Chapter 5
The duchess allowed precisely three sips of tea before she got to the point. "Miss Hale, allow me to speak plainly."
Estella’s teacup froze in midair at the abrupt statement. Despite the way the duchess worded it, she was clearly not asking for permission. And yet, the other woman’s long pause had Estella scrambling. "Er… Yes, Your Grace."
The duchess continued smoothly. "I've been watching you since your arrival in London, and I believe you're in a precarious position."
Estella’s eyes went wide. Precarious? Her? Her mind raced to replay every social interaction she’d had upon arriving in London. Had she committed some horrid social scandal without even being aware of it?
She set the teacup down carefully, conscious of Blackwood standing like a carved monument near the fireplace.
He hadn't sat. He hadn't even spoken since his curt greeting.
He was simply…there. Taking up an alarming amount of space and radiating the sort of warmth and good humor one would expect from a headstone.
But she could feel his eyes on her, and her cheeks began to burn. "I appreciate your concern, Your Grace," Estella said. "But I assure you—"
"Your father's debts are considerable," the duchess continued as if Estella hadn't spoken. "Your chaperone, while charming, is not adequate for the demands of a London Season. And you were approached last evening by a fortune hunter."
"I—" Her voice sounded embarrassingly weak. "A fortune hunter?"
"Mr. Fairchild." The name came out on a low growl from the side of the room.
Estella jumped, then glanced over at Blackwood. He was outright glaring at her.
The heat in her cheeks was painful now, and she had no doubt her cheeks were a brilliant crimson. She tried to swallow but her throat was dry.
Shifting in her seat, she turned back to the duchess. The woman was formidable, to be certain, but at least she wasn’t glaring at her with barely concealed fury.
Did the marquess blame her? Was she at fault somehow? A bead of sweat trickled down the back of her neck.
But the duchess’s expression was reassuringly calm. "I’m afraid Lord Blackwood is correct. Mr. Fairchild has ill intentions."
A silence fell. It seemed they expected her to respond. "I…" She cleared her throat, tried again. "I did not know."
"No, of course you didn’t," the duchess said quickly, her tone not exactly reassuring.
Estella wasn’t sure the duchess was capable of a reassuring tone. Her demeanor was more efficient than caring. But her words…
“Of course you didn’t.” They rankled more than they ought. They were more of a blow than the humiliating mention of her father’s debts or her inadequate chaperone.
“Of course you didn’t.” Estella’s teeth snapped together. The tone was harmless, but the words implied that she was too young and inexperienced to know any better.
Yes, she was young. And undoubtedly she was new to society.
But she'd spent two years managing a household, negotiating with creditors, keeping her family housed and clothed and fed.
She'd done it alone, without help. And now two strangers were sitting in a drawing room cataloguing her failures as though she were a problem to be solved.
She was not a problem. She was a person. And she was doing her best.
Estella drew in a deep breath. "I'm aware of my circumstances, Your Grace.
" She was relieved to hear that her voice came out steady.
It could even be mistaken as the voice of a woman who was not currently mortified down to the soles of her borrowed slippers.
"I have been managing them for some time. "
"I understand that." The duchess's tone softened, just slightly. "But managing and thriving are different things, my dear. And a London Season requires resources that competence alone cannot provide."
Estella pressed her lips together. She could feel Blackwood's gaze on her. Or rather, his glare.
She resisted the urge to fidget in her seat. What had she done to make him despise her so thoroughly? Was it just that she reminded him of her brother or had she accidentally offended him in some way?
But once again, there was a silence that needed filling. And it was abundantly clear the marquess wasn’t about to come to her aid.
"What are you proposing?" Estella asked.
The duchess smiled. "I propose to take you under my wing and introduce you to the right people. The Ashworth name carries weight, and I intend to lend you that weight for the remainder of the Season."
Estella stared at her. The offer was…enormous. The Duchess of Ashworth was one of the most powerful women in London society. Her sponsorship would transform Estella's prospects overnight. Doors that were firmly closed to a poor country viscount's daughter would open as if by magic.
It was an extraordinary act of generosity.
It was also unmistakably…charity.
That knot in her stomach grew to a heavy weight that made her feel ill. But that was her pride at work. And there was no place for her pride here. She forced herself to think of Charlotte. Young, sweet, clever Charlotte, who deserved only the best this world could offer.
No, only the best this duchess could offer.
"Lord Blackwood has agreed to serve as your protector for the Season," the duchess continued.
"As your late brother’s close friend, it is natural and expected that he take an interest in your welfare.
He will escort you to events and ensure that men of…
questionable character are kept at a safe distance. "
Estella looked at Blackwood. He had not moved, and his gaze was firmly fixed on the fireplace beside him as though this conversation had nothing to do with him whatsoever.
In this light, with the way he was standing, the scars from his burns were difficult to see. She took in his profile, with the sharp jaw, the high cheekbones, and straight nose. When he wasn’t glaring at her, he was undeniably…striking.
No. Handsome. He was undeniably handsome.
As if he’d heard her thoughts, he turned his face, his gaze colliding with hers. And suddenly her breathing felt far too shallow.
She wet her lips and clutched the fabric of her skirts. It seemed both Blackwood and the duchess were waiting for her response.
The Marquess of Blackwood was offering to be her protector.
With his hard eyes locked on hers, the suggestion seemed utterly implausible. "Is this true?"
The words tumbled out. The question had been aimed at him directly, and his eyes widened ever so slightly.
"Your brother would have wanted someone looking out for you." His voice was flat. "I'm honoring that obligation."
Obligation.
The word sat between them like a stone wall. She almost flinched but caught herself.
So that was what she was. An obligation. A debt owed to a dead man. Not Estella, but Andrew's sister.
To the marquess, an obligation. To the duchess, charity.
It was, quite frankly…humiliating.
But her pride had no place here. She turned back in her seat, staring straight ahead at the tray full of biscuits and a still steaming teapot.
She should be grateful. This formidable man was offering to upend his life for her Season. The duchess was offering her name and her influence and her protection. Together, they were handing her exactly what she needed to save Charlotte's future.
And all it cost was her pride.
She pressed her palms flat against her skirts and smiled. "That's very kind. I accept."
The words tasted like dust, but they were the right words. The duchess looked pleased. Blackwood looked…she wasn't sure. He'd turned back to the mantelpiece. His left hand, she noticed, was clenched at his side.
"Excellent," the duchess said. "I've taken the liberty of arranging a promenade in Hyde Park for tomorrow afternoon. Lord Blackwood will escort you. The ton will see a marquess taking a brotherly interest in a friend's sister, and that image will do more for your standing than a dozen balls."
Brotherly. Another excellent word. She was collecting them now. Obligation, brotherly. She wondered what the next one would be. Duty, perhaps. Or burden.
"Perhaps," the duchess added, turning to Blackwood, "it would be wise for Miss Hale to address you by your Christian name. Given the nature of the connection. Practically family, after all."
Estella saw the barest flinch. If she hadn't been watching him so closely, she'd have missed it entirely.
Well. If she’d had any doubt about how he truly felt about being obliged to escort her, she supposed that flinch answered it.
It seemed he was as pleased with this arrangement as she was.
"If Miss Hale is comfortable with that," he finally said.
She wasn't comfortable with anything about this arrangement. But she was practical.
"It is fine by me…Sebastian," she said.
He turned to her, and this time she saw the left side of his jaw clench, the scar tissue shifting with the movement. She had the sudden, disorienting thought that she'd hurt him. Which was absurd. She'd only said his name.
"Estella," he returned. His voice was rough and lower than before. More of a growl, really.
The duchess watched them both with bright, sharp eyes and an expression that Estella couldn't read but that made her distinctly uneasy.
"Well then," the duchess said. "Tomorrow at three o'clock. I'll send my carriage."
Blackwood— No, Sebastian, inclined his head.
"I should go," he said to no one in particular, and then did exactly that, crossing the room with long strides.
The door closed behind him, and the room felt larger. Emptier.
The duchess poured herself another cup of tea, seemingly unbothered by the departure. "Well. That went better than I'd anticipated."
"Did it?" Estella wasn't certain what she'd anticipated, but she felt rather as though she'd been caught in a storm and was still checking herself for damage.
The duchess smiled but did not elaborate. "There's something else I wished to discuss with you, privately."
Estella straightened. "Yes?"
"You were very taken with Mr. Fairchild last evening."
The observation was mild, but Estella still flinched at the rebuke. "He was kind to me." She hated how defensive she sounded. "He was the only person who—"
"Yes. He was kind, I’m sure. He was charming and attentive and all that." The duchess gave a dismissive wave as she set her cup down. "I want you to think about why that should worry you rather than reassure you."
Estella's brow furrowed. "I don't understand."
The duchess folded her hands. "Miss Hale, you are a perceptive woman. I saw it last night. The way you watch people, the way you read a room. You notice things others miss. But you have a blind spot, and it's a dangerous one."
She had many, probably. But she waited.
"You trust the men who put you at ease." The duchess's voice was steady and unsparing. "Those men are comfortable because they've practiced being comfortable. They know exactly what a lonely young woman needs to hear, and they're very good at providing it."
Estella opened her mouth to protest. Mr. Fairchild had been genuinely kind, she was sure of it. Well…almost sure of it.
"I’m not saying that every man who’s quick to smile is a cad," the duchess continued. "Only that the ones who make it easy are worth examining more closely."
Estella turned that over in her mind. Was that true? She’d never truly thought about it before.
The duchess gave another wave in the direction where Blackwood had been standing earlier. "The men who are brusque or uncomfortable or who seem incapable of basic pleasantries…" A slight pause. "Those men are rarely the ones you need to fear."
She meant Blackwood. Obviously.
Estella frowned. But the duchess hurried on before she could speak.
"That is not always the case, of course.
But when it comes to the marquess…" The duchess trailed off, and her gaze turned assessing, as if she were considering her next words carefully.
"I'm not asking you to like him. But I am asking you to consider that your instincts about men may not be as reliable as you’d like to believe. "
Estella wanted to argue. She wanted to say that she was perfectly capable of judging character, thank you, and that a man being pleasant was not inherently suspicious.
But the milliner's bill was already paid, Mr. Phelps had suddenly run off to Cornwall, and she was apparently in such dire straits that a duchess felt compelled to rescue her. And now she was being told that her judgment was flawed, and—
Well, Estella wasn't certain she was wrong.
In fact, she wasn’t certain of much at the moment. She was starting to fear there might be large gaps in her education, and that perhaps…she did not know what she did not know.
So she swallowed down her retort, and instead, asked, "What would you have me do?"
"Practice," the duchess said. "Being in the company of men who don't fawn. Start with Blackwood. He won't flatter you or charm you or try to make you comfortable. He will be difficult and silent and probably quite rude. And I want you to sit with that discomfort and learn to see past it."
It was, Estella reflected, possibly the strangest piece of advice she'd ever received.
"You want me to practice being uncomfortable," she said slowly.
"I want you to practice trusting your eyes." The duchess smiled. "I want you to learn to look past pleasant smiles and comforting words, and base your judgments on a man’s actions. That is where you will find the truth of his character."
Estella looked at the door through which Sebastian had disappeared. She thought of Mr. Fairchild's easy warmth, and then she thought of Sebastian's hands catching her when she fell, and the way that gentleness didn't match anything else about him.
She turned back to the duchess with a determined smile.
"All right," she said. "I'll try."