Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter
TWENTY-FIVE
Portia had gone from twiddling her thumbs with nothing to do to not having a single moment to herself. If she wasn’t being poked and tugged by the modiste while she endured fitting after fitting, she had to suffer what Letitia called “duchess training.”
Duchess training consisted of being accomplished in a series of nonsensical behaviors that were only apparently needed in a royal court.
One of those things was a court curtsy, which was vastly different to the sorts she had been bobbing her entire life and basically involved contortionism at a veritable snail’s pace.
Her weight on her right foot, she was supposed to gracefully circle the toes of her left foot to rest directly behind it, then somehow, without losing her precarious balance, dip all the way down until her left knee practically hit the floor.
All without bending at the waist or using her hands, which had to hold a pointless fan just so, while the other subtly held her skirts to stop her falling over.
Then, after a respectful incline of her head, she had to rise effortlessly “like steam,” according to the dowager, which was absolute torture on the thigh and calf muscles.
Yesterday, after a whole afternoon of relentless tutoring, Portia had thought that she had mastered it—but apparently not.
Now that she had grasped the basics, she was having to learn it all again in the makeshift court garments that the dowager had brought to the drawing room to torture her some more with this evening.
Because the appropriate ladies’ court attire was even more ridiculous than the painful court curtsy, consisting of a long and heavy train (which presently was a blanket tied around her waist) and a headdress that consisted of at least seven tall, snow-white ostrich feathers, which made contorting herself into that curtsy practically impossible!
Not that she was currently sporting ostrich feathers as all their court feathers lived in Mayfair.
Instead, Letitia had strapped an arrangement of dried flowers to Portia’s head using several yards of ribbon and at least three million hairpins.
This particular arrangement was chosen because it was filled with fluffy, waving meadow grasses that were, apparently, the exact right height.
Which, frankly, beggared belief when they were well over a foot long.
“That’s almost it,” said her tormentor, as Portia dipped all the way down to the floor for the thousandth time.
“But you are still sprinkling dried petals on the carpet, a sure sign that you are juddering on your descent. We want one fluid and graceful movement on the way down and one on the way up.” The dowager wafted her hand regally up and down in demonstration as if this impossible task was simple.
“So gentle that all those petals stay on the stems.”
Portia bit her tongue and tried again, only to be sprinkled with more confetti the second she inclined her head.
She pulled a scratchy clump from her cleavage and tossed them in frustration.
“These stupid flowers are dead, so of course I am sprinkling petals everywhere!” And the combination of the spikey stalks and the heavy hairpins digging into her scalp were starting to give her a headache.
“You need to extend your neck a tiny bit more and hold your head as steady as one of the lanterns on top of the sturdy lampposts outside. Then incline it more slowly as yours is starting to resemble a nod, and a nod has no place being seen at the palace.”
“In case it has escaped your notice, neither do I!” As Portia shot her mother-in-law a glare, Abigail came to her rescue and tossed aside the book she had been pretending to read while she thoroughly enjoyed the entertainment.
“Before one of you kills the other and the poor maids have to get blood as well as all those trodden-in petals out of the carpet, why don’t we all take a short break for tea?”
“An excellent idea.” Before the pain in her left thigh turned fully into a cramp, Portia rubbed it as she staggered to the sofa. “Can you put some fortifying brandy in mine? Better still, just pour me a stiff brandy and dispense with the tea!”
She ignored M’Lady Whiskers’s warning hiss and raised hackles to flop onto the sofa next to her.
“Go ahead, devil cat—scratch me. Because today I can assure you that I will scratch you back!” The cat glared out of her different-colored eyes while she decided whether or not to attack and then clearly saw that Portia was in no mood to be trifled with, so readjusted her sleeping position and ignored her instead.
While Abigail rang for the tea and Emilia tried her best not to laugh as she hid behind her easel while pretending to paint, Portia’s fingers went to the knotted ribbons under her chin.
“Leave that on,” said Letitia, admonishing her yet again. “It will do you good to learn how to hold yourself in your court headdress as you’ll likely have to wear it for a couple of hours after your presentation.”
Portia huffed, well aware that she was being petulant but entirely comfortable with it.
“I never thought I’d ever wish to be back in that prison cell, but suddenly it doesn’t seem so bad.
This is all ridiculous.” She pointed to the contraption on her head.
“I am ridiculous. The court rules are especially ridiculous. Will somebody really count the feathers on my headdress to check that there are at least seven?”
“Oh it’s all very formal, dear.” Letitia sunk into a chair, an amused but sympathetic expression on her face.
“But at least George IV has dispensed with his mother’s more stringent requirements.
Queen Charlotte preferred the fashions of her youth to be worn, so up until a few years ago, a lady’s court dress resembled something Marie Antoinette would wear.
As I know to my cost, that involved a stiff, unyielding bodice, a corset laced so tight you couldn’t breathe, and an enormous pannier and hoops that were so wide at the hips that the only way to enter the chamber was sideways.
And we still had to wear the feathers. How I didn’t pass out when I was presented at court was a miracle.
A woman in her seventh month of pregnancy isn’t supposed to wear a corset but no allowances were made for that. ”
“Are you saying that I am getting off lightly?”
“I would have killed for soft stays and just seven ostrich feathers, dear. I had swollen up and was swooning so much by the end of it, Rafe had to slice me out of my gown in the carriage. But even so, it was such an exciting day that I look back at it fondly. You will too.”
“I sincerely doubt that. Even if I master the curtsy and the headdress, I am still a walking scandal, remember? And a commoner. In fact, I am fairly certain that I am the most unlikely and unsuitable duchess in the history of duchesses and everyone will hate me.”
Letitia threw back her head and laughed.
“So was I and that was part of the fun! I made a game out of counting all the disapproving looks before I stopped and engaged with every single one, which forced them to curtsy to me. Because I realized that being one of the few duchesses in the realm meant that I suddenly outranked all those snobs, which really outraged them. Trust me, there is nothing more rewarding than being on the receiving end of a begrudging curtsy.”
“Mama was never supposed to be a duchess either,” explained Emilia from behind her easel.
“Her father was a merchant, not an aristocrat. They caused quite the scandal but the story is sooooo romantic.” The hopelessly romantic Emilia then sighed as she clutched her brush to her heart.
“Because their forbidden love conquered all.”
“Really?” That was news to Portia. “But you are so…” She searched for the right words and couldn’t find the right one. “Duchess-like.”
“I shall tell you a secret,” said Letitia leaning closer. “Being a duchess is a state of mind, one that it is handy to employ when required and best ignored at all other times.”
“How did a merchant’s daughter end up a duchess?”
“Against all the odds.” Letitia grinned.
“Rafe’s family did not approve of me in the slightest and forbade him to have anything to do with me.
They had him earmarked for some marquess’s daughter, I believe.
But when a Sloane man decides he has met the one, nothing will stand in his way.
We met for the first time at the May fayre here in Bath at the tender age of fifteen.
Obviously, I hated him on sight but he was tenacious and we plighted our troths just two months later.
It was all very intense and romantic as first loves are prone to be—but we were inseparable from that moment on.
Obviously, because I was so far beneath him, we had to meet in secret for years—which was thrilling, as the forbidden always is.
Then as soon as we both turned one-and-twenty, which conveniently happened within weeks of one another, we ran away to Gretna Green to tie the knot. ”
Emilia giggled. “They had to.”
“The plot thickens.” It had staggered Portia how quickly these three women had accepted her as part of the family.
Since the night of the protest, Abigail especially had softened toward her.
Whereas Leo’s mother had been nothing but kind and accepting of her from the outset.
She had even been a willing witness at their wedding when most aristocrats’ mothers would have tried to talk their sons out of such a travesty.
“Do tell?” She already knew enough about this mischievous woman to know that few topics were ever off-limits.
The older woman chuckled at the memory. “It was a close-run thing, I can tell you, as I had the devil of the job disguising my fat belly under my skirts until my birthday. We got married on the day of it and Leo popped out three months later. I cannot tell you what a scandal it all was and, because Rafe was the heir to a dukedom, it was all over the papers for months.”
That explained so much about why his mother had never judged her for where she had come from. “So it is all Leo’s fault that you almost passed out at the palace?
“Why do I hear my name said in vain?” he asked as he strode through the door looking all windswept and handsome. Then he stopped dead, smiled, and dazzled Portia with his dimples. “And why the blazes do you have a haystack on your head?”
“It’s a floral arrangement actually.” She was proud that she managed to say that with a completely straight face despite the blush that instantly heated her cheeks. “Which is standing in for an ostrich.”
“Of course it is.” He helped himself to a biscuit as the maid carrying the tea tray passed him. “Because a giant bird makes so much more sense.”
“We are practicing Portia’s court curtsy,” said his mother.
“Which has to be performed with a minimum of seven tall ostrich plumes sprouting from my cranium or society will apparently crumble.”
“Who knew it was only ostrich feathers that held it up?” His blue eyes danced, making her realize how much she had missed them.
They had been so politely formal to one another since their wedding that she longed for the easiness they had once shared before she had gone and made him hate her.
“Then I have to walk out of the room backward without tripping over the ludicrous train that I also have to wear because I am reliably informed that it isn’t the done thing to turn your downturned gaze or your back to the monarch.
Which is a shame as I was hoping to prostrate myself on the floor at his royal feet after tugging my forelock as someone who is as unworthy as me undoubtedly should. ”
“Portia is chafing against some of our ancient traditions, Leo,” said Abigail with a smile. “And if you want my opinion, big brother—”
“Which I don’t.”
“—I do not think your wife has much respect for our king.”
“That makes two of us.” Leo offered her another brief smile before he chomped on his biscuit. “But what can you do?” Portia bit back the “oust him and replace him with a republic” that almost popped out of her mouth, but by the light of challenge in his gaze, he still expected it.
“What have you been doing all day?” His mother poured the tea. “Only that’s the fourth day in a row now that you’ve missed breakfast. We’ve hardly seen you.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Doing what? I thought you had told the bench that you were recusing yourself from the chore of it for a few weeks.” That was also news to Portia. Especially as he had seemed so determined to make the constable pay for pushing her around.
“Important ducal things, Mama,” he said cryptically. “I won’t bore you with the details.”
Letitia immediately gave Portia a peeved look.
“That was exactly what his father used to say when he didn’t want to tell me what he’d been up to.
” Then she skewered her son with her glare.
“Just so long as your important ducal things are done for the day as we are all going to the Assembly Rooms tonight for Portia’s debut as a duchess.
A debut which she cannot possibly make without her woefully absent husband. ”
“I got that message loud and clear the first three hundred times you reminded me, Mother. Hence, I am home early, ready to be bedecked in all my finery, exactly as instructed.” He slanted Portia a mischievous glance this time that did outrageous things to certain parts of her.
“Although I might have to rethink my choice of waistcoat as I fear the one I’ve had pressed is going to clash with your magnificent haystack. ”