Chapter Six
Dear reader, it appears that fairy tales are real.
The Blacksmith Duke has arrived at Hollyhead House where he will take his first steps into polite society.
Your dedicated author has heard that the transition has not gone as smoothly as one would like.
A Lady C.N. has apparently been the first lady to faint in the presence of this new breed of duke, who is, if rumor holds true, as handsome as he is fortunate.
One thinks that the mother of the Earl of H.
better call her son home as soon as possible if she wishes their match to hold.
In the meantime, all eyes have turned to Hollyhead as the reading of the late Duke of R.’s will is to take place in the next few days…
“Do you really think it’s wise to be crossing swords with the man who will very shortly be controlling our futures?” Portia asked. “I mean, I don’t like having to submit to an unknown man any more than the next woman who knows her own mind… but…”
“But what?” Cordelia snapped. She was donning her burgundy riding habit, having slept poorly the night before.
She still needed to plan the week’s menu and she was mulling over when they could invite Lady Billings for tea; the lady had been remarkably persistent in her correspondence.
No doubt the old bat wanted to have a good look at the new duke.
In fact, she had received no less than thirty invitations from neighbors asking to have them for suppers, luncheons, lawn games, and other ridiculous ploys to find out about the Blacksmith Duke.
Did no one remember that they were supposed to be in mourning?
Cordelia couldn’t blame them, really. It was the most exciting thing to happen in Hertfordshire, probably since Charles Nichols was written out of his father’s will over twenty years ago.
Portia shook her head. “Lia, are you feeling all right?”
Cordelia swung her head around. “Of course, I am. Why would you ask such a thing?”
Portia fiddled with her sister’s riding crop, turning it around in her hands.
“It’s been two weeks and you’ve had two separate fainting spells…
This past year… it has been so much, Lia, for all of us.
I could write to our aunt in Northamptonshire.
She would be happy to host you, until the storm has blown over at least.”
“Are you mad?” Cordelia asked, snatching the crop out of Portia’s hands. “Nothing would keep me from being there for father’s will reading.”
Portia’s eyes went hard. “I am just trying to look after you.”
Cordelia sighed, feeling bad for snapping at her. She put a hand on her sister’s shoulder. “And I appreciate that, so much. But I am feeling well and this is part of my duty,” she said. “I promised father as much.”
Portia balked. “But it’s too much, Lia.”
“Nonsense! Between you and Mrs. Norris I have a veritable army behind me,” she said. With that, Cordelia kissed Portia’s cheek and strode out of the room.
The weather had been dreary since the duke arrived, so when the sun had finally broken through the clouds, Hollyhead looked like a completely different house.
The main corridor had large windows that allowed the sun to stream in, illuminating the portraiture that lined the walls.
The wallpaper and carpets seemed brighter, cheerier.
She swung her riding crop in the air so it made a swishing noise, willing herself into a good mood.
Bea met her at the top of the stairs.
“May I come?” she asked in earnest, wringing her hands in the fabric of her pinafore.
Cordelia lifted Bea up, letting her littlest sister wrap her arms around her neck and piggyback, careful of her damaged ribs. “I wish you could, my dearest, but our Freckles has a hoof abscess and needs plenty of stall rest and carrots,” she said.
“But I want to show the duke how well I can ride,” Bea said, burying her face against the plush velvet of Cordelia’s riding habit.
“But you have so many other charms besides your riding!” Cordelia began. “Well… there’s your pianoforte? Or was it the harp last time I checked?”
“Pianoforte, but Maestro Collins is out sick with the flu,” Bea said.
“For how long?”
Bea shrugged as they rounded the bend into the kitchens.
“Well, why don’t you help Dolly with her bread making?” Cordelia suggested.
“You come here, Lady Beatrice, and help me knead,” Dolly said, punching down a particularly unruly glob of dough.
“C’mon, off you get,” Cordelia said, bending down to let Bea scramble off her onto the flagstones. Bea pouted all the way over to where Dolly stood, climbing up onto a nearby stool.
“I won’t be long, Bea, I promise,” Cordelia said.
Bea shrugged again and sighed. “It’s very hard, being the youngest sister,” she said.
“I know, pet,” Dolly said. “Now get some flour on your hands and watch what I do.”
Cordelia felt another pang in her heart as she exited the kitchen and walked into the stable yard.
Bea was quite taken with the duke, but only because she did not understand the seriousness of their current circumstances.
And she had no idea how to explain to her sisters what father had told her, about the truth of their situation.
She was only hoping that Will would live long enough to see them married off before he exhausted the rest of the family’s coffers.
“Good morning.”
Cordelia looked up, seeing the duke standing in the yard, wearing a sensible coat and trousers. He was a sight less prickly than the night before, but she was still wary.
“No breeches?”
“I thought the tenets of polite conversation forbade us to speak on one another’s clothing,” he said, maintaining his smile.
“Apologies, Your Grace,” Cordelia said, returning his affect and smiling, secretly hoping it looked more like she was baring her teeth. “You are correct, of course.”
“Did I mention that I am a remarkably fast learner?” he said, turning to survey the property.
As they waited for Sam to finish tacking the horses, they walked side by side to the low stone wall that partitioned the parkland from the stables.
The house was built into a hill to offer the best possible view of Hertfordshire’s rolling countryside.
The brilliance of the morning sun almost hurt to look at.
Despite the fact that she had to ride out with the most ill-mannered man she’d ever encountered, it was a truly glorious day, and she hoped it left a good taste in his mouth.
“So,” he said, taking in a deep breath of fresh air. “Where do Hollyhead’s boundaries end and your neighbors’ begin?”
“Oh, it would be impossible to show you simply from here, Your Grace. We’d need to ride out for a good twenty minutes north at a canter to reach the end. I’d say it’s almost five hundred acres.”
“Four hundred and eighty-six,” the duke said, cocking his head. “Your father had recently acquired land from the—”
“Phillips family. That was some ten years ago now,” Cordelia finished.
“Actually, it was eight, just this past February,” he countered.
“You are unusually good at remembering facts, Your Grace,” Cordelia said, keeping her gaze over the reflecting pool to ensure he did not catch the annoyed expression on her face.
“Whether or not that makes a good duke is another matter entirely,” she quipped, nearly balking at herself as soon as the words were out of her mouth.
This was not what Portia meant when she asked her to be amiable.
“As I said, I am a quick learner.” The duke leaned against the stone wall, looking unperturbed by her barbs. “Would it be terribly wrong for you to refer to me as Justin? I find ‘Your Grace’ tiresome.”
Cordelia shook her head vehemently. “Certainly not. You are a duke and you should be titled properly.”
“If Your Grace doesn’t suit, maybe you could refer to me as Mr. Wright?”
“How about Lord Rothesay?” Cordelia suggested.
“I fear that’s even worse. I’m even less of a lord than a ‘Your Grace,’” the duke said, offering her a conciliatory smile.
A chord of laughter struck her, but she swallowed it. “I am sorry to say that you might have to get used to it. Your lot in life is now to be above everyone else, in practically every room you enter.”
Cordelia looked over at the duke, and swore she saw a muscle twitch in his jaw. He cleared his throat, as though he were about to say something, but they were interrupted.
“I have your horses ready, Your Grace!” Sam shouted.
Cordelia watched him out the corner of her eye as they walked back to the stable yard.
His tall, bulky frame and easy smile, not to mention the edge of a cockney accent, seemed to be more suited to a boxing ring than a duchy.
She thought he was rather like a duck that had somehow swam into a gaggle of swans.
Except for his eyes, her thoughts corrected.
His eyes are plucked straight from a picture book on Prince Charming.
She tapped her riding crop against her leg, trying to rid herself of such unpleasant musings.
Buttercup nickered softly as she approached, bringing Cordelia back to reality.
The old mare was the same age as her, five and twenty, and had a disposition akin to Lady Billings’s: old, generally happy, and somewhat prone to mischief.
Cordelia took the reins from the adolescent stable hand, who blushed heartily when he bowed his head.
The duke watched as she swung up onto Buttercup’s back in one fluid motion.
Cordelia adjusted her skirt with a practiced ease, pleased to finally show him that she was adept at something.
He was having no such luck.
*
“Was this the duke’s horse?” Justin asked in some disbelief. The man had died well into old age. He could hardly believe that he would have been riding something so bloody wild.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Sam said, holding the reins as Brutus pranced, shaking his hulking head.
Justin steeled himself as he gripped the reins, putting a booted foot in the stirrup. Brutus lunged forward, but Justin managed to swing his leg over just in time.