Chapter Twelve
Georgiana
Contrary to this year, my first Season had felt like a dream.
Peter had touted me around proudly. I’d met many handsome, eligible gentlemen, but I’d never felt nervous because I believed my future was secure.
The only man I’d felt like I needed to impress was Sir Ronald.
Indeed, I hadn’t given a second thought to any other male acquaintance no matter how often we’d danced or dined together.
Mrs. Johns remembered them all.
Her memory was like magic, her light-brown eyes wise and thoughtful. When Maggie had introduced us, to my utter astonishment, she’d instantly recognized me.
“Ah, Miss Wood. What a surprise you’ve graced us again this Season with how your summer fared in the country.”
She was not one to mince words.
“Only for a short time this year,” I’d managed.
“Yes, but in excellent company. Once again, you have tongues waggling. To what do I owe this great pleasure?”
Maggie leaned forward. “The duke would like to help Miss Wood make a fortuitous match, and we had hoped you might have advice on the matter.”
“Advice on . . . to whom she might set her cap?” Mrs. Johns’s lips curled into a smile. “How intriguing. Do you mean to tell me that the whispers are untrue? That the duke is not himself interested in her?”
Heat crept up my neck. Of course he wasn’t!
Of all the rumors that had spread of me, this was certainly the most absurd.
How little these people must know the duke if they thought for a second I might turn his head.
He, who drinks the nectar of the gods. Who sits on his throne of gold, amusing himself with the foibles of people like me.
Certainly not admiring a scandalized country girl.
He’d played his part well, made me feel like a queen.
Indeed, his quick wit, his humor, his boldness and confidence had made me forget just how inadequate I’d become.
Who was I compared to a woman like Lady Diana?
“We are truly only dear friends,” I told her.
Mrs. Johns’s clear eyes watched me. “Smart girl. He is not your equal by far, is he?” She tilted her head and smiled, watching for my reaction.
I gave her none. I could not disagree with her, but I wouldn’t let her wound me in the process.
“Lady Diana is a good match for the Duke of Marlow. I’ve told Her Grace as much.
I even gave a second and a third match as well, should he need it.
But you . . .” Her old lips wrinkled as she pursed them.
“You come from a good family, and yet, where is your mother? Why is she not here, guiding you through London?”
My heart dropped into my stomach like an anvil. This was why Mrs. Johns was such a renowned matchmaker. She could see things others could not. Things kept hidden and buried.
“My mother has kept herself very busy since my father died. But I assure you, she would be here if she could.” Lies, and I was sure Mrs. Johns knew as much.
But what good would come from speaking the truth?
She’s removed to France; I haven’t heard from her in an age, and I am not certain she ever truly loved me.
I couldn’t see how that knowledge would help Mrs. Johns match me with a suitor.
No, it would only serve to tell a deeper truth, one I rarely let myself consider—that I wasn’t good enough for my mother to return for. Not good enough for Sir Ronald to save.
Certainly not good enough to tempt a real suitor of any substance on my own.
Mrs. Johns harrumphed and settled in her high-back chair.
No, she did not believe my claims about my mother, but she did not press me further.
“You need a good family to marry into then. Perhaps someone who might understand your tendency for impulsiveness.” She looked to Maggie, frowning in thought.
“If the duke wishes for my help, it will be done. But I need time to think.”
Maggie straightened in her seat. She stared at Mrs. Johns with a tight smile. “He would like a suitor encouraged soon.”
Mrs. Johns raised a solitary brow. “I see.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Johns, for your help,” I said.
She looked to me. “I make no promises. But for my efforts, thank your host.”
A polite way of saying her matchmaking was a service to the duke.
I was the service.
My face was a mask. I’d come to play my part in this little scheme to make the duke look better to his prospects. I hadn’t any real hope for a match, though her disapproval stung. “Of course.”
Mrs. Johns stood as we made our way to the door.
When we reentered the carriage, Maggie chatted all the way home about potential suitors and her anticipation of watching me find a match, as though I truly could.
Mrs. Johns certainly had the connections; she knew everyone.
She would tell a gentleman of my mistakes, of my flaws, even the purported ones that were worse than anything I could or would ever do in my lifetime.
If someone of standing heard all that and still sought me out . . . well, that would be a shock.
By the time we returned to Ashburn Abbey, it was time to dress for dinner.
“The men have left for White’s,” Maggie told me in the drawing room. “Just us and Her Grace tonight.”
Thankfully, Her Grace was bolstered by Maggie’s retelling of our visit with Mrs. Johns.
“Lady Diana accepted Marlow’s invitation to Drury Lane at week’s end. I think he is starting to come around to the idea.” The duchess dipped her spoon into her brown broth.
Maggie nodded thoughtfully. “Do you suppose he would tell us what he truly thinks of her? Or would he just one day decide to propose, and that is that?”
Her Grace’s laugh was a lilting, regal sound. “He is not as shy as he was as a boy, but he still struggles to express himself. I would not be surprised of the latter.”
“The duke, shy?” I interjected. “I can hardly imagine it.”
“He was always very quiet and kept to himself as a boy,” Maggie said from across the table. “Always with his nose in a book. His tutors loved him.”
“And, yet, if you put a violin in his hands, he could bring the whole room to tears. Even his father. And that boy loved his father.” Her Grace lifted her wineglass, hesitating as memories passed behind her eyes. She smiled ever so gently.
“I lost my father too.” I couldn’t say why I shared it. I rarely talked of Papa. But I understood that smile . . . the memories behind it. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Her Grace sipped from her glass, then set it down and looked up. “Tell us about your family. You live with your brother? I do hope his wife is well.”
And so I told them about life after Sir Ronald’s party at Lakeshire Park.
How Amelia came straightaway for the wedding.
How simple the morning had been, but perfect for them.
Amelia had looked absolutely beautiful. Not just because of the dress she wore—though it had been lovely—nor her carefully arranged hair or the light rouge on her cheeks.
It was the way she had looked at my brother, and how their hands had joined so tightly as the vicar spoke.
I wasn’t sure either of them realized how lucky they were.
The ache I’d felt upon leaving Mrs. Johns’s home returned, and I hated it. I wanted to be back in the barn with Mercutio, lost in a book and decidedly avoiding my future.
As it turned out, taking your own future by the reins was exhausting, emotional work.
After dinner, I took the grand staircase up to my room, my hand trailing the smooth mahogany banister.
We’d dined late, and I was tired, but not too tired for The Mysteries of Udolpho.
I needed the escape of a good book. I needed to forget where I was and everything Mrs. Johns had said about my potential for matchmaking failure a second time round.
Tonight, I wanted to fall into someone else’s thoughts for a change.
And I had found the perfect reading spot, far cozier than the barn with Mercutio.
I had the final half of the last volume to read, and I could hardly wait. I’d stay awake all night reading, for I had nothing to wake early for.
I told Jane my plan, and she helped me into a robe to cover my thin nightdress. I took my time brushing out my own hair and securing it back in a loose chignon at my neck, and, since no one would be about, I tugged on some warm wool stockings too.
Then, I waited.
Waited until the hour grew very late, so there would be no chance of running into Her Grace. I wrote in my diary. Watched the stars appear one by one. Examined my face a little too closely in the mirror.
My cozy spot was but a few doors down in the library, a cozy settee with wingback chairs opposite a warm hearth, the night sky twinkling out the window to the left. It was an utter dream.
When the clock struck eleven, I tiptoed down the hall, book in hand.
The house sat still, sleepy and unhurried.
An orange glow radiated from the cracked-open door to the library, and quietly, I snuck inside. Jane must have told the servants to expect me, for they’d stoked up the fire and . . . was that a tea tray?
Cheesecakes, strawberries, sweet buns, and similar sandwiches from this afternoon waited on a two-tiered platter alongside a little pot and teacup, and it all smelled utterly divine.
Having a duke for a friend was luxury indeed.
Sighing, I sank into the warm, cushioned chair, tucking my feet behind me, my book to my side, and poured myself a cup.
After a few sips, I picked a sweet bun and leaned my weight against the right arm of the chair to get comfortable. I opened my book to the marked page, and, after a bite, started reading, losing myself in the pages.
In the mysteries of Udolpho.
Then, though I earnestly believed this evening could not get any better, I heard a distinct purring and looked down.
The whitest, fluffiest, roundest feline I had ever seen sat at my feet and flicked her bushy tail lazily from side to side. Her green eyes looked up at me with blank expectation.
“Well, good evening. Who are you? And just where have you come from?”