Chapter Eight
Christiana’s head was still spinning five minutes later when they pulled up the long gravel driveway to the imposing house. His sister didn’t know he was married.
She didn’t know.
Not only was Christiana coming to a new home for the first time, but its occupants weren’t expecting her.
“Here we are,” the duke said, partly to himself as the door opened and a smartly dressed footman stood behind it. Christiana gripped her skirts until she felt her fingers crack, wondering if it was too late to change her mind and turn back around.
Then, all too soon, the duke was standing facing her, patience in his warm, brown eyes, and his hand outstretched.
What else could she do but accept the hand and step out of the carriage, sweeping her plain skirts out of the way? Now, with the house towering over her, she felt how improperly attired she was. In the gaze of such beauty, how could she—plain, bespectacled Christiana—compare?
The duke tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “My sister has been eager for me to marry for some time now,” he explained as the door opened and a butler, dressed in crisp uniform, stood waiting. “She’ll be pleased to know I’ve finally taken a wife.”
She would be pleased to know.
Pleased to know.
“I somehow doubt she will appreciate the secrecy of your mission,” Christiana murmured faintly.
“Penwick,” the duke said as they approached the butler. “This is my wife, Her Grace the Duchess of Somerset. I trust you will treat her with all the deference her rank demands.”
Penwick must have been alerted by someone—perhaps the duke’s valet—because his eyes only flickered very slightly. “Of course, sir. Welcome to Somerset Hall, Your Grace.”
Christiana did her best to smile, but it felt as though her face had frozen.
She had been prepared to do all the things a great lady ought when meeting the servants: behave graciously and kindly, at once bowing to their superior knowledge of the house and its necessities while establishing herself as its mistress.
All those things had hinged on the assumption that they had known she would be arriving.
“Thank you, Penwick,” she said. “I look forward to working together in the future.”
He didn’t smile. “As do I, Your Grace.”
“Penwick has been one of the family for almost forty years,” the duke said as he led her through an extravagant hallway that opened to a vast receiving room, twin stairs curving around to meet a landing mezzanine.
An enormous portrait hung there of a seated lady with brown hair and a man standing behind her, one hand on her shoulder.
The man reminded her vaguely of the duke.
“My parents,” he said quietly, confirming her assumption. “This was painted only a few months before they died.”
Christiana tried to imagine the house gutted, burned down, but she couldn’t. The tiled floor of the receiving room was too perfect, the walls too smoothly plastered. Beautiful Grecian vases stood at intervals on pedestals.
“It’s very lovely,” she managed.
“It resembles how it was,” the duke said, glancing around with a frown, as though the sight of such overbearing wealth irked him. “As I’ve said, my grandfather was somewhat consumed with appearances.”
“Are there any portraits of you?” she asked.
His expression hardened. “Not since the accident. If you have a desire for a portrait to be painted of us, I’m afraid you will find yourself disappointed. I will not permit my likeness to be taken.”
Surprised at the iron tone of his voice, she merely nodded. “Of course, Your Grace. I have no need for any portraits.”
“Good.”
A squeal came from the top of the stairs, where a lady stood staring at them, her blonde curls in disarray and her peach gown rising and falling with every breath.
Unlike Christiana, whose skin was too sallow for peach, this girl—Amelia, she suspected—looked positively radiant in the frothy concoction.
“A wife, Hugh?” she demanded, a quivering finger pointed at the duke. “You go to London for business and return with a wife?”
He sighed. “Must you be so dramatic, Amelia?”
“Yes,” she practically screeched. “I must when you neglect to inform me you intend to marry.” Amelia stormed down the stairs, coming to stop directly before her brother.
This close, Christiana could identify certain similarities between them.
They both, for instance, had a stubborn chin, accented in Amelia’s case by the set of her jaw.
Both possessed aquiline noses and eyes the steady, warm brown of hot cocoa.
That was, however, where the differences ended.
The duke was a tall man, with broad shoulders and impeccable posture.
Amelia was positively petite, her dress clinging attractively to her curves.
And where the duke was reserved, Amelia reminded Christiana of a firework, full of color and sound, an explosion on the senses—and spectacularly stunning.
“Amelia,” the duke said calmly, though a muscle twitched in his cheek. “Don’t be rude.”
Amelia immediately turned to Christiana, her outrage dissolving into such a sweet smile, Christiana was temporarily speechless. “I am so sorry,” she said. “I quite neglected my manners—please forgive me. I think it is darling that Hugh has finally found a wife, and I hope we can be friends.”
“Amelia,” the duke said. “Meet Christiana. Chris, this termagant is my sister, Amelia.”
Amelia dipped into a pretty curtsy. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
The duke was correct—Amelia would not have any difficulty navigating London Society so long as she held her tongue. “The pleasure is mine,” Christiana said. “Please, call me Chris.”
“Then you must call me Amelia.” Her smile, near blinding in its intensity, bloomed before she turned back to the duke. That smile dropped, replaced with a glare. “How could you not tell me what you intended, Hugh?”
“Because the matter of my marriage is none of your business,” he said, flicking his fingers to the side, where a stout lady emerged from a side door to greet them. “Chris, this is Mrs. Partridge, the housekeeper. Mrs. Partridge, allow me the honor of introducing my wife.”
Christiana inclined her head, and Mrs. Partridge sank into a curtsy barely deep enough to avoid scrutiny. Over the years, Christiana had been the receiver of many slights; she had been snubbed enough to recognize dislike when it was displayed so obviously.
“Your Grace,” Mrs. Partridge said, her voice flat. “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.”
“I look forward to working together,” Christiana said, hoping her lie wasn’t as obvious as Mrs. Partridge’s. At her father’s house, there had often as not been very few servants for her to manage—and they had all looked at her with respect.
Here, the challenge would be taking over the helm from two servants who clearly resented her presence. Getting along with one’s servants was the easiest way to a simple life, but it was also not as easy to achieve.
After a few more pleasantries, Mrs. Partridge left, and Amelia grimaced. “I don’t envy you. She’ll be a thorn in your side, make no mistake.”
The duke sighed. “Can we perhaps feign positivity for at least one day, Lia? Mrs. Partridge has served us for a long time.”
“And all that time, she has been a menace to the household. I’ll never forget the way she scolded me for accidentally upsetting her basket of linens.
” Amelia winked at Christiana. “But I’m certain you’ll be able to put her in her place.
Come, let’s retire to the drawing room so we can sit, and then we can talk comfortably.
There’s so much to ask. For instance, how did the marriage come about?
You must tell me everything—how did you meet Hugh and what was the wedding like?
Were there any influential members of the ton there? ”
“Perhaps give Chris a chance to breathe,” the duke said dryly.
“Our arrangement is one of mutual convenience.” He sent Christiana a warning glance, but there was no chance that Christiana would reveal anything about the nature of their arrangement.
That was for the duke to do, and she wanted no part in it.
If Amelia had known in advance, she might have felt more willing to venture some details, but as she hadn’t known Hugh’s intentions, she most likely didn’t know about Mrs. Dove-Lyon, and the less an impressionable young woman knew about the Lyon’s Den, the better.
“I am very grateful to your brother,” Christiana said to Amelia.
“But…” Amelia glanced from one to the other. “Did you know each other before you agreed to wed?”
The duke cleared his throat as they reached an enormous drawing room, a pianoforte in one corner and a huge fireplace dominating the center of one wall. Large windows overlooked the parkland, and a collection of sofas were gathered around a small oak table. Amelia flung herself onto one.
“I take it you didn’t,” she said, a frown beginning at the corners of her mouth. “But if so, then how could you know—”
“If you have any more impertinent questions, I beg you would direct them at me,” he said, with enough chilly authority in his voice that Amelia snapped her jaw shut.
Christiana sank into one of the sofas. Remarkably comfortable, and probably recently upholstered. “My father arranged the match, in a way,” she said, and the duke’s fingers twitched. Fear not, Your Grace, I will mention nothing unwise.
“Your father?” Amelia’s mouth twisted as she thought, but then she gave another dazzling smile, twin dimples in her cheeks. “Well, you are here now, so we may as well make the best of it.”
They might as well, indeed. And yet there was something about the mischievous dimple showing in Amelia’s cheek that made Christiana suspect that ‘making the best of it’ would not be as simple as all that.