Chapter 6
6
It was the day of her wedding, and Modesty’s hands were shaking as she looked at herself in the mirror. In her small bedchamber, with white walls, plain wooden furniture, and a couple of small watercolors, she looked like she belonged. Her place was not in the luxury and opulence of Mayfair.
Grace studied her with wide eyes. “How are you feeling?”
Modesty looked over the best gown she owned, a simple muslin one the color of lilacs. Was it the color that made the bags under her eyes so dark and prominent? Or was it just that she hadn’t slept for three nights—not since the duke had rushed into her life with his insulting proposal? She should have demanded he never speak to her again.
Not marry him, for pity’s sake.
Augustus slept soundly in his crib. Let every night of your life be so peaceful, little one .
If not for this tiny babe, she would have continued her modest and unremarkable life—stealing time to explore the ruins and brush her fingers along the stones and fossils George brought home from his excavations. Longing to discover something significant, to throw light into the dark corners of the past and understand better what made humanity the way it was.
She met her friend’s eyes and forced a smile. “I’m perfectly fine.”
Grace’s gaze warmed as she squeezed Modesty’s hand. “Not many would uproot their life for a baby that isn’t their own.”
Modesty let out a long exhale, attempting to relieve the tension squeezing her windpipe. She owed it to Ophelia to care for her child when she couldn’t.
“Some would say I’m very lucky. From a vicar’s daughter to a duchess.”
She released Grace’s hand and crossed to the dressing table, her fingers trailing over the ornate box Constantine had sent yesterday. Her hands trembled even more as she lifted the lid, revealing what lay within. Grace gasped softly. Nestled on midnight blue velvet lay the most exquisite necklace she’d ever seen. Diamonds and sapphires alternated in an intricate floral pattern. The gold setting was so pale it appeared almost silver, the metalwork so delicate it seemed to float between the gems.
She chuckled. “This must be worth more than the vicarage.”
“It is beautiful,” Grace said. “Did the duke send this?”
“He did.”
“Why are you not wearing it?”
Modesty inhaled sharply. “I can’t make myself.”
“Don’t you think it means he appreciates you? Wants to please you?”
“He wants to please himself. Wants to protect his reputation. We’re to be madly in love. This must be what will show everyone the extent of his feelings.”
Understanding softened Grace’s features. “Right. So, will you put it on?”
Modesty chuckled. “Look at my dress, at my hair. I’m going to carry a bouquet of wildflowers, and I made my gown myself. How ridiculous would this necklace look on me?”
The day before, several boxes had arrived at her doorstep accompanied by an army of maids ready to transform her into a proper duchess. Inside were silk gowns in fashionable colors, delicate slippers, and bonnets adorned with feathers, flowers, pearls, and crystals.
“His grace insists,” said the stern-faced woman who must have been the senior maid.
Modesty’s fingers traced the fine fabrics. “Please thank his grace, but I will wear my own gown.”
The head maid’s mouth tightened. “Miss, a duchess cannot?—”
“I am not a duchess yet,” Modesty said quietly but firmly. “And this is the last choice I will make as myself.”
And so here she was now. In her own dress.
Feeling like she may have made a mistake.
Modesty closed the lid of the box and placed it back on the dressing table. “The very idea of pretending is sickening. All I want is to protect little Augustus. I want nothing to do with the duke.”
His vanity and pride repulsed her.
And yet, he stole her breath away every time she saw him. Why couldn’t she stop looking into his eyes, drowning in them?
Grace picked up Modesty’s bonnet, decorated with purple meadow saffron, and held it out to her. “Don’t you think you could eventually be happy with him?”
Modesty inhaled and exhaled but the tension in her chest wouldn’t ease.
She took the bonnet, placed it on her head, then began tying the lilac-colored ribbons. “One must always keep up hope, must one not?”
One hour later, Modesty’s footsteps echoed against the marble floors as she entered St. George’s, the sound swallowed by the vaulted ceiling high above. Morning light streaming through towering stained-glass windows in jewel-bright colors put her small church’s simple panes to shame.
Her throat tightened as what felt like hundreds of eyes turned towards her. Silk rustled as the ton’s finest shifted in their seats to stare—duchesses and countesses in morning dresses worth more than her father’s yearly income, their necks and ears decorated with gems. In All Saints, she knew every weathered face, every patched Sunday best. Here, she recognized no one save the duke.
The aisle stretched before her, impossibly long. Each step brought her closer to the duke, who stood as rigid as the marble columns that flanked the pews on each side. His indigo coat was immaculate, his cravat a masterpiece of intricate folds. His dark eyes were intense on her, melting her bones. Was that supposed to be the look of love? Something in her chest fluttered. Was it his presence, how effortlessly he commanded the space around him? This was her future husband—this stranger who belonged so completely to this glittering world that felt as foreign to her as the moon.
The Bishop of London droned through his sermon. And it was time for their vows.
“I, Constantine Buccleigh,” his voice carried through the church, “the Duke of Pryde, take thee, Miss Modesty Fairchild, to be my wedded wife…”
His fingers brushed against hers as he slipped the ring on, the touch sending a shiver down her spine. His hands were large, warm, and strong, but with elegant fingers, and she wondered why it felt so enjoyable to have them on her skin.
When it was her turn, she had to swallow twice before she could speak. “I, Modesty Fairchild,” she said, her voice wavering slightly, “take thee, Constantine Buccleigh…”
She spoke the vow, barely able to remember what she said. She was acutely aware of his presence—the subtle scent of bergamot, vetiver, and leather that clung to him, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way he seemed to tower over her despite him being only slightly taller.
Their eyes met over their joined hands. Something flickered in his gaze—pride? Satisfaction? For a moment, she thought she glimpsed vulnerability beneath his marble facade, the flash of a lonely little boy who seemed shy but hopeful. But it was gone before she could be sure, replaced by that familiar mask of aristocratic indifference.
“What God has joined together, let no man put asunder,” the bishop intoned.
The duke’s fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around hers. Was it meant to be reassuring or a reminder of their agreement? She couldn’t tell, and that uncertainty made her heart flit about like a trapped bird in her chest.
What had she just done?
Half an hour later, the wedding breakfast took place in Pryde House in Mayfair.
She and the duke stood side by side in the grand room. The heat radiating from his body seemed to draw her closer, even as propriety demanded she maintain her distance. Mirrors with golden frames hung on walls of masculine indigo tones. White marble statues stood between paintings that bore scenes of maritime storms and naval victories. A large table was laden with cold game pies, glazed ham, bride cake, sweetmeats and preserved fruit, fresh bread and butter, cold meats and terrines.
While guests arrived, the duke never left her side. He introduced her to so many lords and ladies, dukes and duchesses that she couldn’t remember their names and merely smiled with a wooden face.
She felt the duke’s attention on her like the brush of hot air from a fire.
When all of the guests had gathered around them, the duke cleared his throat.
“I know many of you were surprised at the quick wedding announcement,” he declared. “But I simply couldn’t wait to marry this delightful young woman and make her rightfully mine.”
Her stomach clenched at the words. Was he really saying them? Someone like him? She looked up at him, and he was staring straight at her, his expression bathing her in warmth.
“Beautiful,” he said, his chestnut eyes darkening as they swept over her face. “Incredibly kind. Someone who loves history and antiquities so much. Someone with modesty and manners. I am so lucky to call you my wife.”
She swallowed, her throat dry. The deep timbre of his voice vibrated through her, and she found herself swaying slightly towards him. His jaw tensed as he spoke, a muscle flickering beneath his skin, and her gaze was inexplicably drawn to the fullness of his lower lip. Surely, he was just pretending, but why did each word seem to strike directly at her heart?
“Someone selfless,” he continued, his voice dropping to an intimate murmur that seemed meant for her alone. He shifted closer, the broad expanse of his shoulders nearly shielding her from the crowd, creating a private moment in the midst of the gathering. His breath whispered against her temple as he spoke. “Who helps in a women’s almshouse, loves wildflowers, and cares for others so deeply there are no limits to what she would do to help them.”
The intensity of his gaze held her captive as he raised his glass, his signet ring catching the light. A lock of dark hair had fallen across his forehead, softening his usually stern countenance, making him look younger. His free hand moved to the small of her back, warm and steady through the thin muslin of her gown. “To Modesty Buccleigh, the new Duchess of Pryde.”
The touch of his hand, the heat of his body, the hypnotic depth of his eyes…she was light-headed, and she wasn’t sure if it was the wine or something far more dangerous.
The rest of the room followed his exclamation, all toasting her, while she felt dizzy from the attention. She sipped her wine. This was the first time she had tasted champagne, and it was prickly on her tongue. The elation hitting her blood a moment later made her feel weak.
She didn’t like it.
He drank, too, his eyes never leaving hers.
“Are you hungry?” he asked quietly. “Would you like something to eat?”
She turned to the table and was surprised to find wildflowers in vases standing among plates with cut meat, pies, and bread. Many of the bouquets had purple meadow saffron, and so they fit strangely well with her outfit.
“No, I do not think I could eat even if I wanted to,” she said. “But thank you.”
She shivered slightly. Her nerves were as taut as bowstrings. This was her new home, and these were the people she supposed she’d find herself entertaining, talking to perhaps every day. It was opulent and had every comfort. And yet, she yearned to return to her modest room with whitewashed walls, and windows with cracked glass, and her books on the Roman Empire, which smelled like old paper and dust.
“Are you cold?” he asked. “May I fetch you a shawl?”
She didn’t know which she preferred, his coldness or his attention. At least when he was cool to her, she felt strong, alive with indignation. When he was warm, she felt weak and uncertain of herself.
“I’m quite all right,” she said. “Thank you.”
“Was the necklace I sent you not to your liking?”
She swallowed. “I—er—I couldn’t put it on.”
He frowned. “Was the clasp broken?”
“No. The necklace is lovely. But—I’ve never worn anything so valuable in my life. And I worried my current attire would mock the beauty of the necklace…and make it seem unworthy while it is so precious.”
His gaze briefly dropped down her body, bringing an onrush of heat. “You were sent appropriate clothes, were you not?”
She swallowed. It was hard to imagine she would ever feel entitled to wear a fortune on her neck while others scraped and struggled for every coin and bit of food. “Yes. But I didn’t think I could— They must cost a fortune— I couldn’t imagine?—”
He nodded. “I hope you will feel like you can wear beautiful gowns and jewelry in the future. You’re a duchess now.”
A duchess…the word felt foreign and strange.
Her gaze dropped to his neck and the pin that he wore in his cravat. “Who is this woman? She looks lovely.”
He looked down on his chest. “My mama,” he said. “This pin was her gift to my papa. I wanted her to be with me when I married.”
Something tightened in her chest as she studied the lovely face of a woman in a high powdered wig. Despite herself, her heart reached out to him.
“She passed away many years ago,” he added. “I fit her portrait into the pin after my papa passed away.”
Sharp, needlelike pain pierced her heart. “I am sorry she’s no longer with us. It must have been wonderful to have known her at all.”
He gave a curt nod. “It was. I presume your mama passed away?”
She nodded, trying to breathe deeply through her tight throat. “She died giving birth to me. I wish I had known my mama, wish I had seen her face even once. It is very lovely you’ve brought yours to the wedding.”
Something passed across his face, as though a curtain lifted, his carefully maintained mask cracking for just a breath. Their eyes locked, and in that moment, she saw past the duke, past the nobleman, into the depths of the man himself. She saw a boy standing at his mother’s grave, just as lost as she had been as a child, that same ache of absence carved into his heart. There was a rawness there, an uncertainty that he kept hidden behind his stern countenance and sharp words. His eyes, usually so guarded, held an echo of old pain, and something else—a desperate, almost childlike longing for connection, for someone who understood this particular wound that had never quite healed.
Earlier, he’d looked at her with such warmth, spoken of her with such seeming admiration. It had felt so real. Even more so now. For a heartbeat, she let herself see it: Augustus taking his first steps in the garden while Constantine steadied him, his large hands gentle around the baby’s middle. The three of them in the library, Constantine showing Augustus the Roman coins while she sketched the artifacts in her notebook. Summer afternoons beneath the oak trees, a blanket spread with treats, Constantine’s deep laugh mixing with Augustus’s happy squeals as she wove them both flower crowns…
But then he blinked, and the walls came rushing back up, leaving her wondering if she’d imagined that glimpse of his true self, that profound understanding between them.
He had just opened his mouth to ask something when there was a whisper of silk as someone came to stand by their side, and the spell was broken.
“Here’s the new duchess,” said a stunning golden-haired woman in an exquisite crimson satin dress. Her smile lit up the room. “I cannot wait to get to know you better, Your Grace.”
She stood next to a very tall, dark-haired man in a crimson waistcoat. He looked fierce but there was warmth in his sky-blue eyes. By their side was another lady who had his coloring. She wore a yellow gown and was accompanied by a man with soft blond curls and a mischievous violet gaze. They had been introduced earlier, but to her shame she couldn’t remember their names.
“I thank you…” she managed.
“Patience, Duchess of Rath.” The golden-haired woman smiled broader. “I know you can’t remember our names. Trust me, I’ve been in your position. There’s no shame in it. This is my husband, the Duke of Rath. My sister-in-law and my brother-in-law, the Duke and Duchess of Luhst. These three men”—she indicated Pryde, Rath, and Luhst—“are as thick as thieves. Just be warned.”
Something about the Duchess of Rath was so warm and welcoming, the tension in Modesty’s throat and her chest melted a little.
She remembered what her father had said about the Seven Dukes of Sin, and she wondered if she should be afraid. But instead she felt more at home than she had a few moments ago.
She smiled back, a little relieved. “I shall consider myself warned.” She glanced at Rath and Luhst, who regarded her with kind curiosity. The Duke of Luhst, she realized, was the man Pryde had mentioned being blackmailed because of an illegitimate child. Would it be impolite to ask about that? She wasn’t sure, and she didn’t want to embarrass anyone.
“Is this right? You interest yourself in history and ancient studies?” asked the Duchess of Rath.
Modesty nodded. “Indeed I do. Whenever I have time, of course.”
The Duchess of Luhst lit up with enthusiasm. “Perhaps you might wish to join me and Patience in our club.”
Modesty blinked. “Your club?”
“Indeed,” said the Duchess of Luhst. “Patience is a botanist. I do medical research. If you wish to deepen and enhance your knowledge, or discuss your findings and challenges, you’re very welcome. We call ourselves Misses with Microscopes and want more women to join. It would be our pleasure if you do.”
Modesty felt a jolt of excitement she had rarely experienced in her life. Discussing antiquities? History? Theories, proof, evidence, hypotheses… She couldn’t do much of that in Shepherdsbrook, only sometimes when she spoke with Mr. Lockhart. Could she speak of such things regularly, without looking over her shoulder, afraid of her papa’s disapproval? He had always felt she should be helping him and others, not reading about the past.
“I—” She looked at her new husband, who stared at her with raised brows.
What about Augustus? The entire reason for her marriage was the well-being of the baby. He was now with Mrs. Walcott, settling in somewhere upstairs. She should spend any spare time with him. Besides, she needed to learn so much about being a duchess—manners, correct addresses, dances, and so on.
The Duke of Luhst grinned, his eyes crinkling with mirth. “Beware of these two. They’re quite serious about their science.”
“I thank you,” she said with a polite nod. “I do not think my knowledge is as vast as yours. It’s merely an amusement for me.” Or a dream that would never come true. “I would not want to waste your valuable time.”
Both of the ladies’ smiles fell a little. “Well,” said the Duchess of Luhst, who threw a careful glance at Pryde. “If you ever change your mind, Duchess, just one word from you is all that’s needed.”
The Duchess of Rath beamed at her again. “Or if you need anything else. A friendly ear. Or just some company for tea. It can be quite daunting to learn everything one must to be a duchess.”
Modesty smiled politely as the gentlemen and the ladies retreated to give room for other guests wishing to congratulate them.
But the Duke of Luhst lingered a moment and leaned towards her. “I know he can seem cold and insufferably proud. But give him a chance. In time you may find, as we all have, that he is the most loyal of friends.”
Before she could reply or think more on what he said, he followed his wife and the Duke and Duchess of Rath to another corner of the room, looking carefree and practically glowing with happiness.
An older lady with a silvery mane of hair was introduced as the Dowager Duchess of Grandhampton. She was dressed in the fashions of the previous era, but still looked beautiful. With a twinkle in her kind blue eyes, she asked how she and the duke had met and how their love had blossomed so quickly.
“We met at the church where Mr. Fairchild preaches,” said Pryde, completely calm and collected. “All Saints of Shepherdsbrook. And Miss Fairchild completely charmed me. From that day forward, the thought of a future without her was unbearable.”
The dowager chuckled. “Clearly. I have not known you to visit churches…especially those on the outskirts of London.”
“Quite right. Call it destiny. Providence. It was as though someone beckoned me to come to the church.”
The duchess’s eyes sparkled with humor and she smiled kindly. “Providence. Of course. Marriage for love is a rare thing, I should know—all my grandchildren were so fortunate, though not without their challenges… In any event, I hope you both realize that and cherish each other always. I wish you every happiness.”
Happiness…
Modesty looked up at Pryde, and he stared into her eyes. She has seen glimpses of something softer beneath his hard exterior. Would she be so na?ve as to believe they might truly love each other someday…or at least enjoy moments of happiness?
Everyone sat at the grand table for breakfast. She forced herself to take a few bites of the game pie, more because she didn’t want the food to go to waste than because she was hungry. And then the guests began departing. While she was saying goodbye to Papa, Grace, and George, the duke left her side to say goodbye to his six ducal friends. As she waved to her papa, who was the last guest to leave, she allowed herself a moment of weakness while no footmen were in sight. She leaned against the large bay window in the sitting room adjacent to the entrance hall. The hours at the center of so many distinguished guests’ attention had left her shaken and exhausted. She let herself sink down onto the window seat, enjoying the partial privacy that a heavy indigo and golden curtain gave her from the rest of the drawing room.
She’d go to see Augustus in a moment. Her heart quickened at the thought of him alone in this strange house. Would Mrs. Walcott know to keep his blanket close, the one that still carried his mother’s scent? Would she remember he needed to be held upright for a few minutes after feeding or he’d get that terrible colic that kept him crying all night?
She should have asked where they had put him. Pryde House was a maze of corridors and closed doors; she’d have to find a servant to guide her… Yet another reminder of how out of place she was in this grand house.
She watched as one of Pryde’s carriages drew up. He had insisted on providing transportation to return Papa, Grace, and George to Shepherdsbrook, despite her father’s initial protests about accepting such a favor.
After watching the carriage pull away, she made to descend from the window seat. But the sound of male voices coming through the open sitting room door stopped her.
She’d recognize Pryde’s voice anywhere. Low, rich, velvety. It always caused an unmistakable tickling sensation in her lower belly.
“She seems lovely, Constantine,” said a deep voice, and she thought this must be the Duke of Rath. “Are you sure you made the right choice by marrying someone the Regent will disapprove of, though—especially so quickly? As amiable as Miss Fairchild is, and as much as Patience and Chastity long to have another friend who shares their passion for scientific pursuits…”
“Beware,” said a man she thought must be the Duke of Luhst. “Dorian and I are testaments to how love can change a man.”
“Love,” her husband chuckled. “Believe me, there’s no chance of that.”
Modesty held her breath, the words hitting her harder than she had ever thought they could.
“She’s nothing but a means to an end,” he continued. “A way to take control of the baby and avoid a scandal. A vicar’s daughter will be the perfect wife—quiet, obedient, and invisible. She won’t protest as I go on with my life unbothered. She has secured a rich and noble husband. What else can a woman of her birth wish for in life?”
She couldn’t breathe. Hurt slapped her hard as she tried to blink through the tears. She tasted copper—she’d bitten her lip to keep from making a sound. That was what he thought of her?
The bay window’s cushion felt like stone beneath her. She wrapped her arms around herself but couldn’t stop shaking. What a fool she’d been to let herself hope, even for a moment.
There could be no hope for this marriage.
She could never love someone like her husband—insensitive, pompous, and self-centered.
And he could never love someone he believed was so far beneath him.