Chapter Four
Her bedchamber faced Hyde Park, and though the treetops were frosty and bare, the view over the green space was a delightful treat. She imagined the lush grass in summer, branches budding in spring, and the riotous splash of color whenever society descended upon the Row.
Aurelia tarried by the window, warmed by a cozy fire, and framed by lustrous silken draperies in shades of delicate rose.
This was a lady’s boudoir, to be sure. The furnishings were feminine.
There wasn’t a harsh line in the room, but rounded corners and sweeping, scrolling curves.
Even the gaslight softly glimmered on an otherwise dim December day.
A maid had been offered for her use, and the girl bustled around the space.
She had emptied Aurelia’s trunks and placed each frock and petticoat into the rosewood wardrobe.
She had put her soaps, scents, and necessities on the washstand in the en suite bathroom and on the dressing table beside the cheval glass.
The maid was friendly and efficient, and somehow found the time to assist Aurelia with her corset and clothing.
She’d selected a dinner dress of sumptuous blue silk with sheer lace sleeves reaching almost to her elbows.
It was prim and perfectly proper for dinner à deux, yet the subtle flashes of skin through the fabric lent her ensemble a sensual and sophisticated air.
It was one of Aurelia’s favorite frocks, and it showed her at her best.
She wore her hair gathered atop her head with fat curls cascading down her shoulders.
Aurelia admired her reflection in the glass, though she’d never been truly vain about her appearance—she hadn’t needed to be when her marriage and position had been settled on her sixteenth birthday.
She’d grown up expecting to be a duchess, and had only been pleased to look pretty on her husband’s arm.
Now, however, she studied her appearance critically.
Red-haired girls weren’t popular when the current fashion preferred delicate English roses with peaches-and-cream complexions.
Her coloring was of a coppery shade, and she wasn’t as tall or swanlike as the graceful Princess of Wales, who featured in all the periodicals.
Yet Aurelia wasn’t unattractive. Her legacy, which was given to her by an anonymous benefactor whom she’d always assumed to be her birth-father, afforded her the opportunity to dress nicely.
She was also intelligent and educated, and would be an asset in any man’s life.
There was no reason not to make as brilliant a marriage as any of her school friends at Ladies College.
Still, she couldn’t pretend that she wasn’t disappointed when all her dreams had come to naught.
She fixed her face into a smile, and then addressed the maid. “Katie, you are a wonder with your pins. I’m sure you’re busy enough as is, preparing for the family’s arrival. I can see myself downstairs.”
The girl bobbed and nodded. “I shall leave you for now, miss, but I’ll pop in to see that your fire is rebuilt before you retire. Would you fancy a hot brick in your bed tonight?”
“Yes, thank you. You’ve been very kind.”
Aurelia quit the rose bedroom and navigated her way through broad, flickering corridors and long enfilades of staterooms. Brantingham House was exquisite in every way, leaving no corner in shadow when a pretty piece of Dresden or a potted orchid might cheer the eye.
From each silk-paneled wall, the likeness of some illustrious Charlton followed her progress through the house.
There was beauty and brilliance everywhere, yet it never felt stuffy or overly formal.
In some strange, sad way, the Duke’s residence felt like home.
She’d imagined herself pouring tea in his drawing room, entertaining guests in his ballroom, and making the quiet, careful climb up the grand staircase together at the close of a satisfying day.
She might’ve enjoyed her Hyde Park panorama for the rest of her life, rather than wonder where she would go from here.
Aurelia found the Duke of Brantingham in his dining room.
His was a lone presence in the cavernous space.
His back was turned to her as he stared into the fire, yet she would recognize him anywhere.
His brawny shoulders were hugged by a tailored evening jacket.
Long legs were clad in black wool trousers ending in shining black pumps.
Gold cufflinks blinked in the lamplight, beckoning her like a beacon as she entered the room. “Good evening, Your Grace,” she said, approaching him.
He turned at the sound of her voice and smiled when he saw her. “You’re kind to dress up for me,” he said cheerfully. “I know today has been exhausting for you.”
His Grace pulled out a chair for her, and she gathered her bustled skirts to take her place at the table. “Nonsense. It isn’t every day a lady dines with a duke.”
Once she was seated, he pushed the chair forward. The Duke managed her with gentle ease, as he doubtlessly handled every aspect of his life. He was a patient host yet an exacting master, for his household ran smoothly with barely any notice from those above stairs.
As if on cue, His Grace’s butler manifested from behind the screen.
Mr. Dowell and his team of liveried footmen poured the wine and ladled bowls of consommé.
While they worked, Aurelia admired the dining room, which was decorated in papier peint and hung with fringed draperies.
Gaslight hissed from chandeliers overhead, and the polished silver candlesticks gleamed from their place atop the table.
Aurelia reached for her wine glass and drew it to her lips. She drank heartily—but not greedily—and felt her blood warm in her veins. Soon, the room took on a pleasant, hazy quality that cast all her cares away.
“Forgive me,” she said, laughing at her own girlishness, “but I’m unaccustomed to so much wine. I’m usually careful with my expenses, and there’s rarely any need to open a bottle just for me.”
The Duke of Brantingham ensured that her water glass was filled.
“I know the feeling. I haven’t entertained since…
well, I haven’t entertained in some time, and I find there’s no good reason to drink alone.
” He swallowed his wine and wiped his lips with a serviette.
“I shall delight in your company, Miss Goldsworthy, and hope you won’t begrudge us a glass or two as friends. ”
There was little she wouldn’t do for him. He’d saved her from disgrace and given her shelter when she felt lost at sea. He had her back when she’d been pushed against a wall.
Aurelia lifted her water glass. “To our friendship, then, Your Grace.”
He returned her toast in kind before asking, “How are you settling in upstairs?”
“Very well, thank you. I’ve been given a room overlooking the park. It’s comfortable, to say nothing of the charming furnishings. Your mother had wonderful taste in decorating.”
The duke smiled at the compliment. “Mama endeavored to keep everything smart. She detested musty, faded rooms and wasn’t afraid to reupholster a sofa when it looked past its best. She wasn’t overly sentimental about ‘keeping up the old ways’.
I believe she would’ve shared your opinion on modern art if she’d had time to come ‘round to it.”
They both laughed at the prospect of Reubens and Gainsborough being replaced by Degas and Monet. His Grace took an overly rosy view of his mother in light of her passing, and Aurelia doubted that anyone was as sainted as the late Duchess of Brantingham, at least in his eyes.
Whoever he married would have some very large shoes to fill.
Meanwhile, Turkey carpets muffled the footmen’s progress as they moved between the courses, serving filet of sole and chine of pork with asparagus in mousseline sauce. For dessert, they presented a wobbling mould of gelée d’orange garnished with citrus fruits from Brantingham’s own orangery.
The meal was delicious and the company was lovely. Firelight softened the Duke’s features, burnishing his brown hair into thick waves of bronze. His eyes watched her every move, and his smile widened as they conversed.
Aurelia spooned gèlee between her lips, relishing in the sweet, tart freshness on her tongue. She adored a good pudding, and thankfully, Christmastide was a time of feasting. “Tell me, Your Grace, what are your plans for the festive season? Have you any entertainments in store for your siblings?”
He ate his dessert before he answered, “My sisters, the Ladies Margery and Fanetta, will need no entertaining, as they make their own fun. I fear we shall be at their mercy. As for my brother, Lord Peregrine, he’ll be missing his friends from Eton and will doubtless try to hook up with them,” explained the duke.
Clearly, he was fond of his family and looking forward to their arrival.
“My aunts, uncles, and cousins will come for Christmas Eve, so I hope you don’t mind meeting a great lot of boisterous Charltons, Beausires, and MacFanes. ”
“Not at all! I’m happy to meet your whole family, if they’ll have me.” The prospect of a busy Christmas gladdened her heart, as it was preferable to spending another holiday alone.
“There will be raised eyebrows, naturally, but I see no reason to feel concerned. You’re my guest, in my home, and thus your presence here has no right to be questioned.”
She admired his firm stance on the matter, but of course, a duke was not accustomed to being second-guessed.
“I appreciate your faith,” said Aurelia.
She set down her spoon, utterly stuffed.
She’d eaten and drunk her fill—more than her fill, really, as her corset now pinched—and waited for the Duke of Brantingham to finish his pudding.
“I am afraid I’ll have to decline coffee, if you don’t mind.
I want nothing more than a long night’s rest.”
“Of course.” He signaled to Dowell that they were done. “Don’t let me keep you past your bedtime, Miss Goldsworthy.”
She stood, and His Grace rose from his seat. He was a big man, yet he moved with the elegance of a dancer or perhaps a fencing master. He was quick to his feet despite two glasses of wine and a five-course meal.
“Thank you again for your company,” he said. “You have elevated what would’ve been a lonely evening to a very enjoyable one.”
That was high praise, indeed, and she grinned at his words. “I’m obliged to you for your hospitality. Your kind consideration has turned the worst day of my life into one that I shall always look back on with fondness.”
He laughed and nearly blushed, though Aurelia felt certain he was accustomed to obsequiousness—even if her words came straight from her heart.
“It seems we’ve each done one another a kindness,” said the Duke. “Let’s start tomorrow on even terms.” He circled the table and drew very near. She could smell the faintest hint of sugared citrus on his breath as he spoke. “Shall we be friends, then?”
Her pulse skipped. She’d never had a gentleman friend or even a beau.
Her classmates and playmates had been girls, and the ladies of her small social circle were scarcely out of the schoolroom themselves.
Married women were beyond her reach, and their sons, brothers, and husbands were out of the question.
There had only ever been the Duke of Brantingham for her.
Aurelia took his hand, letting their fingers brush and palms clasp. His grip was warm and steady, firm but gentle. He was the sort of man in whom a woman could place her trust—and her heart—knowing both would be safe in his keeping.
“Yes, Your Grace, we are friends.”
What other option was there?