Chapter Nine
The electric candles flickered and buzzed, and then burst to life like captured stars.
The line of Dolphin lamps along the Embankment was indeed a modern marvel, and many of the spectators shrank from their light.
Other braver onlookers pushed forward, ‘ooh-ing’ and ‘aah-ing’, and stretching out their hands to brush their fingertips along the glass globes.
Aurelia kept her fingers laced with the Duke’s.
He was the tallest of all the gentlemen present, and his glossy, brushed-silk top hat only served to make him mountainous.
He was a spectacle in his own right—brawny, virile, and male.
Handsome, and finely dressed, and unfailingly courteous.
His Grace was every woman’s dream, yet he had escorted her to see the switching on of the lights.
She glanced up at him, happy to be here with him, even though everything had gone wrong for her along the way. She had made friends with the Charltons, and especially the Duke. In precious, unguarded moments, she dreamed that they were her own family, in a surrogate sort of way.
For the first time, she knew the joy of having sisters—not classmates or housemates, but girls with spirit and vibrancy, intelligence, and a yearning for independence that matched her own.
She, Margie, and Fannie had shared their dreams and told their secrets to one another.
Aurelia knew instinctively that she could trust the ladies with her whole heart.
With sisters, one kept nothing back.
She knew the delight of having brothers—chatty, teasing boys like Perry who were primed for adventure and ready for a lifetime of good-natured troublemaking. Or the mature, steady presence of the Duke of Brantingham, the head of the family, despite being a young man.
There was such a sense of fun with the siblings.
Margie and Fannie had ingratiated themselves with a group of fashionable people, conversing animatedly about the lamps.
Perry had made friends with the young man and his dog, and they were laughing as they tossed a rubber ball back and forth between them while the spaniel barked.
Surely, the Duke was aware of the multitude of eyes upon him, yet he never let go of Aurelia’s hand.
He guided her toward the row of electric lamps, their bright, unwavering glow silhouetting his broad shoulders and illuminating his good-looking, aristocratic face.
His Grace was never one to grow lost in a crowd.
“Are you enjoying the lights, Miss Goldsworthy?”
She nodded. “They’re beautiful! I could never have imagined anything so radiant. Will they replace gas, do you think?”
“In time,” he answered, “proving electricity is safe and efficient, I believe it will. Brantingham House was built for candle glow—all that gilding, paneling, and pier glass were necessary to reflect the flames. I wonder how it will look under the electric lamps, and whether the dazzling light will expose its flaws.”
“I find no flaws in your residence, Your Grace.” She sought to ease his mind on that matter. “My bedchamber overlooking the park is one of the prettiest rooms I’ve ever seen, and the gallery corridor must be filled with more artwork than the Louvre…”
“But you prefer impressionists.”
Aurelia laughed. “I do, but that doesn’t mean I cannot appreciate the Old Masters. Just because your world was built for candle glow and gaslight does not diminish its beauty under the glare.”
The Duke shared her amusement, though laughter did not reach his eyes when he bent low to whisper, “Never look too closely, Miss Goldsworthy, for sometimes a little mystery is preferable to the stark, naked truth.”
Curious words, considering her circumstances, yet they had been speaking of light, and modernity, and art, rather than opulence, lineage, and the undeniable decay of his society. Did the Duke of Brantingham find himself on such shaky ground?
She patted his sleeve with her gloved hand. “Don’t worry, Your Grace. I shan’t go pulling back your draperies or poking my nose into your linen cupboards.”
But someday, someone would. What might they find?
Their tête-à-tête conversation was interrupted by Lady Margery Charlton, who joined them by the riverfront.
“You two are looking far too serious for such a jolly occasion. Fannie and I have met a party from Durness House.” To Aurelia, she explained, “The Earl and Countess are longtime friends of our family. Elspeth and I came out together. We made our curtseys to the Queen and then she married that first Season. Our paths diverged, you see, but I’m not certain which of us is the more fortunate—me, the spinster, or she, the bride. ”
The Duke grimaced, yet Margie pushed onward. “Did you know, Selly, that Miss Goldsworthy lives alone in her own suite of rooms back in Cheltenham? Very forward-thinking for an unmarried woman…”
Aurelia was no revolutionary. She rented rooms only because there had been no family to take her in after leaving school.
“Don’t get any ideas, Margie,” scolded the Duke, sweetly. He wrapped his arm around his sister’s shoulders and hugged her close. “I’m not ready to turn you loose on the unsuspecting world just yet.”
Lady Margery was undaunted. “Come and say hello to our friends, Selly, so that we might introduce Aurelia to some new people whilst she’s in town.”
His Grace’s sister stepped away. They watched her being welcomed into the group of smart, young people.
“Do you intend to allow Margie to attend university? You must know that she wishes to go.”
“If she can pass the entrance examination, I don’t see how I can stop her.
She is of age and has her own income,” said the Duke.
“She would make an exemplary wife, mother, and hostess, but for some mad reason, that isn’t the life she wants.
What sort of man would I be to force her into a role—numerous roles, for the duties of a peeress are demanding and unceasing—that would destroy her independence? ”
Aurelia smiled at this gentleman who cared so deeply and was devoted to his family, even when he didn’t understand them. He would allow Lady Margery her choice.
He made no move to return to the others. Instead, he asked, “You went to school. What was it like for a young lady?”
“Ladies College is like Eton for girls,” she replied. “The University of London is a rung above my reach, I’m afraid.”
“You seem thoroughly educated to me,” he told her. “In my mind, you are everything Margie wishes to be—yet you wanted so desperately to be married, which is the antithesis of her desires. Matrimony seems to be where a woman’s selfhood goes to die.”
She shook her head. “I don’t believe that, Your Grace. There is no one answer for all women. I want a husband and children, duty and love. Lady Margery wants something altogether different, and I believe she ought to have the right to live as she sees fit.”
The Duke of Brantingham regarded her strangely, almost regretfully. They walked a few steps from the lamplight as he asked, “Are you disappointed not to become a duchess? Truly, you may tell me. Is that what you would’ve wanted, had you believed you’d been given the choice?”
Aurelia had always had a choice. She chose to be his duchess, for why else had she come to London to meet him? She might’ve easily remained in Cheltenham, where life was easy and familiar, and accepting of a girl with no birthright, no history. No family.
“Yes,” she answered truthfully, though it cost her a great deal of pride to admit, “I was ecstatic to receive a letter that I believed came from the Duchess of Brantingham. Don’t you see, Your Grace?
I thought someone had wanted me, that someone had selected me to be your bride.
I admit that I am innocent and unworldly to believe in such a fairy-tale ending for an orphan girl.
Still, I thought that if I learned well, dressed well, and presented myself with all the self-worth that I feel, the insurmountable obstacle of my birth would seem inconsequential to you. ”
***
She believed him all-knowing, all-powerful.
Omnipotent, like some kind of deity. Couldn’t Miss Goldsworthy see that he was only a man?
He couldn’t conjure electricity from his fingertips.
He couldn’t command society to conform to the wishes of spinsters, foundlings, and debutantes.
All the wealth and privilege in the world could not save his parents from death, nor would it rescue Miss Goldsworthy from illegitimacy.
Some rules remained out of reach even for a duke. Selwyn had never been a rebel. He’d been a protector, a dutiful hard worker. He’d never put a foot wrong or stepped a toe out of line. Despite his fondness for her, he dared not make Aurelia Goldsworthy his duchess.
If he were merely Selwyn Charlton, a humble, landowning Yorkshireman, he would’ve snapped her up in an instant.
He wanted to give his siblings, and by extension Miss Goldsworthy, the choice to follow their hearts. As head of the family, he must do what was best for everyone, often at a personal cost to himself.
Of course, the woman by his side had pled her case so eloquently that something must be said, yet Selwyn couldn’t seem to make his throat work.
“You are wanted,” he managed to choke out at last. “To the right fellow, your parentage is inconsequential.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said, yet her fingers loosened around his. Her gloved palm slid away from his, and as they walked, she moved beyond his touch.
He felt bereft, alone.
A biting wind cut between their bodies, ruffling the ribbons of Miss Goldsworthy’s pretty claret-colored bonnet. Selwyn clasped the lapels of his greatcoat together to guard against the chill, yet it flayed him straight through to his heart.
He was not so brave as she was, for Miss Goldsworthy had come to London to claim what was hers. She would’ve fought for him, he knew. Yet he was a realist and she was a dreamer, and nothing more than friendship could be allowed to exist between them.
Selwyn would cling to that friendship like a lifeline in a tempest. He would give her a family—his family. He would give her a home—his home. He could not give her a purpose or duty in life, but he could offer her love and protection—as a dear, beloved friend.
He would honor her for the rest of his days if only she would take his hand once again.
This time, when he reached for her, Miss Goldsworthy allowed his large, warm fingers to curl around her dainty wrist. He slowed her pace, and they reached the fashionable party of young people arm-in-arm and perfectly in step together.
Introductions were made, hands shook, and knees bent in deference to the Duke of Brantingham.
They regarded Miss Goldsworthy with curiosity and perhaps jealousy, for he’d never appeared publicly with a woman, or indeed singled any lady out of the crowd of his admirers.
Yet, he was proud to have her by his side.
Margie explained, “This is our friend Miss Goldsworthy, who is joining us for the festivities.”
Small talk swelled around him as they welcomed her into the fold. Lord and Lady Durness were kind, decent folk, and he entrusted her to their care. However, Selwyn bristled at the sight of Lord Mathieson—a widower of his mother’s generation—standing far removed from the lively gathering.
He stiffened as Margie and Fannie, who would never leave anyone out of the fun, invited the man to join them.
“Lord Mathieson, good evening,” said his eldest sister. “Have you come to witness the miracle? I’m afraid the lamps are already lit.”
Mathieson’s eyes studied the faces of the group as he touched the brim of his hat in greeting. When his gaze reached Miss Goldsworthy, his focus narrowed until Selwyn felt her squirm beneath its intensity.
No matter how pretty she was, no one deserved to be ogled or objectified.
Selwyn eased her away from the others. He put himself bodily between her and Lord Mathieson, yet he felt the man glaring at him as though knives pierced the heavy wool of his coat.
If looks could kill, indeed—but upon second glance, he realized the fellow had gone white as a sheet, stricken as though he’d seen a ghost.
Even Miss Goldsworthy felt the awkwardness of the moment. As they walked away, she asked, “Do you not care for Lord Mathieson, Your Grace?”
“He suffered some trouble in his youth, an unpleasant business that society never quite got over. In fact, he was persona non grata where my mother was concerned. She blacked out his name on every guest list and wouldn’t enter a room if he was standing in it.”
Her hazel eyes went wide. “That must’ve been quite a feud. Do you know the reason for it all?”
Hadn’t he warned her not to peer too deeply beneath the polished facade of his world? Ugliness lurked in the shadows of London’s leading families. He would not wish for her to be tainted by wickedness or marked by its cruelty.
“I do,” he answered, “but it isn’t a story for a lady’s ears.”
Yet scars were inevitable, and scandal would someday deface even the purest of hearts. As Selwyn called his brother and sisters toward their waiting carriages, he saw Mathieson eying Miss Goldsworthy.
A nagging suspicion of some awful, distant memory prickled at his conscience.