Chapter 7 The Dinner Party Ambush
The Dinner Party Ambush
Eleanor was reviewing the household accounts when Sally burst into her study.
“Your Grace, Lady Thornfield’s carriage has just arrived—with three other ladies! Mrs. Wright is in quite a state about refreshments.”
Eleanor’s pen stilled. “Lady Thornfield? I wasn’t expecting—” She stopped, understanding dawning with sinking dread. Her friend Cordelia had been dropping increasingly obvious hints about meeting the mysterious returned duke ever since word of his arrival had spread through Mayfair’s drawing rooms.
“Shall I tell them you’re indisposed?” Sally asked, clearly recognizing the trapped expression on her mistress’s face.
“No,” Eleanor sighed, setting down her pen with resignation. “Show them to the blue drawing room. And ask Cook to prepare tea for five. Inform His Grace that his presence is… requested.”
Twenty minutes later, Eleanor entered the drawing room to find her guests arranged like a theatrical tableau.
Lady Cordelia Thornfield sat in the center chair with obvious satisfaction, her graying curls perfectly arranged beneath a becoming bonnet.
Beside her, the younger Lady Monmouth leaned forward with eager anticipation, while Mrs. Brassey—a nervous creature who rarely spoke above a whisper—perched on the edge of her seat as though ready to flee.
But it was the fourth visitor who made Eleanor’s stomach clench with foreboding.
Lady Vivienne Birkenhead reclined in her chair with the languid grace of a cat, her black hair artfully arranged to emphasize her pale skin and striking violet eyes.
The woman was notorious throughout the ton for her string of “intimate friendships” with various gentlemen, conducted with just enough discretion to avoid complete social ruin but sufficient boldness to keep gossips supplied with endless speculation.
“Eleanor, darling!” Lady Thornfield rose with theatrical delight. “We simply couldn’t contain our curiosity a moment longer. When Vivienne mentioned she’d heard the most interesting rumors…”
Lady Birkenhead smiled with feline satisfaction. “One hears such fascinating whispers about sudden marriages and mysterious returns from abroad. Naturally, we felt compelled to offer our congratulations in person.”
Before Eleanor could formulate a response, the drawing room door opened to admit Damien. He paused in the doorway, taking in the assembled company with one comprehensive glance before his features arranged themselves into an expression of perfect ducal courtesy.
Eleanor watched in growing alarm as every female eye in the room fixed upon her husband with varying degrees of appreciation. Even shy Mrs. Brassey sat up straighter, her cheeks coloring becomingly.
“Ladies,” Damien said with a bow. “What a pleasure.”
“Your Grace,” Lady Thornfield practically purred, extending her hand. “I am Lady Thornfield, Eleanor’s dearest friend. We’ve been simply perishing with curiosity about your return.”
Damien crossed to her, bowing over her hand with practiced charm. “Lady Thornfield. Eleanor has spoken of you often.” The lie fell so smoothly from his lips that Eleanor almost believed it herself.
“How gallant of you to say so.” Lady Thornfield’s eyes sparkled with delight. “And may I present Lady Monmouth, Mrs. Brassey, and Lady Birkenhead?”
Eleanor watched with mounting irritation as Damien moved through the introductions with devastating effect. Lady Monmouth blushed like a schoolgirl when he complimented her gown. Mrs. Brassey actually giggled—giggled!—when he asked about her family with apparently genuine interest.
But it was his interaction with Lady Birkenhead that made Eleanor’s hands clench in her lap.
“Lady Birkenhead,” he said, his voice carrying just the right note of respect and interest. “I believe I knew your late husband. A remarkable man.”
“Indeed he was,” Lady Birkenhead replied, her eyes never leaving Damien’s face. “Though I confess, I’ve found widowhood has its own… compensations.” The pause was barely perceptible but loaded with implication.
Eleanor felt heat rise in her cheeks at the woman’s brazenness, but Damien merely smiled with polite acknowledgment before moving to settle beside Eleanor on the settee. His proximity should have been reassuring, but she could feel the attention of every woman in the room focused on him.
“Now then, Your Grace,” Lady Thornfield said once tea had been served, “you simply must tell us about your travels. The Orient must have been quite… exotic.”
What followed was a masterful performance of masculine charm.
Damien regaled them with stories of monsoons in Macao that had lasted for weeks, of learning to navigate by stars whose names he couldn’t pronounce, of befriending a Chinese merchant who spoke seven languages but insisted on communicating primarily through elaborate hand gestures.
“The man could conduct an entire business negotiation without speaking a word,” Damien explained, his hands moving expressively as he demonstrated.
“By the end of our third meeting, I was fairly fluent in his particular form of commerce. Though I suspect I may have accidentally agreed to purchase his daughter’s dowry goats in the process. ”
The ladies dissolved into delighted laughter, and Eleanor found herself torn between admiration for his storytelling ability and irritation that he was performing for them at all.
“How wonderfully adventurous,” Lady Monmouth sighed. “I can’t imagine having such courage to venture so far from home.”
“Courage had little to do with it,” Damien replied with self-deprecating humor. “Desperation and stubbornness proved far more useful qualities.”
“But surely you must have missed England terribly,” Mrs. Brassey ventured with uncharacteristic boldness. “The comforts of home, the familiar Society…”
Eleanor noticed the slight shift in the atmosphere, the way Lady Birkenhead’s attention sharpened with predatory interest.
“One adapts,” Damien said simply. “Though I confess, certain discoveries upon my return have made me question why I remained abroad as long as I did.”
His eyes met Eleanor’s briefly, and she felt an unwelcome flutter of warmth at the implication.
“How romantic!” Lady Thornfield exclaimed. “Though one does wonder at the peculiar circumstances of your marriage. Such an unusual arrangement, conducted at such distance…”
Eleanor’s teacup rattled against its saucer as she set it down with excessive force. “The circumstances were perfectly respectable, I assure you.”
“Oh, naturally,” Lady Birkenhead interjected smoothly, her violet eyes gleaming with malicious amusement. “Though one can’t help but observe how… uncomfortable you both seem, even for a couple only recently acquainted in person. It’s almost as though you’re still learning each other’s preferences.”
The statement was delivered with such innocent curiosity that anyone listening might have missed the poisonous implication—that Eleanor and Damien were strangers playing at marriage.
Eleanor felt her composure threatening to crack, but before she could formulate a cutting response, Damien leaned back with lazy confidence.
“You’re quite perceptive, Lady Birkenhead,” he said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Though I’d suggest that any husband worth the title never stops learning his wife’s preferences.
The moment one assumes complete understanding of a remarkable woman is the moment one reveals oneself to be a fool. ”
The rebuke was so gently delivered that Lady Birkenhead couldn’t object without appearing churlish, yet every person in the room understood perfectly that she’d been put firmly in her place.
“How wonderfully devoted,” she replied with a brittle smile, though her eyes had narrowed dangerously.
Eleanor felt a surge of gratitude toward her surprising husband, even as she noted how Lady Birkenhead’s gaze lingered on his profile with undisguised hunger.
The conversation continued for another quarter hour, with Damien deflecting increasingly pointed questions about their courtship with such smooth expertise that Eleanor began to suspect this wasn’t his first encounter with predatory Society matrons.
When the ladies finally took their leave—Lady Birkenhead’s farewell notably warmer than strictly proper—Eleanor felt drained by the effort of maintaining her composed facade.
“Well,” she said once they were alone, “that was illuminating.”
“Indeed,” Damien agreed, his casual demeanor evaporating now that their audience had departed. “Your friend Lady Birkenhead seems particularly inquisitive about our domestic arrangements.”
“She’s not my friend,” Eleanor said sharply. “And her interest appeared to extend beyond mere curiosity.”
Damien’s eyebrows rose at her tone. “Are you suggesting the lady has improper intentions toward your husband?”
Eleanor felt heat flood her cheeks at his knowing look. “I’m suggesting she has improper intentions toward any gentleman who might prove… accommodating to her particular appetites.”
“How scandalous,” Damien murmured, though his eyes danced with amusement. “One might almost think you were concerned for my virtue.”
“I’m concerned for my reputation,” Eleanor corrected stiffly, though the words felt hollow even to her own ears. “Any scandal attached to your name becomes mine as well.”
“Speaking of which,” Damien said, his tone shifting to something more serious, “we should discuss your various enterprises. Your charitable work, the hospital, those business investments Lady Thornfield mentioned.” He moved closer, his voice dropping.
“Some of your activities may require adjustment now that I’m in residence.
A duke’s wife must be above reproach, and certain ventures—however well-intentioned—might be seen as inappropriate for someone of your position. ”
Eleanor felt her blood turn to ice. “Adjustment?”
“Nothing dramatic,” he said with that infuriating casual confidence. “Simply a matter of ensuring everything you do reflects properly on the Westmore name. Perhaps more traditional charitable work, fewer direct business dealings. I’m sure you understand.”
She understood his words as the battle cry they were. This was exactly what she’d fought to avoid—a husband who would “adjust” her independence out of existence, who would decide what was and wasn’t appropriate for her to do.
“Naturally,” she agreed, but her smile felt brittle enough to shatter.