Chapter 7
“M ama, whatever are you thinking?”
Lady Juliet, wife of Portia’s father, Mr. Miller, sat across from her daughter smiling gently. “Oh, my love,” she said, her russet hair ever so slightly lined with silver glinting in the blue light of evening coming in the coach windows, “I am thinking of my own first Season.”
Portia beamed. “You were the Diamond, Mama. Everyone knows it.”
“Yes,” her grandmother, the dowager duchess, crowed, sitting beside her daughter. “Your mother was a triumph.”
Juliet smiled ruefully. “And I was seeking a duke, which is terribly ironic.”
“Why?” Portia asked. “Because you married Papa? The opposite of a duke?”
“Yes. A printer who makes me very happy,” her mother mused, still deeply in love after all these years. “I cannot imagine being married to a duke now. My life would be so very different. But, no, my darling, that is not what I am thinking. I am thinking how very interesting it is that a duke wishes to wed you.”
She swallowed. “What, Mama?”
“My brother Leander came to me this evening and told me a most interesting bit of news. I think you’ll be receiving a proposal very soon, my love.”
The exquisitely luxurious coach rolled through the London streets heading towards the Marlborough ball.
Already there was a crush of people waiting to get out of their vehicles, but since they were the Briarwoods, it was going to be relatively easy for them to make their entrance.
Her father and the Duke of Westleigh were in a separate coach just behind them. With their elaborate gowns, it made more sense for the ladies to travel thus.
Her grandmama was still smiling quite mysteriously. “The Duke of Ferrars, my dear. What a coup! And a surprise. He is no easy catch. If you want him.”
“Well, Mama, Grandmama,” she replied, her heart racing as she recalled the kiss in the garden, “he is most intriguing.”
“He’s terribly odd,” her grandmother said. “I, for one, think we should reserve judgment, don’t you, Juliet?”
Juliet cocked her head to the side. “You’ve always preferred odd, Mama. The whole family has. So, I say we leave the decision to Portia if he is the right sort of odd for her.”
Portia swung her gaze back and forth between the two formidable and beautiful women. Women she adored more than she could ever say. Women who had both defied the expectations of society.
Both of them had been actresses, both of them had been wild, both of them were powerful.
Sometimes she wondered why she did not feel like being an actress. After all, her grandmother had been one of the greatest of her day, and her mother had had great reviews in New York, but Portia had never felt the urge to tread the boards, though she dearly loved to see plays.
She’d grown up watching plays from backstage in those mysterious spaces where ropes hung and set pieces waited to be rolled out, where actors practiced their lines and warmed up their voices before striding out to make magic and transport people to imaginary worlds. No, all she’d ever truly wanted was to be at the center of her family and full of happiness.
“I think that he is quite a good catch,” she replied simply and rather vaguely to her mother and grandmother.
The two older ladies exchanged a glance.
“Everyone will think you are triumphant, my dear, if you catch him,” her grandmother assured. “After all, he is the most eligible man of the Season, and you could be his duchess, but he’s a rather reticent individual.”
She snorted. “He is the boldest of creatures with me. He makes me feel—”
“How bold?” Juliet prompted.
Portia coughed into her gloved hand.
Her mother and grandmother groaned.
“This shall be a very interesting Season,” her grandmother said.
“But please, not too interesting,” her mother urged. “Though if it is, we shall all cheer you on and make certain that you are supported.”
She had no idea what to say to that. Silence seemed wise, so she folded her lace-gloved hands over the striped ivory silk of her gown.
Her grandmother pursed her lips. “I am eager to see what the two of you are like together.”
Her mother frowned. “He does have a bit of a reputation for being cold and distant.”
“Is that not a challenge for a duke?” Portia defended. “To be warm and effervescent? Not everyone can be like Uncle Leander.”
“That’s true,” her mother allowed, “but I’m wary of giving you over to him if he is not like a Briarwood.”
Her grandmother let out a laugh. “My dear, you know that most people are not like Briarwoods.”
“True,” her mother agreed tentatively, “but we never let anybody into the family who can’t quickly adapt.”
“And so he shall have an audition,” Portia teased, so grateful that she had the encouragement of the women in her family. She was well aware that many young ladies of the ton did not.
“Of a sort,” her grandmother trilled, “unless, of course, you’ve already decided, my dear.”
The coach rolled to a stop. And Portia’s stomach twisted with nerves. Would he be present? Was he indeed going to propose? And after that kiss, could she say no? Did she wish to?
“Have you?” her grandmother asked.
Her insides all but rioted. The Duke of Ferrars made her feel all sorts of indescribable things, and there was a power to him that she confessed she admired very much indeed. The idea of being a duchess appealed to her. If she could have the power of her grandmother and Aunt Mercy, she’d be quite a force for good in society.
But that hadn’t been her actual goal in finding a husband. She’d merely wished to be close to her family and have more personal freedom.
And she had no idea if he felt any sort of love for her.
Did she like him enough to accept a marriage proposal without love? She wasn’t certain. She certainly felt an affection for him.
Her mother let out a low groan. “Oh, my dear, I do think you have already decided, haven’t you?”
“Mama!” she gasped. “Can you say such a thing from my mere silence?”
“There was an entire play upon your face,” Grandmama said.
“A drama unfolded,” her mother agreed. “And I think the curtain has already come down.”
Portia refused to say. For in her heart of hearts, she did not know if she was ready to say yes to such a powerful man, who would so entirely change the course of her life. A man who still believed that a marriage proposal should be made through the channels of the most powerful men of the family.
But that was how things were done by dukes. Most dukes, anyway.
“I make no admission or denial,” she replied with as much drama as she could muster.
A sort of drama her mother and grandmother would approve of and enjoy.
But then her mother leaned forward and gently touched her hand, the rich ruby bracelet at her wrist glowing. “Whatever you decide, you are loved.”
Her heart swelled and tears stung her eyes. She was so very lucky. And she’d never forget that.
Then, breaking the moment, the coach door flew open and the steps were unfolded by a footman in beautiful light blue and silver livery.
Her mother and her grandmother were handed down easily, their gowns flowing beautifully as they stepped out into the summer air.
Gone were the restrictive fashions of the previous century. And so their movement was graceful and easy.
Portia followed them down, careful not to step on their richly embroidered and jeweled hems.
Her father and uncle’s coach then pulled up, and the two handsome, impressive men followed closely behind.
Her father gave her an assuring smile before turning quickly to the duke, whereupon they ignored the crush of hopeful mamas and debutantes and lords. Instead, they launched into discourse over a pamphlet they were producing about the ills of children who had no care or education whilst their mothers and fathers worked in factories to earn their meager wages.
Holding her own delicate ivory skirts carefully above the ground, Portia tilted her head back and gazed up at the beautiful house lined with a Grecian portico that showed off a series of reclining gods.
Lanterns lined the steps and there was a bustle of sound and commotion as all of London’s society entered into one of the Season’s most favored balls.
It was, dare she say, a make-or-break moment for so many young ladies.
And the nervousness was palpable in the air. After all, having a successful ball meant that the next day, one’s drawing room would be full of eager gentlemen.
Make a mistake, commit a faux pas, or fumble an exchange, and one’s drawing room would be empty, making a lady’s first attempts at entering into society a dismal affair.
She knew she didn’t really have to worry about that sort of thing. She was a Briarwood, in the end. She had her family to fall back on. Even so, much to her own surprise, she found that she did wish to be a success. Not for anyone else, but for herself.
Since she wished to feel confident as she climbed those stairs and entered the house, she lifted her chin, focused on the doors that were already open, then on the people milling about, waiting to make entry. She bolstered herself. Tonight was going to be glorious. After all, she already had a duke who wished, it seemed, to wed her.
But the way he had gone about it… It was the way it had been done in the ton for a long time. She knew that.
“Grandmama,” she ventured, pausing and taking the dowager duchess’s arm, “the way he approached uncle. Should it concern me? It’s normal, I know, but it is so very…well, not how we do things.”
Her grandmother’s brows rose and she gave the question great consideration. “My dear,” she began at last with a sort of wisdom that seemed gained from the fray of life, “most of these sorts of marriages are not arranged in ballrooms or between the gentleman and the lady. You already know that. The negotiation is usually done between two families, my dear. You will have little say in the matter. Most of it shall be arranged without your consent or your thoughts, unless, of course, that’s what you wish. The question is not if what he did should concern you. The question is whether you wish to be like me? Like your mother? Like the Briarwoods? To use the words of my youth, do you wish to…run this show?”
“Of course I wish to run it,” she rushed, feeling at once heartened and confused by what lay ahead. “But I also don’t mind having Uncle Leander and Papa in my corner, and I know the two of you shall be maneuvering things from the side.”
Her grandmother let out a booming laugh that caused the heads of the ton to turn, note who it was, and go back to their own gossip. For everyone was accustomed the eccentricities of the Dowager Duchess of Westleigh.
Her grandmother gave her a wink then. The sort of cheeky wink that all the Briarwood women seemed to possess. “We shall be controlling the whole thing from the side, my dear. To society, your uncle and your father? They will give the appearance of running it, but it is the ladies who generally make things happen. The contract, of course, will be excellent. Your uncle will assure you of that. But is this what you want? To be a duchess?”
“He and I will have to negotiate that,” Portia breathed.
Her mother pulled out her fan and whipped it open, waving it, not only to cool the air, rich with the perfumes of the guests, but also to mask their conversation as they made their way through the crowd. “You must hold a negotiation and find the balance between what the two of you actually want. Not just what you think you want.”
Portia knew what she wanted.
She wanted the duke to take her into a corner and kiss her. Kiss her again as he had in the garden.
Then she would know if their passion was enough to counter all the pieces that might not seem to fit because he was different with her than with others.
Deep down, she already knew that she was succumbing to him. To his plans. Not because she wished to be a duchess. But because she was fascinated by who he showed to everyone else versus who he showed to her.
And as she mounted the steps, her gown flowing out behind her, her jewels bobbing in her ears and upon her throat, she was ready. Ready to see if she was going to win the duke this Season.
And if she was completely honest with herself, she wanted him. Wanted him in a way that made her insides hum and her fingers ache to hold him again. There was no question. As long as he was willing to let her be herself, there would be no argument.
But she’d have to find that out first before she agreed to the contracts and arrangements. Before she gave her heart because, in this, she was a true Briarwood. Once she gave her heart, she would not be able to take it back. For good or ill.
They headed into the foyer crushed to the brim with people. The scents of perfumes and heat filled her senses, and she gazed about, wondering if Ferrars was already in the ballroom.
Her grandmama and mother paid their respects to the host and hostess. She, too, curtsied to them quickly before being swept into the ballroom.
Music was already playing. The surprisingly soulful notes were filling the air.
Couples raced up and down the well-waxed floor, and young ladies negotiated for a good position along the walls so they might be noticed and have their dance cards filled. The air was full of hope.
Yes. The air was full of that sort of understanding that dreams would be made and crushed tonight. But Portia’s dreams, she felt certain, would come true. The dream of happiness, the dream of finding a husband who would let her live here, in England and London, and be with her family always.
Soon she would know exactly what her future was to be and with whom… And as if that thought could call her future into existence, she spotted the Duke of Ferrars across the room.
His eyes were upon her.
Heat blossomed through her.
That look was like a velvet net, meant to catch her in its sensual promise.
Instead of being pulled towards him, she squared her shoulders and smiled back, calling to him with her spirit, bringing him across the floor.
When she smiled at him, his sensual gaze turned to one of excitement, and he did indeed walk slowly towards her, her grandmother, and her mother. Undeterred by her father and uncle, and the power of her own family, he approached as if he was a god, untouchable, above them all.
The room hushed and seemed to part for him.
After all, he was the Duke of Ferrars. He was quiet, he was prepossessing, and he, if she wanted, was hers.