Chapter Ten
“This ruins everything!” Portia yelped. “How could you agree to this?”
“What was I supposed to say?” Cordelia said, raising her own voice. Portia had been livid when she explained that the duke wanted etiquette lessons.
“Told him that dancing made you faint! That you had your monthlies! That you absolutely could not stand the sight of him!” Portia countered, letting out an exasperated growl and throwing herself on the bed.
“Oh, Portia,” Cordelia said, closing her eyes and counting to ten. She needed her sister’s help to finish getting ready. Unfortunately, that meant delaying a much-needed tongue lashing. “I’ve said I’m sorry. Can you please finish tying my stays?”
Portia threw an arm over her eyes, effectively cutting off all forms of communication.
“Portia,” Cordelia said, reaching over to grab her arm. It was no use. She pulled away and buried her face in a pillow.
Grumbling to herself, Cordelia reached behind her back, tying off the laces herself. Having been without a lady’s maid for the past two years, she’d learned some of the necessities of dressing alone, but it helped to have an extra pair of hands about. Especially when her ribs were still tender.
Cordelia had donned a pale-blue dress that had once belonged to her mother. When Father asked them to cut back on expenses, they were able to salvage a few of her mother’s things and have a modiste update the fashions. The muslin was worn but soft, the sleeves trimmed in a darker-blue Italian lace.
“I knew you are infatuated with him!” Portia said, sitting up. Some of her hair escaped her coif and it tangled around her head. Instead of making her look bedraggled, the tendrils framed her face, having an effect similar to one of Raphael’s fallen angels.
Between rumors of an impending engagement and Portia, Cordelia had managed to dodge most of the male attention thrust upon high-born daughters during the London season.
Being the daughter of a duke came with certain advantages.
After all, the Rothesay name was an ancient one.
One also expected the female offspring of a duke to have large dowries.
She wondered what her prospects would look like now that they had nothing.
She hadn’t gone out of her way to ingratiate herself to any gentleman, and though Cordelia was pretty enough, she was perhaps a bit too ordinary to catch the eye of a suitable match.
And there was the matter of Rhys too. She would always be far too commonplace for that man.
But perhaps Lady Billings, and her father, and Portia were right.
Maybe he was finally ready to settle down.
And that would finally mean giving up her riding, her home, and her younger sisters to become the mistress of Halton.
Not yet, a voice whispered within her, but she pushed it away.
“Oh, come off it, you!” Cordelia said, losing her patience. “What would you have me do? Wear a potato sack and roll around in the stable yard?”
“Yes!” Portia said. “Or wear gray, or one of Mrs. Norris’s dresses… Anything but that!”
Cordelia frowned. “I think the Blacksmith Duke is in no danger of falling in love with me. He made that perfectly clear.”
“Oh, when are you going to figure that everyone who meets you falls in love with you?” Portia carped. “You’re too nice and agreeable and sweet and attractive. I’m sending you into the lion’s den.”
“Really, Portia, it’s too early in the day for these hysterics,” Cordelia said, moving to the door. “I told you we would rendezvous in the garden at half past ten tomorrow night.”
“In the sculpture garden?” Portia asked, perking up a little.
“In the sculpture garden,” Cordelia confirmed as she opened the door.
Portia offered a smile and Cordelia would accept that as a win. Stepping out in the hallway, she smoothed her dress and began making her way to the ballroom.
She met Mr. Wright on the landing; he looked like he had just come from his office. Cordelia had taken to walking with her head held high, so as to avoid running into people. But his gaze was now glazed over and far away. He almost didn’t notice her until she announced herself.
“Mr. Wright,” Cordelia said with a curtsy. She spoke quietly. If Mrs. Norris was to hear her refer to the duke as anything but “Your Grace” she’d be lectured for the better part of an hour.
“Lady Cordelia,” he replied, bowing.
He offered her his arm and she took it lightly.
They did not speak to one another as they descended the stairs and walked past the portraiture and landscapes that dotted the main passage to the ballroom.
Cordelia stole a quick glance at Mr. Wright, whose dark eyebrows were drawn together, deep in thought.
“How did you fare with the correspondence, Your Grace?” Cordelia found herself asking. Portia would also be unimpressed with her attempts to make small talk. She couldn’t help it; after all the years and the training and the parties it came rather naturally to her.
“Oh,” he said, surprised to be addressed by her. “Very well, thank you.”
When they came to the doorway he paused, gesturing for her to walk through first.
The Hollyhead ballroom was something to behold in its time.
It had not seen a proper ball held here for seven years at this point.
Cordelia’s slippers clacked on the black-and-white checkered floor.
She looked up at the frescoed ceiling, her eyes dropping to the walls, where rectangular stains showed paintings and art that had once hung there.
The grand piano was tucked away in a corner, a white sheet covering it.
Mrs. Norris had quietly become part of the furniture as she was doing some mending. She stood and curtsied as they entered, exchanging light pleasantries.
“It’s not what it once was,” Cordelia said. “But it will do. We have some art in storage that will freshen up the room, and we’ll have the servants give everything a good scrub.”
“I trust you. I can see that this must have been a very grand room in its day,” Mr. Wright said, turning his gaze skyward.
Oh it was… Cordelia wanted to say. She wanted to tell him that it had been the envy of the ton, at least when Mother was still alive and when Father was not so worried and when everyone was happy. But instead she held her tongue, thinking of Portia’s warnings.
“Have you invited someone to play?” she asked instead.
“Oh, was I supposed to engage someone?” he asked.
Cordelia felt heat in her cheeks. “I rather thought that was obvious.”
They simultaneously turned to Mrs. Norris, whose head was leaning against the wall. It did not surprise Cordelia in the least when she heard her soft snores emanating from the corner. That woman had been known to fall asleep in the middle of dinner.
“Obvious to whom?” he asked. “I’m neck deep in land agreements and divisions right now. I don’t have time to think about trivial things.”
Cordelia felt her blood begin to heat. “You asked for lessons, so let this be your first one. Society does not see these things as trivial. Music is an important part of mingling with the upper classes. My father used to tell me that wars, marriages, and kings are made in the ballrooms of the elite. Music simply facilitates those encounters.”
Mr. Wright looked like he wanted to retort, but instead his features softened, his eyes glinting. “That’s well said. All right, is there anyone in this house that can play?”
“Besides me? I think Bea was taking lessons, but there’s also—”
At that moment, Cordelia caught a dark shape walking past the doorway.
“Hermione!” Cordelia called out, her voice echoing off the empty walls. The shape stopped and looked into the light. Hermione wrung her hands together as Cordelia waved her in. “Hermione, would you be able to play for us? Just for an hour?”
Her younger sister’s cheeks began to redden, but besides herself Cordelia wasn’t sure who else would be able to hold a tune on the piano. They stared at one another in silence for an uncomfortable amount of time. Mr. Wright cleared his throat.
“Please, dearest? We most likely won’t be listening. We are practicing for the upcoming ball,” Cordelia tried, but her younger sister seemed to be rooted to the spot.
“If your playing is any worse than my dancing, I’ll procure the latest edition of the Royal Kew Botanical Drawings,” Mr. Wright said. “And that is very much a guarantee, Lady Hermione.”
Looking at the floor, Hermione walked over to the piano, pushing off the white sheet. “V-very w-w-well,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“How did you know that Hermione enjoys botany?” Cordelia asked.
Mr. Wright shrugged. “I noticed a book open in the library the last time I was there. I figured I have a one in four chance of getting it right. Bea also told me your sister has been spending an inordinate amount of time in the greenhouse.”
She’d need to have a serious chat with Bea about whose side she was on.
But then she thought about her youngest sister and how Mr. Wright had been kind to her.
Cordelia shook off the beginnings of a smile.
Remembering herself, she straightened her spine and turned to face him.
Hermione started piecing out a tune from the piano, something vaguely familiar, and Cordelia placed her hand on Mr. Wright’s firm shoulder.
She drew in a sharp intake of breath as they threaded their hands together. She’d not worn gloves.
Then again, since when did she give dancing lessons in the afternoon?
His hands were warm and large, engulfing hers entirely. She remembered from that afternoon when they went riding, and then yesterday when he’d shaken her hand. Though the calluses were not as pronounced as they had been a week or two ago, they were still there.
“Which would you like to start with?” Mr. Wright asked, his expression serious, attentive.
“Oh, um,” Cordelia said. It was difficult to think when she was this close to him. She could feel the heat radiating off his body, and she was perplexed by her reaction to it. She wanted to be closer.