Chapter 2
NEW YORK CITY EIGHT MONTHS EARLIER
“The Duke of Wentworth is here to see you, my darling girl.”
Lillian started at the voice of her mother, the action causing her paint brush to send a line of emerald across the roses she had just perfected.
“Drat,” she muttered, heaving a sigh.
Mother sailed across the room to where Lillian had set up her paint set and easel, by the window with the most advantageous light. “Lillian, what in heaven’s name are you wearing?”
She glanced down at her gown, a comfortable day silk that was several years old. “I’m wearing one of my painting gowns. Why should it matter?”
“Because His Grace is waiting for you in the front drawing room.”
The front drawing room was where Mother received guests who were of the utmost importance, as opposed to the other two drawing rooms Father had made certain his architect had also built at her direction.
Belatedly, it occurred to her why her mother was in such a state.
The duke she had been determined that Lillian must wed, the impoverished aristocrat who had been lured to New York City by the promise of Father’s boundless wealth, was here.
In this very house. Bother. It would seem that the future she had been doing her utmost to avoid and ignore was hurtling toward her, faster than she could have fathomed even yesterday.
She began repainting the roses. “Why is he here? I thought he was in England.”
Mother reached her. “Lillian, you have paint on your cheek.”
She glanced up to see her mother frowning ferociously at her.
“I do?”
“You do,” Mother snapped. “You look a fright. What are you doing, painting at a time like this? Put that brush down. Oh, what a disaster this is. His Grace will take one look at you and refuse the match, I know it.”
“I shouldn’t mind if he did.”
“Lillian Penrose, how dare you utter such nonsense?”
Lillian sighed. “Because I don’t want to be sold like a cow at market.”
“Sold like a cow,” Mother gasped, trembling with affront.
“I won’t hear anything of the sort. You are not being sold.
You are being considered by His Grace. I need not tell you that it is a vast and enviable honor that most young ladies would give all their finest gowns and jewels to have. You will be the talk of Society.”
Just as Mother so fervently wished.
Never mind what Lillian wanted.
She dipped her paintbrush into her water jar, rinsing it. “Yes, they will all be whispering behind their fans about how terrible it is that my father is bartering me for a title.”
“No one is bartering you. Not another word, do you hear me? Now put down that brush and go and change into something more suitable to receive him.” Mother was so distraught that she was wringing her hands.
“Tell Jacinda that she must try something with your hair. It looks as if a gathering of squirrels has taken up residence in it.”
Now it was Lillian’s turn to frown. “I prefer to wear my hair this way.”
“The duke will take one look at you and run straight to the nearest ship to sail back to England.”
“I would dearly love it if he would,” she drawled.
Mother regarded her with stern disapproval, her mouth thinned to a small, tight line. “You will go to your room and change out of this gown, and you will have Jacinda tidy your hair into a presentable style, and you will come to the front drawing room wearing a smile.”
“Or?”
“Or your painting lessons with Monsieur Dupont will come to an end,” Mother snapped.
Lillian froze. Did her mother know that she had been harboring a certain fondness for her handsome, French painting instructor? Surely Lillian hadn’t made her inconvenient, burgeoning feelings known. Had she? He was so talented, and he thought Lillian’s work was impressive.
“Monsieur Dupont is a master, and I am fortunate to work under his tutelage,” she protested, keeping her expression carefully neutral. “He has said I possess an innate talent that he’s never seen before in one of his students.”
It was the wrong thing to say, because Mother’s eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared, telling signs she was gravely displeased. “Has he been untoward with you?”
“Of course not.” Indeed, Lillian didn’t even think Monsieur Dupont was aware of her interest in him. Certainly, if he were, he had never shown it. He had been a consummate gentleman.
“Of course not,” Mother repeated in a tone that suggested she didn’t believe Lillian’s denial for a moment. “Lillian, go upstairs now and see that you return looking like a young lady who is worthy of becoming a duchess.”
“What if I don’t want to be one?”
Mother gave her a small, pained smile. “You will in time, my dear. Now go.”
“If I don’t?”
“If you don’t, then Monsieur Dupont will not merely find himself removed from his post as your painting instructor. He will also find that not one door in this entire city will open to him. Ever again.”
Lillian sucked in a breath, shocked at the vehemence in her mother’s voice as much as the threat. “But that would ruin him.”
Mother smiled grimly. “Precisely. If you don’t wish for that to happen, then you will do as I say and go.”
Lillian knew better than to argue with her mother.
If Mother had decided Monsieur Dupont was finished in New York City, he would be, and Lillian wouldn’t be able to do anything to stop his professional demise from happening.
One word from Mrs. Augustus Penrose was all such a damning feat would require.
Lillian left the salon at once for the sanctity of her bedroom, where she dressed in one of her most severe gowns.
A mourning gown of dour black, buttoned to the throat.
She instructed Jacinda to pull her hair tightly into a chignon, using none of the artifice she ordinarily employed when she helped Lillian to dress for balls and other society events.
The result staring back at her in the looking glass would hopefully be sufficient to send the duke on his way.
The first time Alaric Rothwell, Duke of Wentworth, set eyes upon the woman he hoped to wed, she looked rather like a woman about to attend a funeral instead of a lady receiving a suitor.
Still, there was no mistaking the breathtaking beauty she had been rumored to possess. In this instance, gossip was not wrong.
Her eyes were a faded Prussian blue, light and striking, framed by luxurious golden lashes.
Despite the unbecoming manner in which her hair had been scraped to her perfectly shaped head, her blonde tresses complemented her creamy skin and summer-berry lips.
She was shorter than he had anticipated when compared to his height, but then, Alaric was accustomed to towering over most members of his acquaintance.
Her waist had been cinched to a waspish hourglass, and she moved with an ethereal grace that suggested she hailed from an otherworldly realm. She possessed a retroussé nose, a dimpled chin, and high cheekbones. The overall effect was a face he had no doubt any artist would love to paint.
At least his future duchess was pleasant to look upon. Presently, it didn’t appear as if the same pleasantness could be ascribed to her personality as well. She was grim and aloof, unsmiling.
Alaric bowed. “Mrs. Penrose, Miss Penrose.”
Lillian Penrose’s mother presided over their introduction rather like a procuress at a brothel.
Albeit a procuress who was swathed in the finest silk and Parisian fashion whilst dripping in diamonds.
So many diamonds that as she moved, the lamplight caught in their facets, making Alaric think wryly that it was a miracle all those priceless stones didn’t blind him.
“Your Grace,” Mrs. Penrose returned, bowing her head in deference as if Alaric were a king gracing their massive New York City manse.
In truth, he was but an impoverished duke who had been lured to these shores by the promise of salvation.
He had been in the process of selling off all remaining paintings of value, along with the immense Wentworth library, when Mr. Augustus Penrose, hideously wealthy real estate magnate and railroad baron, had made Alaric an offer he hadn’t been able to refuse.
Penrose was a collector of fine art and antiquities, but he was also the father of a marriageable-age daughter.
“What if you were able to keep these familial treasures where they belong?” Penrose had asked slyly.
“Impossible,” Alaric had said, having struggled for the last few years to avoid selling off anything he could to keep the estates running.
“Visit me in New York City,” Penrose had urged. “I suspect you might enjoy meeting my daughter, Miss Lillian Amelia Penrose.”
And here Alaric was, meeting the celebrated beauty who was reported on quite thoroughly in the city gossip rags.
“How lovely it is to make your acquaintances,” he said formally.
Miss Penrose was looking at a point over his shoulder rather than directly at him. Wryly, Alaric wondered if she feared he was a Gorgon who would turn her to stone if she but met his gaze.
“We are honored by your call, Your Grace,” Mrs. Penrose said.
Miss Penrose remained silent, her full lips pinched as if she were holding in a humorless laugh. Alaric was not accustomed to being ignored by the fairer sex. The sensation was novel. He didn’t think he liked it very much.
Particularly not regarding the woman he intended to wed.
“Lillian,” Mrs. Penrose prodded her daughter in a low voice, teeth gritted as she kept her welcoming hostess’s smile pinned tightly to her lips.
Miss Penrose blinked, at last turning the full force of her gaze upon him. “We are honored, Your Grace.”
There was nothing impolite in her tone or carriage. He could find no fault in her manner, in her dress. And yet, he could not shake the feeling that Miss Penrose didn’t wish to be here.
“Tea should be arriving shortly,” Mrs. Penrose offered brightly. “Our housekeeper has a matter of some import that requires my attention. I’ll be gone but a few moments. If you will excuse me?”
Alaric inclined his head. “Of course, madam.”
Mrs. Penrose swept from the room with the regal authority of a queen, and well she may have been because if what Alaric had read was true, the woman ruled over the upper echelons of New York City society as if she were indeed a sovereign matriarch.
It was also blatantly apparent she wished to give her daughter and Alaric some time alone in each other’s company.
When Mrs. Penrose was gone, Alaric offered Miss Penrose his arm. “Perhaps we might sit and get better acquainted.”
She eyed his arm as if it were a befouled shoe. “Is there a reason for us to become better acquainted?”
“Your father may have mentioned that I am in need of a wife.”
“In need of a fortune, you mean.”
That was appallingly direct of her. He felt the sting of her words like an arrow winging into his flesh, hitting their mark.
He inclined his head. “In need of restoring my estates to their former glory, yes.”
“Are there not other heiresses in this town whom you might choose for the dubious honor of funding your estates with their dowries instead?” she asked with disinterest.
Alaric nearly choked. “Undoubtedly, there are, Miss Penrose. However, your father expressed a desire for the two of us to become better acquainted.”
It was the most politic way of saying that the cunning Mr. Augustus Penrose had essentially bribed Alaric into this visit.
He had offered Alaric a loan to restore the roof at Wentworth Abbey.
In desperation, Alaric had accepted the funds, understanding full well that they came with a price all their own.
“Keep the paintings and the library here for now,” Penrose had said, smiling faintly. “Come to New York City. If all goes well, they may remain here, and the loan will be forgiven.”
Alaric needed a wife. A wealthy wife. He also required heirs to carry on the family line. In the end, he hadn’t had a choice at all.
“How well do you know my father?” Miss Penrose wanted to know, her tone wary.
“We met when he was in England attending to business matters. He came to my estate with the intent of purchasing some antiquities I was selling.”
That much was the truth.
“Perhaps not well enough to know that my father is adept at getting what he wants in all matters, even if it comes to marrying off his daughter,” Miss Penrose said archly.
“I trust that his daughter doesn’t wish to be married off, given your response,” Alaric drawled, amused by her daring.
No English miss of his acquaintance would have been so forthright. He found Miss Penrose’s candor oddly endearing.
She raked him with an assessing stare that was equally bold. “I suppose that remains to be seen, Your Grace.”
Mrs. Penrose bustled back into the drawing room, accompanied by servants bearing a tea tray. She beamed when she took in Alaric and her daughter in proximity, clearly joining her husband in her desire to see Miss Penrose married to a duke.
“Let’s enjoy tea, shall we?” she asked.
“Tea would be lovely,” Alaric told his hostess, even though the last thing he wanted to do at present was to suffer through a cup of tepid tea with a matchmaking mama and the daughter who clearly didn’t want to marry him.
It was, he thought, a rather inauspicious beginning.
And yet, there was some indefinable quality about Miss Lillian Penrose that he found oddly refreshing and strangely irresistible. He was inexplicably drawn to her, moved by her audacious air and pragmatism.
Perhaps there would be hope for the two of them yet.