Chapter Twenty-Five
The day of the carnival dawned bright and near cloudless. September loomed in the distance, but for now, the weather promised to hold out.
It would be beautiful. Everything would be beautiful, and the people of the county would come to love Hugh for his generosity.
Laura had helped pick out a dress for the occasion—an iridescent green that, according to her friend, brought out copper tones in her hair and made her skin luminescent. It also exposed an expanse of chest, and a line of ruffles along the bodice enhanced her nonexistent bosom.
It was, quite possibly, the best she had ever looked, and she stood for a long while before the mirror as Baxter fussed over her hair.
She knew, objectively, that she would never be beautiful. But seeing herself like this, looking almost feminine—looking, in short, as though she were a lady, rather than a scholar clasped in ill-suited gowns—brought with it a rush of pleasure.
All her life, she had assumed delight in one’s appearance was an example of feminine vanity, and moreover, of a mind consumed with shallow, material pleasures.
Well, if that were the case, then she was both shallow and vain.
Perhaps even insipid, too. Because although she disliked the thought of being on display, she enjoyed looking at her reflection for the first time in her life.
Seduction still felt like a step too far, but if Hugh were at all tempted by her, the gown would entice him into wanting her more. Then, all being well, she would have to do very little actual seduction to get him into bed.
All she had to do was encourage him.
Her stomach twisted with nerves.
Baxter brought her perfume, which she dabbed on her wrists and neck. “You look wonderful, ma’am,” Baxter said, with such honest sincerity in her voice that Christiana couldn’t help but smile.
“Thank you.” She picked up her skirts and moved to the door.
By some coincidence, Hugh was leaving his rooms at the same time, and she encountered him in the wide, spacious corridor outside their respective rooms. He had gone for one of his larger, more all-encompassing masks, though he had yet to put it on; it dangled from the fingers of one hand.
The rest of him was dressed rather splendidly in a bright, silken waistcoat and a natty coat with polished golden buttons.
The tassels on his Hessians had been combed, and his boots were polished to a shine.
When he saw her, he stopped. His jaw worked, and his throat bobbed with a long swallow. Christiana held her breath, feeling as though she had only just emerged from a pond, her lungs screaming yet unable to take in air.
“Chris,” he said, clearing his throat. “You look…” Words, apparently, failed him, and he gave a rueful smile. “I imagine you know precisely how you look.”
“There is a mirror in my rooms.”
“You are determined to dazzle everyone we encounter, I take it.”
“I hope to,” she said, accepting his arm as he offered it. “Laura suggested I look the part. After all, this is the first time most people will see the duchess, and you may believe rumors have spread as to my existence.”
“Rumors have a habit of doing that.”
Once they reached the bottom of the stairs, she turned to face him, spreading a hand across his lapels. “They will come to love you, Hugh.”
His eyes searched hers, dark and full of trepidation. He did this for her, she knew, and she hoped it would be enough.
James, one of the footmen, was to accompany them; the remainder of the servants had been given the day off, with a dinner of bread and cold meats to welcome them home later in the afternoon.
Everything had been so perfectly planned, and Christiana had spoken to each of the servants privately, expressing her hope that they would speak truthfully of the duke if asked.
After all, Baxter had confirmed that the servants seemed to think well of him.
Even Penwick and Mrs. Partridge spoke well of Hugh, no matter how poorly they behaved behind closed doors.
The moment the painting was finished and Christiana had amassed proof of the full extent of their crimes—her investigation was underway—then she would dismiss them.
One day would not be enough to counteract all the terrible rumors, but it would be a start.
Amelia hurried down the stairs to them, dressed in white chiffon that floated behind her as she ran, a little like a lost fairy princess. Her curls bobbed about her head, and her eyes were dancing with mischief and anticipation.
“Chris,” she said when she reached them. “How well you look. Do you not think, brother? Positively beautiful.”
Hugh took Christiana’s gloved hand, bending low over it. “Beautiful,” he asserted in a low voice, kissing her knuckles with liquid grace. Her breath caught in her throat, and she smiled past the obstruction there.
After this was over, she would find him in his bedchambers. The knowledge of her own daring nearly drained her courage.
Amelia, however, knew none of this, and so after rallying Miss Byrd, who had expressed an interest in seeing the fire-eaters, even if she opined that such pleasures were to be frowned upon, they left.
Given the location of the carnival was some five miles hence, they took two carriages, both of which would wait until they were done. As they rumbled through the village, Hugh placed the mask over his face.
Christiana leaned forward and took his hand, squeezing it in hers. “Would you consider foregoing the mask?”
He met her gaze, exhaling in a rush through his nose. “You ask too much.”
Perhaps she did. She leaned back. “All right.” She gripped her reticule with nervous fingers, peering at the people gathered for the carnival.
People from all walks of life were in attendance.
There were squires here. Ladies in ermine stoles and long peacock feathers in their turbans.
Gentlemen with coat buttons as large as Hugh’s, some inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
Local farmers in shabby coats and hats. Mothers with children in their Sunday best, slabs of pie clutched in their hands.
Eventually, the carriage came to a stop.
Hugh took both Christiana’s arm and Amelia’s, as they disembarked, and Miss Byrd followed with James.
The footman paid their passage into the fair itself, and they entered the grounds.
Her shoes sank into the soft grass, and she found herself relieved that it hadn’t rained recently.
Ahead, a man juggled on a unicycle, mastering more and more wooden balls as he rocked gently back and forth to prevent himself from falling. Amelia watched with unabashed glee.
Christiana did her best not to feel too overwhelmed by the noise.
In the carriage, they had been protected from the bulk of it, but here she was exposed on all sides.
Laughter, raucous and at times screeching, filled the air.
Shouting from vendors selling their wares.
Game pies and ale and candied fruit. Children shrieking in delight.
The roar from the crowd over one thing or another.
Hugh glanced down at her. “Having second thoughts?”
She shook her head. They were not here for her; they were here for Hugh, and she would not give up now. Already, people had noticed them, and whispers spread through the crowd.
“The Duke and Duchess of Somerset are here!”
To Christiana’s relief, Amelia seemed immune, or perhaps even oblivious, to the glances sent their way by interested people from all walks of life. Hugh paid for tickets to see a puppet show that had Amelia cackling with laughter, and even Hugh cracked a smile.
They ate a picnic composed of local food bought from vendors—largely bread and cheese and game pie, with ale and wine to wash it down—and drank while watching a man wandering through the crowd on stilts.
In the distance, past several tents, a lady balanced on a wire suspended above the ground. Cheering greeted her feat of athleticism as she jumped and landed back on the wire, swaying a little as she balanced.
To one side, a fire-eater put a burning torch in his mouth, appeared to swallow, then shot flame into the air. All around, there was the scent of charred meat and soft bread.
Amelia sent Miss Byrd away with James to procure some local sausages she had taken an interest in—though Christiana rather suspected that was out of a desire to have Miss Byrd gone. The lady, however well-meaning, cast somewhat of a shadow over proceedings.
As they started up again, the remainder of their party made their way to where they had heard there was a sword-swallower, only to be hailed by a lady and gentleman.
The lady wore a blue muslin dress that cinched high under her breasts in a style somewhat out of fashion, and the gentleman had a ruddy, good-natured face and a loud waistcoat.
The lady lifted languid fingers to their party, and Hugh stopped.
“Your Grace,” she said in a cultured voice. Up close, Christiana could see the lady was older than she’d initially appeared, trying and failing to hide her age with powder. “Lady Amelia. Goodness, how you’ve grown.”
Under Christiana’s fingers, Hugh’s arm had gone solid with tension.
“Lady Ponsonby,” he said, remarkably pleasant despite his obvious discomfort. “Sir Charles. I hadn’t expected to see you here.”
“We hadn’t expected to see you here, lad!” Sir Charles, with a clear disregard for rank or manners, clapped Hugh on the shoulder. “I told Maria—I told her—that we weren’t likely to see you here again.”
“Every year,” Lady Ponsonby said, the words dripping with disdain. “Every year, he tells me that, and he has finally been proven wrong.” She fluttered her fingertips at them as though conferring a great honor. “I had heard you were quite the recluse, Your Grace.”
Christiana’s ears burned with outrage, and Amelia let out an angry hiss, but Hugh merely said, “You have not met my wife, the Duchess of Somerset. Christiana, this is Sir Charles Ponsonby and his wife, Lady Maria Ponsonby, a former friend of my mother’s.
” Judging by the emphasis he’d put on former, it was clear he put little stock in the friendship.
“By now, I expect you have heard all about the fire,” Lady Ponsonby said, holding out a limp hand as she curtsied.
Although Christiana rarely felt like a duchess, anger bubbled inside her.
Thus far, no one had overtly insulted them, but Lady Ponsonby was skirting the edge of affrontery. It could not be borne.
Amelia looked as though she were prepared to throw herself at Lady Ponsonby in Hugh’s defense, but Christiana held up a hand. This was for her to address.
What would a duchess say?
She imagined Laura’s cold outrage at being treated with such a lack of deference, particularly in public, and she summoned her own frigid politeness.
“Yes, I expect I have heard everything of note,” she said, not bothering to curtsy. “Do tell me—I can’t recall—were you close to the former duchess?”
“We were great friends,” Lady Ponsonby said. “Were we not, Charles?”
Sir Charles started, too occupied with watching a heavily painted woman in the distance. “What? Ah, yes. Very close, I’m sure.”
“I’m sure.” Christiana didn’t smile. “A pity you don’t hold her memory in higher regard, my lady.”
“Pardon me?”
Finally, Christiana glanced at Hugh, who was watching her with a slightly mystified expression in his eyes. “Oh, only I had assumed you could not have liked the duchess to have treated her son with such disregard, but I am mistaken, it seems. Come, darling.”
Hugh’s eyes flickered, the tension in them draining to something warmer, as he bent over her knuckles. “Your wish is my command, my love.”
The endearment thrilled her, as did the way Lady Ponsonby gaped.
“Oh, and Lady Ponsonby,” Christiana added, “let me put you in touch with my dressmaker. She is divine, and she knows all the latest fashions.” She wiggled her fingers in the same dismissive gesture Lady Ponsonby had used and led Hugh and Amelia away.