Two Blessings For His Duchess (The Brooding Dukes #4)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

“How is your dear uncle keeping?” Mrs. Pembrook asked with a warm, solicitous smile.

Euphemia smiled back. She was, if she was honest with herself, simply grateful for anyone who approached her with a smile rather than a studied avoidance of eye contact.

“Quite well, thank you. He rarely leaves the house at present, but he is comfortable, and the physicians seem pleased with his progress.”

“Yes, yes.” Mrs. Pembrook patted her hand. “And you are managing? All on your own? I mean, without... well.” She tilted her head. “It must be terribly difficult.”

“Not especially,” Euphemia said.

It was a lie. However, she had been telling it for long enough that it came out smooth and even. In her experience, a smooth lie was the next best thing to the truth.

“You are so brave,” Mrs. Pembrook said. Her eyes were very bright and very warm. “I always said so to Lady Alderton. Whatever one might think of the circumstances, Miss Vane has remarkable composure.”

Whatever one might think of the circumstances?

Euphemia swallowed, the muscles in her throat tight enough to ache.

For a brief moment, she had been silly enough to forget that she was the talk of the ton.

That ever since she walked into the ballroom, eyes had been following her into every corner of the room.

It was the reason she was standing tucked away like a wallflower.

She had been silly enough to think that Mrs. Pembrook had approached her truly out of care, rather than a predatory need to pick at the scabs of a scandal.

She was an incurable idiot.

“How very kind,” Euphemia managed to say, her voice tightening even more. Her hand dropped to her side. Her index finger found a fold of her silk dress and began to twist the fabric into a tight, nervous coil.

“One does wonder, of course.” Mrs. Pembrook leaned closer. She lowered her voice just enough to ensure that everyone nearby would listen harder. “Whether Lord Finch had any warning. About the family situation. Your father’s affairs, I mean. One hears things.”

“Right,” Euphemia said, scanning the ballroom for an escape. Her finger twisted harder into her skirt.

“Only that it must have come as rather a shock to him. If he had been misled, in any way, about what he might expect,” Mrs. Pembrook added. “Or did something else happen?”

Euphemia thought about Lord Finch. She did this rarely, and when she did, she did it with a careful, gingerly touch one might use on a festering wound.

She remembered the way he had looked at her at the end, how the warmth in his eyes curdling into a cold, sharp disgust as he spat the word tricked as if it were a stone he was shooting directly onto her chest.

A surge of heat climbed her neck. Her hand flew from her skirt to her throat, her fingers beginning a rhythmic, desperate rub against her collarbone.

“Mrs. Pembrook, what a lovely brooch. Is that new?” she asked, a fickle attempt to change the subject.

Mrs. Pembrook blinked. “I... yes, actually. But as I was saying, about Lord Finch. I mean, it is true that he left you at the —”

“Charming. The Brooch,” Euphemia cut her off. “You must excuse me, I think Lady Merrick needs my attention.”

“Oh, but you must not rush off.” Mrs. Pembrook’s hand closed around Euphemia’s wrist. “I only meant to say that I don’t blame you, naturally. Your father’s situation was hardly your doing. I mean, his death was so awful, and the...”

“Why would you blame me?” Euphemia blurted, feeling the heat rise in her throat. “What does that have to do with Lord Finch?”

Mrs. Pembrook’s smile did not disappear exactly.

It thinned, and something more sinister took its place.

“So, did you trick him?” She asked. The sweetness was gone from her voice, replaced by a cold, clinical curiosity.

“Was that truly what happened? Because that is what everyone is saying, my dear.”

“Euphemia.”

A hand touched Euphemia’s shoulder before she could react.

She turned to find Emily Merrick standing by her side.

Emily was the Duchess of Carrowell and her close friend who had navigated her own share of societal minefields, Emily possessed an uncanny sense for when the atmosphere turned predatory and Euphemia was very thankful for it.

“There you are, I have been searching all over for you.” Emily beamed, then turned to Mrs. Pembrook. “I am so sorry to steal her, Mrs. Pembrook. I am afraid I’m in dire need of Miss Vane’s assistance with some arrangements. Hosting is quite the work.”

Emily tucked her arm through Euphemia’s and pulled her away. She steered Euphemia firmly through the drawing room, past the fireplace, and toward the shadows near the library door.

“Thank you,” Euphemia whispered. She felt as though she had been holding her breath for an hour.

“How long had that been going on?” Emily asked.

“Long enough for my blood to boil.” Euphemia let out a long breath. Her hand was still at her throat, her fingers rubbing the skin red. “I thought she had come over to talk about my uncle. Her husband works for him, so I thought she was concerned.”

Emily looked at her with pity. “Oh, well. I cannot blame you. But Mrs. Pembrook can be vicious when she is fishing for gossip.”

“I know that now.” Euphemia looked out at the room. She was scanning the crowd in segments to see who was watching. It was exhausting. “She is not wrong, you know. That is the most irritating part.”

“She is wrong about quite a lot of it,” Emily insisted. “You have to stop thinking about it, Effie. It happened months ago.”

“I shall be fine. I am only tired.”

Emily blinked slowly and angled her head, her gaze sweeping over Euphemia. She reached out and gently caught Euphemia’s hand, pulling it away from her collarbone. “There is no sense in giving those vultures the satisfaction of seeing you so flustered, Euphemia Vane.”

“I am not flustered,” Euphemia lied, though her heart was drumming a fast rhythm against her ribs.

“You are a terrible liar. It is one of your most endearing and inconvenient traits.” Emily let go of her hand but remained close, her presence a shield against the curious glances drifting their way. “You have to stop thinking about it. Lord Finch doesn’t deserve your peace.”

“He does not have my peace,” she argued further.

“Effie...”

“I will be all right.” Euphemia laughed awkwardly. “It was months ago, Emily. Trust me, I am fine. Why else would I have agreed to attend your wonderful ball?”

Emily nodded. “Come then. There is syllabub on the buffet, and Lord Hartfield has just arrived. He is considerably more handsome than any man has a right to be at this hour. You should at least look at him, it might improve your mood.”

Euphemia laughed despite herself. “I have no interest in Lord Hartfield.”

“You have no interest in anything at present, which is precisely the problem.” Emily steered her gently away from the window and back toward the warmth of the room. “You are at a ball, Effie. There is music and good wine and people who are very pleased to see you.”

“There are people who are very pleased to discuss me,” Euphemia corrected. “That is a different thing.”

“Then ignore them.”

Euphemia did not answer. She wanted to say that ignoring them was considerably easier as a suggestion than as an undertaking.

That she could not simply decide not to hear a thing when the thing was happening at a volume designed to be heard, that composure was not the same as comfort no matter how convincingly she wore it.

She wanted to say that she had been ignoring them for three months and it still bothered her that everyone always had something to say.

She said none of this. Instead, she took the glass Emily pressed into her hand and she looked out at the room. She did the thing she had become very good at, which was to arrange her face into an expression that bore no resemblance whatsoever to what was happening behind it.

Across the room, a woman she did not know leaned toward a woman she did and said something behind her fan. The woman she did know laughed. Neither of them looked at Euphemia directly.

She was so very tired of people not looking at her directly.

“You cannot hide in corners forever,” Emily said softly.

“I am not hiding. I am merely... conserving my resources.” Euphemia’s hand dropped to the side of her gown, her finger immediately diving into a fold of her dress to twist.

“You say that now, but you are the lady who came to London almost a year ago with stars in her eyes,” Emily reminded her, leaning closer.

“You were the one who told me that you wouldn’t settle for anything less than a love match.

You wanted the poetry and the grand gestures.

You didn’t want to be like your sisters, who have given up on the idea of love.

Which I think is preposterous given how young they are. ”

Euphemia flinched. “I was young a year ago. I was also quite stupid.”

“You weren’t stupid. You were sincere. I would like to think that Lord Finch saw that. Even though he might have taken advantage of it.”

“He saw a target,” Euphemia corrected. “He saw a girl who was so desperate to believe in a fairy tale. He acted the part of the devoted suitor because he knew exactly what I wanted to hear. He took my sincerity and used it to hide what he was truly after.”

She looked away, her eyes fixed on the heavy library door across the hall. The memory of the wedding morning felt like a physical weight on her body. She could still feel the phantom itch of the lace veil she had worn while sitting on the edge of her bed, watching the clock.

“I spent three hours in that room,” Euphemia said, her voice trembling slightly.

“Did I tell you that? Waiting for a man who had already fled the city. Now, I am living in my uncle’s house, playing nursemaid to a man who barely recognizes me, and trying to avoid women like Mrs. Pembrook who think my ruin is a dinner party story. ”

“How is your uncle?” Emily asked, patting her on the back.