The Duke’s Chosen Family (The Debutantes’ Vow #2)
Chapter 1
“Are you well, Hettie?” Catherine Deverell, Duchess of Coldmere’s eyes creased in concern as she leaned towards Lady Harriet Montrose.
Harriet swallowed, her cheeks coloring slightly even as a part of her welcomed Catherine’s question. They were standing in the ballroom of Catherine’s estate. The music, the chatter, even the chandeliers felt too noisy to Harriet.
She felt beads of sweat trickle down the back of her neck as an invisible hand slowly clamped itself around her chest. It is just a ball. Her mental reprimand did nothing to help.
“I… I just need a little rest. A moment or two to gather myself. I always forget how overwhelming balls are.” Harriet’s eyes widened as she realized what she had said. “Oh, Kitty, I do not mean to suggest that it is any fault of yours or even the ball, it is just-”
“- breathe, Hettie darling. It is perfectly all right. I have known you long enough to know exactly what you mean.” Catherine smiled reassuringly at her and took her hand in hers, squeezing it gently. “In truth, I myself am finding it more tiring than I expected.”
“Really?” Harriet canted her head towards Catherine.
“Alaric tried to convince me to wait a little longer – he’s fiercely protective over me since Henry was born.
Even if it was nearly three months ago – he treats me as though I am made of porcelain.
” Catherine shook her head, gesturing to the dancefloor where their friend Lady Louisa Everly was dancing with Catherine’s husband.
“To be honest, I am a little relieved that Louisa convinced him to dance.”
Harriet could hear the mingled exasperation and amusement in Catherine’s voice. It brought a smile to her lips. “I am sure he would not begrudge you a little rest if you needed it.”
“He would not. I suspect he would cancel the whole ball.” Catherine shook her head. “More to the point, he will never let me hear the end of it. He does so love being right.”
“And I suspect that when it comes to you, it is a rarity indeed.” Harriet teased. “Though I am glad the two of you are at least less combative than you were when you were first wed.”
“As am I,” Catherine agreed. “Now, back to the matter at hand. I may not be able to slink away from the proceedings, but you at least can get a temporary reprieve. The Eastern Library should be empty, and I will ensure you are not bothered.”
“Thank you.” Harriet gave Catherine a grateful smile, and turned, itching to be in the quiet of the library.
“Do not tell me you are sneaking out yet again, Hettie.” A voice said from behind her.
Harriet’s foot froze in midair as she turned to the last member of their little friendship group, Lady Fiona Blackwood. Fiona arched an eyebrow at her, folding her arms over her chest. Her breathless air and a slight flush to her cheeks let Harriet know she had just finished dancing.
“I am taking a moment to collect myself, that is all.” Harriet wished her voice did not sound so small.
“The ball has barely even begun!” Fiona grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “You are only a year older than me, and yet with the way you behave, one would think you were a woman of three score years – your youthful exuberance long since forgotten.”
“Some of us are simply old souls.” Harriet shrugged and forced herself not to pluck at an errant thread on her dress.
“Clearly.” Fiona laughed. “Though I do not understand it. Why act like an old spinster when there are lines of eligible young gentlemen to dance with?”
“Not all of us share your propensity for flirting, Fi,” Catherine teased.
“And if one never dances, one will never develop the requisite skills to engage in such behavior.” Fiona drew herself up taller and reached for Harriet’s arm. “Come on, Hettie, I am sure I could find you the most delightful partner.”
“Perhaps once I have rested, Fi.” Harriet took a step backwards, slipping out of her grasp.
“I shall hold you to that. Do not think I am just going to let you hide in the background. You should be out where everyone can bask in your radiance.”
“I would rather not have so many eyes on me.” Harriet did not add that she doubted anyone would be basking in anything she had to offer. “I prefer a quieter life.”
Fiona arched an eyebrow, and Harriet suspected that something of her unsaid thoughts had shown on her face, for Fiona’s expression softened. “I know you do. You know I am not trying to upset you, Hettie. It has just been an age since we were all together.”
Guilt flared in Harriet’s chest and she nodded. “I know. I promise, I am not leaving. Give me half an hour, and I will be good as new.”
“You mean you will actually dance?”
“Yes.” If someone asks me. Harriet suspected that no one would; people rarely noticed her, especially with her more gregarious friends around. And that suited her perfectly.
Harriet slipped away from her friends before Fiona could change her mind, making her way to the library as quickly and quietly as possible. She felt no eyes upon her as she slipped out of the door and into the hall.
It did not take her long to reach the Eastern library, and as soon as she walked into the room and shut the door behind her, she let out a long, steady breath. The smell of mahogany mingled with wood smoke and ink, making the tension in Harriet’s shoulders ease.
She leaned her back against the thick door, resting a hand on her heart, feeling it race against her touch. The fire crackled merrily in the corner and she glanced around.
“Oliver?” Her voice echoed into the silence, but there was no sign of Oliver, the Duke’s half-brother and ward.
On any other occasion, Harriet would not have minded the boy’s company, but at that moment, she needed peace and quiet.
“I wish that more parties were library parties,” Harriet murmured as she moved further into the room. “Books are far better company than people.”
She dug around in her reticule as she approached the desk, pulling out a pencil and small sheet of paper. Glancing over her shoulder once more to make sure no one was there, she began to sketch, letting the feelings in her body flow from her pencil to the paper.
Her heart slowed as the sketch took shape, the vice around her chest eased.
She drew a rabbit sleeping in the roots of a tree, a crown of daisies on its head.
The sight of it all alone made her feel uneasy, so she added brambles, forming a protective barrier for the sleeping creature. She did not sign it; she never did.
“There. That will do nicely.” She smiled and folded the paper, her eyes going to the shelves. “Now all we have to do is find you a home.”
Harriet leafed through the books, trying to remember which she had left sketches in before.
She looked at the sleeping rabbit; in the firelight it seemed to breathe.
“Do not worry – I will find you a good home, I have been doing this for years in all sorts of places all over the country. I like to make sure all my little drawings have somewhere that feels right. And who knows, someone might find you and you might bring them joy?”
She nodded to the picture in her hand. It felt so much easier talking to these drawings than people. She did not have to worry about her words or that they would think her odd. She just had to be herself.
“What about Shakespeare?” She let her fingers drift across the spines. “Nothing too serious of course, and something with a happy ending.”
Her eyes lingered on A Midsummer Night’s Dream. “This will do nicely.”
She took the book down from the shelf, slipped the sketch inside and replaced it.
She let herself imagine someone finding the drawing, trace it with their fingertips and smile at the whimsy.
She could almost picture someone studying it, puzzling out the story of the rabbit and the artist who created it.
But that would mean being seen. She could not tell if the thrill within her chest was one of excitement or fear. The fantasy was nice, the idea that her sketches might bring joy to someone else made her smile, but something tugged within her that she pushed to one side.
In the years she had been doing this, no one had bothered to keep her pictures. Perhaps they wanted to keep sharing them with others. More likely, no one feels particularly drawn to them.
She ignored the pang in her chest and swallowed, “I may as well check on the others while I’m here.”
She pulled down a couple of other volumes, expecting to see her sketches, but to her surprise, there was nothing there. Her heart sped up.
“Someone kept them?” Something warm sparked to life, reminding her of moments as a child and finding an unexpected gift from her parents.
A smile spread across her face as she imagined someone finding her sketches and liking them enough to keep them. It made her heart flutter and twist in her chest.
More likely someone threw them away. The thought brought her up short, the smile vanishing instantly. She hastily returned the book to its shelf but in her haste, dislodged another and sent it tumbling to the floor.
“Drat!” Harriet bent to pick it up, and as she did, a bit of paper fell from the volume.
As Harriet unfolded it, she realized that it was one of her sketches.
But someone had handled it. There were creases all over it, as though it had been folded and kept in a pocket for months.
Not carelessly—there were no stains, and whoever handled it had been careful to fold it in such a way that the drawing would not come to any harm.
Her heart soared at the thought that someone would like something of hers enough to keep it with them. Her mouth went dry as she spotted something else – there was writing on the page.
“If you are the artist, find me.”
She read aloud, her stomach twisting itself into a knot as her blood thundered through her body.
The words were written in a bold, clear, authoritative hand. Though as Harriet peered at them, she could not help but appreciate a certain beauty in the penmanship. She turned the page over, but there was nothing else written on it.