Chapter 12
12
“No, Your Grace. A deeper curtsy for a marchioness.” The Dowager Duchess of Grandhampton sat regally in her chair. She tapped her cane against the parquet floor, its sharp sound echoing through Pryde House’s spacious drawing room.
Autumn sunlight streamed through the tall windows, catching on gilt-framed mirrors and making Modesty squint as she attempted the movement again. Then a tall clock in the corner struck the hour, reminding her how long they’d been practicing these countless curtsies.
Her neck ached from the endless repetitions; her feet protested the hours of standing. A silver tray of tea and untouched biscuits sat forgotten on a side table. The richly decorated room felt like a prison, despite the incredible kindness of the dowager and her friend, Lady Buchanan.
Two days ago, the six dukes had come to visit her husband in such haste and with such grim faces, she’d thought there must be another war starting. After they departed, he’d been in a poor mood. He’d been absent all day yesterday, and she had no notion where he’d gone. Of course. Why should he inform her of his actions? She was just his wife. Someone he could forbid from doing certain things and demand to do others. She had no say over his comings and goings.
“Just so,” Lady Buchanan said. The Duke of Rath’s aunt executed a smooth curtsey and lowered her head. “Deep enough to show respect for her rank but not so deep as to diminish your own position as a duchess.”
Her silvery gray hair in an elegant chignon, Lady Buchanan was somewhat younger than the dowager, though equally regal and dressed just as old-fashioned. But both ladies certainly made the tailored waists and full skirts popular twenty years ago look spectacular.
“Again,” the dowager commanded. “I am Lady Rutherford, a marchioness.”
Modesty inclined her head, mentally measuring the angle.
“Not quite, dearest,” Lady Buchanan interrupted. “You just treated a marchioness like a duchess. The ton will eat you alive if you make such mistakes.”
“But I’ve done worse at my wedding!” exclaimed Modesty.
“The Duke of Pryde invited only close friends to your wedding breakfast. They would never judge you or gossip. Now, I am Lady Kenworth, a baroness…”
“Does it truly matter?” Modesty burst out. “Surely they don’t carry measuring tools to social events.”
The dowager duchess’s eyebrows shot up. “My dear girl, we’ve been practicing these distinctions since we were in leading strings. Every lady in London will be watching you, waiting for the slightest misstep. The Duke of Pryde’s sudden marriage is already the talk of the ton. You cannot afford errors.”
“Try again,” Lady Buchanan said. “Remember, the movement must flow from the upper chest, not the neck. Your spine must remain straight. Think of yourself as a swan—elegant, controlled.”
“A swan who must measure precise angles with her neck,” Modesty muttered.
The dowager’s lips twitched in an echo of a smile. “You’re doing it very well. Now, imagine I am the Marchioness of Exeter entering your drawing room. Extend your hand exactly halfway, and…” Modesty tried again. “Better. Though your eyes dropped. You must maintain eye contact throughout the movement. It shows confidence in your rank. Remember, you are a duchess now. No one but the royal family rank above you.”
Modesty felt a little bit of encouragement, though she ached to take a carriage and return home to Shepherdsbrook. As she kept curtseying and greeting imagined ladies and gentlemen of different ranks, another ache pierced her heart.
She imagined herself by Constantine’s side at Lady Virtoux’s upcoming event… It had felt so wonderful in the carriage, when he had his arms wrapped around her. Her stomach squeezed in longing for her husband, heat rushing through her in a wave.
But he’d sent Augustus away, she reminded herself. She’d told him she despised him, and that was true, wasn’t it?
“Now,” the dowager duchess said, interrupting her thoughts. “Let us tackle the next complicated topic. Precedence.”
She and Lady Buchanan stood and started arranging name cards on the table.
“You’re hosting the French ambassador, Baron de Montigny, the Danish ambassador Count Leopoldus, and the Neapolitan ambassador, Duke di Serra Capriola. Among your British guests are the Marquess and Marchioness of Somerham, Earl and Countess of Suffton, and, of course, several members of Parliament.”
Modesty’s head spun. “The French ambassador would enter first?”
“I’m afraid not, dearest,” Lady Buchanan said. “Foreign ambassadors, while honored guests, rank after British peers of equivalent rank. The Marquess of Somerham and his lady enter first, as the highest-ranking British peers present. Then…”
“Then the earl and countess,” Modesty ventured.
Lady Buchanan smiled brightly. “Excellent. The ambassadors follow, in order of their seniority at the Court of St. James’s. The French ambassador first, as he’s been longest in London…”
“And where do I seat them?” Modesty stared at the dining table layout.
“You, as hostess, are seated at the foot of the table,” said the dowager, pointing at the cards with her cane, “while the duke sits at the head. The marchioness must be on his right, as the highest-ranking lady present. The French Ambassador’s wife to your husband’s left…”
“And at my end?” Modesty asked.
“You place the Marquess of Somerham on your right,” the dowager duchess instructed. “The French ambassador on your left. The Earl of Suffton next to the French ambassador’s wife, and his countess beside the marquess.”
“But wouldn’t the earl be offended to be so far from the head of the table?” asked Modesty.
Her mind whirled. What in the world would she talk about with the ambassadors? She couldn’t wait to discuss Icelandic sagas with someone from Scandinavia, but what were the chances he would share her passion for history and ancient cultures? As she’d learned yesterday from her lessons with both ladies, acceptable topics included the latest operas at King’s Theatre, notable concerts, royal exhibitions, weather and its effect on hunting/riding seasons, court fashions, recent society weddings, upcoming balls, latest portraits by prominent artists, and new additions to noble collections. Bringing up fascinating archeological finds and getting too enthusiastic about historical topics would be seen as vulgar and unfeminine and most certainly not suitable for the Duchess of Pryde.
She felt a deep longing to hold Augustus in her arms again, to return to her boring but meaningful life with her papa. There she’d actually made a difference in other people’s lives, even if she didn’t go on expeditions.
She dreaded a dinner where she had to discuss topics she cared not a bit about.
“Less offended than the Danish ambassador would be to be seated below a British earl,” Lady Buchanan said. “Foreign diplomacy requires delicate handling. One wrong placement and you could cause an international incident.”
“That happened at a dinner I attended,” the dowager reminisced. “The Swedish ambassador was seated below a viscount at Lady Jersey’s dinner. The diplomatic fallout lasted months.”
“And what of the Neapolitan ambassador?”
“Ah.” The dowager’s eyes gleamed. “Now there’s the true challenge. Being the most recently arrived to Court, he’s lowest in diplomatic precedence. However, being a duke in his own country…”
“Creates an interesting predicament,” Lady Buchanan finished. “You must find a way to honor his rank while maintaining proper diplomatic order.”
Modesty’s mind reeled. She should approach this as an anthropological study, she decided. See this world like a scientist wishing to understand it and—even though it was not her natural environment, and it felt strange and unpleasant—try to blend in.
“Do you have an idea how to solve such a puzzle?” Modesty asked. “I have no notion.”
The dowager nodded, a satisfied glint in her eyes. “Place him near enough to the head of the table to acknowledge his ducal status, but not so close as to offend the other ambassadors who outrank him in diplomatic precedence. Between the earl and the Danish ambassador’s wife should suffice.”
A knock sounded. Constantine stood in the doorway, and her breath caught at the imposing effect of his tall, broad-shouldered frame. Immaculately dressed as always, he stared intently at her, a meaning she couldn’t decipher in his dark eyes.
How long had he been there? And when had he returned?
“How goes the schooling?” he asked.
“Her grace is progressing very well,” Lady Buchanan said.
Modesty felt her cheeks burn. She knew what everyone thought—that she was hopeless, that she’d never master these ridiculous rules.
“Show me,” Constantine said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Pretend I’ve just entered with the Marchioness of Herfordon. How do you acknowledge us?”
Modesty’s heart pounded. She curtsied and inclined her head to him first—that much she knew—then turned to give what she hoped was a perfectly calibrated curtsey to the imaginary marchioness.
“Better,” the dowager said. “Though still a touch too deep.”
“At least I didn’t mistake her for a duchess this time,” Modesty muttered.
To her surprise, Constantine’s lips twitched. “Indeed. Though Lady Herfordon would probably forgive the error.”
Was he teasing her? His eyes crinkled slightly at their edges, and warmth swirled deep in her gut.
“I should say the duchess has had enough schooling for today,” said the dowager as her gaze darted between Modesty and the duke. “Lady Buchanan and I shall take our leave. Shall we return tomorrow?”
“Of course,” Modesty said with a polite smile. She enjoyed the company of the two ladies. And despite disliking the subject, she couldn’t have found better teachers. “Thank you both.”
They said their goodbyes, correcting her curtseys and the order in which she addressed them, and left. Silence fell between Modesty and the duke, and her cheeks heated as his gaze slid over her from head to toe. She wore a newly fashioned gown in a burgundy that—the seamstress had assured her—would bring out the coloring of her hair and eyes. Intricate lace of the same color surrounded the neckline—which was much lower than she was accustomed to. The silk felt soft and weightless on her body, highlighting the details of her figure much more than her simple woolen and muslin dresses did. And she felt uncomfortably visible.
His slow perusal sent hot awareness throughout her body.
“When did you return?” she asked, feeling both the urge to defy him and the desire to hide. It was an impossible contradiction, and he was the only person who’d ever made her feel this way.
“Just now,” he said. He was still in his riding clothes—gleaming hessian boots stretched to his knees, buff-colored riding breeches molded to his thighs, and a dark blue riding coat emphasized his shoulders. A few spots of mud marked his boots, and the crisp autumn air still clung to him, mixing with the leather-and-horse scent that followed him into the room. “I was in a hurry to see my wife.”
The words, said in a velvety tone, made a thrill rush along her spine. He approached her, and she stood, breathless, her head devoid of any thoughts. He offered her his hand.
“Come with me. I’d like to continue your duchess schooling myself.”
She swallowed hard, her throat dry. “How?”
“You’ll see.”
She sank in his deep brown eyes, unable to move. Finally, she managed to lay her hand in his, the heat of his skin scalding her. Never breaking the hold of his eyes over hers, he took her hand and wrapped it around his forearm. Then he led her through the door and down the hallway.
They arrived at a set of ornate doors she’d never before entered. “Now,” he said, pushing them open to reveal a grand ballroom, “shall we begin with your dancing lessons?”
The ballroom took Modesty’s breath away. It was empty, save for a trio of musicians sitting next to the fireplace: a violinist, a flutist, and a harpsichordist. The three men jumped to their feet and nodded as she and the duke walked in. Painted in a lovely pale blue, the room was grand and vast. White moldings decorated the high ceiling and the wall panels, and gilded mirrors hung between the panels. Though unlit, the crystal chandeliers were still beautiful in the daylight seeping through the tall windows.
“We’ll begin with an English country dance,” the duke said, his lips close to her ear. “It will be important for Lady Virtoux’s antiquarian event.”
He led her to the center of the room, positioning them facing each other. “We’ll start with a simple set. Watch my movements and try to mirror them.”
The trio began a lively tune. Constantine bowed, and Modesty, recalling the instructions of the two ladies, attempted a curtsy.
“Good,” he murmured. “Now, we’ll step forward, touch hands, and step back.”
His hand was warm against hers as they touched palms, and even that brief contact sent a shiver down her spine.
Her husband had been the object of quite a few of her dreams lately. Dreams where he kissed her, held her in his arms, his body and his weight like a decadent pleasure of its own against her. The glide of his hands down her back, his lips and tongue against her bare neck, his firm chest under her palms… She often awoke overheated and perspiring, feeling a strange longing, an ache she couldn’t soothe.
“Next, we’ll do a turn,” he instructed. “Take my hand, and we’ll walk in a circle.”
Modesty placed her hand in his, noting the contrast between his calloused palm and her softer skin. Yet another part of him that surprised her. She wondered why a duke’s hand would be so rough. Riding? Fencing? As they circled each other, she caught the bergamot and musk scent that was distinctly masculine and uniquely him.
The dance required them to weave between other imaginary couples, and Constantine guided her gently with a hand at the small of her back. Even through her dress, she felt the heat of his touch, and her breath hitched.
“Now, we’ll do a figure eight,” he said, demonstrating the steps.
Modesty followed, concentrating on her feet but acutely aware of his movements. When their paths crossed, bringing them momentarily close, a brush of his coat against her arm made a shiver rush through her.
There it was again—the longing in her body, the ache deep down in her belly.
As they repeated the sequence, Modesty found herself relaxing into the rhythm. She caught glimpses of their reflection in the mirrors—her russet hair a vibrant contrast to his dark locks, her burgundy gown against his indigo coat. The elegant, graceful woman in the mirror looked at home in this stately room and in the arms of the handsome duke. But that woman wasn’t truly Modesty, the girl who wanted nothing more than to dig in the dirt, to uncover relics from the distant past. She reminded herself that no matter what costume she put on, what mask she wore, she didn’t belong in this world.
“Very good,” Constantine said, his voice a low rumble that she felt more than heard. “You’re picking this up quickly.”
Despite her reservations, pride bloomed in her chest at his praise. She looked up, meeting his gaze, and her breath caught. His dark eyes were intense, focused solely on her. The room seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them, moving together in perfect harmony. Her breasts tingled, her nipples hardening to sharp, painful knots. Sweat misted the back of her neck. Her face burned. All that just from the touch of his hands, from the presence his body emanated.
As they twirled and stepped in time with the music, Modesty felt light. Her earlier anger and frustration melted away, replaced by a heady mix of excitement and nervousness.
The music swelled, and they came together for the final figure, hands joined as they spun in a circle. As the last notes faded, they slowed to a stop, hands still clasped. For a moment, neither moved, and she found herself reluctant to step away.
“Very well done, Duchess,” Constantine said softly, his thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles before he released her hand. “You’re a breath of fresh air. I had an important appointment yesterday, which didn’t go well. I’ll need to go out of town for a few days, to Cambridge. But memories of dancing with you will help time pass more quickly… Will you dance with me again and give me more recollections to warm my cold, lonely bed?”
Breathless, Modesty nodded. As the musicians began a new melody, she knew there was more to the duke than she’d thought… Was there a beating heart in this man of stone?