Yes, you do seem quite consumed with life in the wilds of Hampshire. Lord knows what you find to occupy yourself down there. I thought you’d come to London at least once or twice this Season. You were very much needed, you know. We’d have thought at least you’d have had us down to visit by now.”

  The Carsons hadn’t been to Briarwood Manor? It appeared as if Victoria hadn’t issued them a single invitation in all the months since their marriage, nor had she visited them in London. It was not at all what he’d expected. Neither was his wife’s sudden transformation.

  Victoria’s spine straightened and her eyes flashed with an alarming, low-banked rage. Why was her mother so oblivious to what seemed obvious to him? His wife was furious.

  “My life is in Hampshire now, Mother. I’m entirely too busy at present to appear in London to escort you to all the balls and parties you seem to feel are your due. I won’t revise my intentions, no matter how many letters you send imploring, and then demanding, that I do.”

  Mrs. Carson finally looked alarmed. “I simply wanted to enjoy a little of the social whirl—”

  “You simply wanted to use me as your stepping-stone in society, as you always have. But I have no intention of taking a place in London Society or helping you to do so.”

  Victoria spun to face Andrew, fixing her frantic, jewel-green eyes on him. “Your Grace, I believe I hear our carriage coming.”

  She heard nothing of the kind, but he offered his arm nonetheless. Without another glance at his in-laws, he led his wife away into the crowd.

  After a moment, she let out a shaking exhale. “I apologize for subjecting you to that scene.”

  “No apology is needed,” he replied, even as he tried desperately to make her out. She’d given her mother a spectacular set down, one he’d have liked to have given her himself. He still wasn’t clear on the reason for it.

  “She’s always been rather overbearing. I’ve been enjoying my freedom of late, and I have no intention of indulging any more of her ambitions.”

  “I see.” Except he didn’t. Nothing here added up. She’d plotted with her parents to entrap him... Hadn’t she? But if that were true, why was she so angry at them now? Why had they had almost no communication since the wedding? For the first time, Andrew had
to give some credence to Luciana’s suggestion that Victoria might not be what he thought she was. And if that were true, it cast everything in a whole new light.

  * * *

  The fire had burned down nearly to ash. Hours ago, a footman had come to the library and asked if he wanted it freshly made, but Andrew waved him off. The girls and Victoria had disappeared upstairs shortly after dinner, and he’d been drinking steadily ever since. Alcohol was a bad escape from reality. Perhaps that was what was wrong with his father. Maybe the dead Duke of Waring had once wanted something different for his life, too.

  He’d most certainly wanted a different kind of wife. The seventh duke had married for money as well, and while the duchess was delighted with her improved social standing, she despised her new husband. She had remained faithful long enough to produce an undisputed heir and then set about living only to please herself. His father had little affection for her, but attempted to rein in her indiscreet behavior for appearances’ sake. The tighter he held her, the worse she behaved, until she took delight in throwing her bastard offspring in his face. That’s what happened when strangers were forced to wed, and why he’d been so desperate to avoid the same fate. To no avail.

  There was a rustle at the door and he shoved himself to his feet to tell the intruding footman for the final time that no, he did not need a fresh fire. But instead of a trembling, spotty boy, he found Victoria, standing tall and ethereal in the door of the library. She wore a soft blue silk robe edged in creamy lace, gaping open in front, the sash tied loosely around her slender waist. The sheer cream lawn of her nightgown peeked out from under it, and the shadow between her breasts underneath that. No corset. Of course.

  Her heavy gold hair was loose around her shoulders. So damned much of it. The kind of hair a man wanted to dig his fingers into and...

  “What do you want?” His rasped question, the harshness of it, startled even him. A flash of uncertainty crossed her face, but her shoulders squared and her chin came up. He could almost see the moment when she remembered she was a duchess and now mistress of this house. He had to hand it to the girl, she was one generation out of the shops and she could command a room in a way noblewomen six generations deep could not. That sort of self-possession couldn’t be taught.