Chapter Four #2
“No one is due to arrive today,” Cordelia said. “It’s Wednesday.”
Portia’s eyes grew wide and her lips formed into a perfect o. “I was about to tell you, but then your ribs were broken.”
Hermione burst through the bedroom door, her arms stuffed with underclothes and stockings. Mrs. Norris pushed her out of the way, clapping a hand over her mouth.
“Dear heavens above and all of the angels! What have you done to yourself, child?” Mrs. Norris’s cheeks were flushed pink.
“I—” Cordelia began, but Mrs. Norris was inconsolable.
“He is making his way down the drive as we speak!” she shouted, running to the window. The four girls joined her vigil. Sure enough, a single man was walking down the drive, tan overcoat blowing in the wind.
“Who is he?” Bea asked.
“The n-n-new duke!” Hermione squeaked. “I th-th-thought he w-w-as due tomorrow!”
“They camped out because the coaching inn was full! Have you ever heard such a thing! I’ve a mind to set him up in the stables, if those are the kinds of accommodations he prefers!” Mrs. Norris was spluttering now. It was going to take hours for her to calm down.
“Not riding a horse either?” Bea said.
“Did he not t-t-travel by c-c-coach?” Hermione added.
Portia clapped her hands, snapping everyone out of their reverie. “Right. Cordelia needs to dress. Mrs. Norris, please gather the household staff to meet him in the foyer. And stall him. For as long as possible.”
“You’re right, Lady Portia. Indeed, I will do my best,” Mrs. Norris said, wiping her brow with the back of her hand and straightening her belt.
The keys to Hollyhead jangled happily while she righted herself.
“Steel yourselves, ladies! I daresay you all have good bit of ice water in your veins from your father, the late duke. Now would be a good time to use it.”
Cordelia agreed heartily with that. The next few weeks would see her father’s will be read, his assets divvied up, and their futures decided.
She was going to need to keep her wits about her if she were going to negotiate with a new aristocrat.
Well, the men of London didn’t call her Lady Icicle for no reason.
“I think we should put you in the purple,” Portia said.
“We are mourning our dear brother!” Cordelia countered.
Portia shrugged. “Let’s dazzle him a little. The four sisters of Hollyhead House are enigmatic and eccentric. Why can’t we be beautiful as well?”
No trouble for you, Cordelia wanted to say.
But she held her tongue. Though they were all pretty enough by society standards, Portia was the true beauty amongst the sisters.
With porcelain skin and brown hair gilt with gold, she turned heads wherever she went.
But due to her partial deafness, Portia could not stand parties or having to make polite conversation.
Not that it mattered. It seemed to draw more men around her, like moths to a flame.
Who wouldn’t want a beautiful, silent wife?
It was supposed to be her second season, and though she would never admit it, Cordelia knew that Portia was relieved to delay it due to mourning.
“Oh, all right then.” Cordelia was already slipping on a muslin shift.
Hermione went behind her to lace up her stays, being careful to ensure they weren’t too tight.
Her ribs still ached fiercely, but it turned into a dull throb rather than a sharp pain.
As long as she took shallow breaths, Cordelia found it fine.
Grabbing a brush, Portia did her best to tame some of the snarls, but her hair was beyond a clean chignon.
“Let’s pin it back simply,” Cordelia said.
“Only a little scandalous,” Portia replied, smirking. “Men prefer women to look a little disheveled, I think. It implies a certain presence of spirit.”
“What kind of spirit?” Bea asked.
Cordelia found her cheeks heating at that.
She had far too many curves to cover up usually and had to be careful in her dress so as not to attract unwanted attention.
Looking at herself in the mirror now, the curling tendrils of hair that escaped her coif made her look…
like something else entirely. It accentuated her large eyes and full lips.
She looked much less like a prim society miss and more like a woman.
A woman who was no stranger to going up against men—and winning.
There were muffled voices coming from the drive. Cordelia could pick out the chords of Mrs. Norris’s strained voice and a much deeper baritone.
“Let’s go,” Cordelia said.
Keeping her spine as straight as possible, she followed her sisters out of the room. They walked down the long corridors to the foyer. They passed pictures of dukes old and long dead; the one of her dear papa was the most recent. Will did not have enough time to sit for his portrait.
Cordelia paused for a moment, regarding the large, imposing painting. I promise, she said to herself, I promise to keep Hollyhead, Papa.
“Lia,” Portia whispered, nodding her head toward the door.
“Ah, here come the late duke’s daughters!
They were always his pride and joy,” she heard Mrs. Norris saying from the top of the stairs.
Gripping onto the railing, she descended carefully.
She wished in that moment that she’d had more than a thimbleful of tea.
Her heart pounded and her ribs creaked. When she finally reached the bottom of the stairs, she took her place beside Portia.
She fought the urge to look over and ogle him.
“Allow me to introduce to you Lady Beatrice Nichols, the youngest, and then here we have Lady Hermione Nichols, Lady Portia Nichols, and of course, the eldest, Lady Cordelia Nichols.”
Cordelia dipped into a low curtsy, seeing his shadow in front of her.
When she stood to her full height, she could hear Mrs. Norris take in a sharp breath of disapproval at the state of her dress. But before she could send the chatelaine a glare, she was pinned in place by two piercing blue eyes.
“Please to meet you, Miss Nichols.”
Cordelia was too shocked to note the incorrect form of address.
It was the man from the road. The man. The one who had watched in disbelief while she struggled to stand after her fall.
She could almost feel the heat of his hand wrapped around her calf again.
Portia cleared her throat loudly and Cordelia immediately replied, in a tone she presumed only dogs could hear, “Your Grace.”
She could almost feel Mrs. Norris’s eyes boring into her.
“Glad to see you also wear women’s clothing, Miss Nichols,” he said, his blue eyes shining with mirth.
Cordelia was not sure which was more inappropriate, the mention of clothing or the fact that he referred to her as a miss. Portia snorted with laughter.
“I have no idea what you mean, Your Grace,” Cordelia said. She was trying to gather her brains, trying to form words, but her body felt lighter and lighter, as though she were disappearing. Her heart began to pound, slapping against the wall of her chest.
“Miss Nichols?” the duke asked. But the pounding of her heart was gaining speed and her stomach was twisting and before she knew it, Cordelia was bent over in a heap, upchucking onto the duke’s boots.