The Accidental Duchess Page 12

  “I know it is not much,” I said, “but I stood up to him yesterday. He admitted that he was planning to take me to the country and I refused.”

  “Good for you, Gwen,” said Myrtia, staunchly.

  “And look where that’s got you! To Caro Arbuthnot’s masque,” Cecy said. “Possibly only the most dreaded social event of the year!”

  What could I say? She had a point.

  “What, if I may ask, is stopping you, Gwen, from trying to extract information from Cambourne the way I have suggested?” she asked.

  I looked down at the carpet for a long heartbeat. “Well,” I admitted. “Several things.”

  “Yes?” Cecy looked expectant.

  “First, it seems wrong somehow. Disloyal to Milburn. Particularly when it seems that he’s in danger.” They were both looking at me with encouraging expressions, so I continued. “Second, I don’t know anything about seduction. And, third, to be honest, Cambourne has a very … unsettling effect on me.” I had to gather my thoughts before I could continue. “He makes me furious and at the same time, he makes me, I don’t know, all melted, and I know it’s improper.”

  “I thought as much,” said Cecy.

  “So the thing is—” Having started, I was having trouble stopping. “I’m not precisely certain that I’d be able to extract my information and then stop him from … you know, progressing with, ah, things.”

  “And would that be so bad?” That question came from Myrtia, of all people!

  “Of course it would,” I told her. “Because then I’d be really and truly married to him, possibly based on nothing except that he melts me. And what a ridiculous word for it, anyway.”

  “I don’t know,” said Cecy. “It seems as good as any to me. But I think what you need here, Gwen, is to really think about Milburn and Cambourne and your loyalties.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What I think,” Cecy said, “is that you are holding out for Milburn because he’s easy. Easy to read, easy to be with, easy to control. You’ll never control Cambourne. He’s got a mind of his own. The two of you will always have to struggle for mutual agreement.”

  “That hardly sounds a recipe for marital bliss,” I retorted.

  “But perhaps the ultimate result is more satisfying,” Myrtia suggested.

  “Milburn, though—”Cecy lifted her shoulders and let them fall—“you’ll have him on a leash from the first day and you’ll both be bored to tears by the second. Or you will, anyway.”

  “You really think this is about which one I can control?” I demanded.

  “Yes,” Cecy replied, not sounding in the least apologetic. “Not completely, but to some extent. Just like your mother controls your father.”

  “My mother does not control my father!” I said, heatedly.

  They both looked at me. Neither saying a word.

  “Well, this is different,” I said, with less heat, recalling that the man had stood in the drip from the roof this very morning. “Much different.” I clenched my teeth. “Perhaps the answer is to leave them both,” I mused.

  “But what would you do?” Myrtia asked. “Your parents would hardly welcome you home.”

  “No. Not if it means giving up hope of an advantageous marriage,” I agreed.

  “Far, far, more advantageous than they’d ever dared hope for,” Cecy reminded us.

  “The truth of the matter is that females like us, well, we don’t have a lot of choices open to us other than marriage,” Myrtia said, looking sad.

  “And I don’t imagine you’d much care for the ones that are,” was Cecy’s dry contribution. “Face it, Gwen, you’re not governess material, and even if you were, no one would hire you. You’re far too young and leagues too beautiful. You’re not a bluestocking, you’re an unlikely opera dancer or actress, as you possess neither the talent nor the inclination. What else is there?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It never occurred to me that I’d need a choice other than marriage.” I thought for a moment. “Ludmilla, in Ludmilla and the Dastardly Duke, became a sheepherder,” I said, getting into the spirit of the thing. “Remember? She stole the shepherd’s outfit from the—”

  “There’s such a sad shortage of sheep in London,” Cecy reminded me dampeningly. “And correspondingly, of sheepherders.”

  “I could go back to Hildcote,” I said. “Plenty of sheep there.”

  “Ludmilla ended up married to the duke anyway,” Myrtia pointed out. “It turned out he wasn’t so dastardly after all. But, Gwen!” she exclaimed, her eyes lighting. “I know what we need. A list! To help you understand what attributes Cambourne and Milburn possess, to help you make a rational decision.”

  I would have demurred, but Cecy immediately jumped up. “You’re absolutely right, Myrtia! I’ll just fetch something to write with,” she exclaimed, before crossing to the writing desk and returning with some sheets of foolscap and a sharpened quill. “Now,” she said, dipping it in the ink and looking up brightly, “where shall we begin? This promises quite the most entertainment I’ve had all day, what with Barings sulking at his club over Mother’s impending arrival, and Mother’s arrival impending.”

  “Shall we make two columns?” Myrtia suggested. “One of Things to Recommend Cambourne, and one of, let’s see … Things to, well, Not Recommend Cambourne?”

  “Perhaps one of Things to Recommend Milburn, would also be appropriate,” I suggested.

  “Absolutely not,” Cecy said emphatically. “That is an entirely different list.”

  “You can hardly separate these into discrete categories,” I argued.

  “Perhaps a third column, sort of an addendum to note these observations as they relate to Milburn,” Myrtia suggested. “Gwen’s correct, Cecy, there must be some junction of ideas.”

  “Very well,” Cecy agreed grudgingly. “I shall add a third column entitled, The Observations as They Relate to Milburn.”

  “Perhaps to start off, under Things to Not Recommend Cambourne we could put, ‘Not supposed to be married to him,’ and under the Milburn column, ‘Supposed to be married to him by long-standing arrangement,’” I suggested.

  They ignored me. “I know!” Cecy smiled, bending again. “Cambourne’s shoulders!”

  “Mmm. His legs,” said Myrtia. “The way they fill out his trousers.” And then she blushed.

  “It’s all those masculine pursuits,” said Cecy knowledgeably. “And we really should not forget the way he moves,” she said to Myrtia over my head.

  Myrtia nodded. “Yes, powerful, and yet, graceful,” she agreed.

  “His eyes,” I said, sounding dreamy to my own ears, recalling suddenly the way they changed colors from that clear blue to dark and smoky when—“Wait,” I said. “This shall not be a list of his physical characteristics. Besides, Milburn has all the same ones.”

  “Yes, but somehow they are not the same,” sighed Cecy. “I shall simply put in the Recommend column, ‘Physique,’ shall I? Or do you think, ‘Physical Attributes’ is better?”

  “If you are including the way he moves, I think ‘Physical Attributes,’” said Myrtia, seriously. “Although it would be more precise to use, ‘Physique,’ and then to have a separate entry of ‘Grace and Athleticism.’”

  “You’re absolutely right, of course,” Cecy agreed, scratching away with the quill.

  “This list is already becoming positively lopsided,” I said drily. “And I must insist that for ‘Physique,’ you note in the Observations column that Milburn’s is the same.”

  “Very well.” Cecy sounded grudging. “I shall, but I shall phrase it: ‘Has same, but is somehow not the same.’”

  I would have argued, but decided to be grateful I had had any say at all, when Myrtia said, “ ‘Responsible’ for Cambourne, I should think.”

  Cecy nodded, head bent. “And I shall add … um, ‘Imprudent’ and ‘Neglectful’ in the Observations column for Milburn.”

  “Milburn is not neglectful,” I protested. “
He is simply carefree. A little … feckless, perhaps, but not neglectful!”

  “Mmm. Neglectful, yes,” said Cecy, ignoring me. “But we shall certainly save feckless as I shouldn’t be surprised if we have a place for it later. Now, I do think that next should be, ‘Deliciously Experienced but Not Rakish or Dissolute’ for Cambourne!”

  “Perfect,” said Myrtia. “You have captured precisely the right phrasing. Then perhaps, let me see … ‘Indiscriminate,’ under Observations for Milburn.”

  “Prudent” (Cambourne) and “Imprudent” (Milburn) was next.

  Followed by, “Thoughtful” (Cambourne) and “Distinctly Thoughtless” (Milburn).

  Then, “Perceptive and Discerning” (Cambourne) were paired with “Insensible and Care for Naught” (Milburn).

  Cambourne’s dancing was judged “Divine,” while Milburn’s was “Acceptable,” and his conversation deemed, “Intelligent and Witty” to Milburn’s “Passable But Hardly Scintillating.”

  The above were rapidly joined by “Loyal and Steadfast” (Cambourne, naturally), and “Feckless,” for poor Milburn. (“See! We did use it after all, Gwen!”)

  “Charismatic” in Cambourne’s Recommend column was thankfully left unpaired in Milburn’s Observations. “Respected” in Cambourne’s was, after some debate, answered by “Liked,” in Milburn’s, but then Myrtia and Cecy both insisted on adding “Well-Liked” to Cambourne’s.

  “Top of the Trees Wardrobe” was, naturally, matched with “Foppish Fribble.” There, I could hardly argue, although I was highly tempted to point out that, ironically enough, Cambourne was the one sleeping in curl papers at present, in his efforts to achieve that Milburn-like halo.

  “Drives to an Inch” was met by “Terrifying with the Ribbons.”

  “Future Duke” naturally enough paired with “Second Son.” Although as I pointed out, Milburn could hardly be held accountable for that. Not only was my reasonable point ignored, it resulted in a “Frequently Late for Engagements” entry in his column.

  “Rich as Croesus” and “Comfortably Heeled” came next.

  And so it went on, until I finally interrupted. “You do realize,” I said, pointedly, “that you have yet to enter so much as a single item in the Things Not to Recommend Cambourne column? You know, perhaps something like, ‘Married and Almost Seduced Gwen Under False Pretenses’?”

  “Also possibly translated as, ‘Honored Family Responsibilities When His Brother Did Not’!” Myrtia said, nodding to Cecy to write it down.

  “Did you have more suggestions, though, Gwen?” Myrtia looked at me encouragingly.

  “Yes. How about ‘Hiding Something,’” I said, aware that I was sounding plaintive.

  “I have it,” Cecy crowed to Myrtia, “‘Stands Firm Behind His Reasons.’”

  “Well said.” Myrtia smiled and I seethed. “Perhaps concurrent with that we should add ‘Trustworthy’ and ‘Discreet’?”

  My suggestion of, “Stubborn” somehow, in translation, ended up as: “Has the Courage to Stand By His Convictions and Up to Gwen,” with poor Milburn receiving a corresponding “Weakness of Character.”

  I had had enough. More than enough, in fact, so I stood up and smoothed my skirts. “I understand that this has all been most diverting,” I said stiffly. “And while I am exceedingly happy that the circumstances of my life were able to provide entertainment for you both on what might have otherwise been a dull afternoon, I do believe I should point out that my reluctance to accept Cambourne is not based upon some misguided belief that I prefer Milburn. It is based on the fact that Cambourne married me out of hand, tried to seduce me, and now refuses to tell me why. Would you jump into bed with that man?” I glared at them both.

  Myrtia dropped her eyes, but Cecy smiled at me. “Absolutely,” she said, irrepressible as ever. “But not until I’d taught him a dashed good lesson first, you can be sure.”

  “I do believe I shall take my leave now.” I stalked toward the door, until Cecy’s voice stopped me in my tracks.

  “Gwen?” she said, and I turned.

  “Yes?” I said, still coldly.

  She waved the sheets at me. “You’ve forgot your list.”

  12

  In which I stoop to a disgracefully low piece of behavior

  I returned home, debating what precisely teaching Cambourne that dashed good lesson might entail, only to find a missive from him on the hall table. He had, it seemed, been unavoidably called away from London, and would be unable to attend the Arbuthnots’ tomorrow, after all. He looked forward to seeing me shortly. Yours, etc.

  I put the page down. Well, there was no question of me attending the masque without him, so that was that. It was three of the clock on a winter afternoon, and I had nothing planned for the rest of the day. Visiting any member of my family was not an option I cared to consider. Since the rain was bucketing down, going walking or riding were not possibilities. I was too restless to read. The menus for the next week were all planned, the linens inventoried, the accounts balanced. And the fact that this state of affairs was all due to the housekeeper, Mrs. Harbison’s, efficiency rather than anything I had done was not lost on me. I tried, but could not settle to my embroidery, and then played the pianoforte in a desultory fashion for a few minutes.

  I wished that I had someone to play chess with, or talk with. I would have been able to tease my old maid, Larsen, into a game of vingt-et-un or a gossip, but somehow I could not see myself in such cozy circumstances with Crewes. I prowled around the house, and stood for a while in the back drawing room, looking out at the garden, watching the rain fall in the drear that was rapidly becoming darkness, and fuming about my current situation.

  I had been married and almost seduced under false pretenses and now, it seemed, abandoned on top of it. And as far as I could tell, I had no immediate way of figuring out more about what had happened to Milburn. I was as good as a prisoner. It was fortunate that Cambourne was not about, as, had he walked through the door at this moment, I would likely have strangled him. By the time I had finished with this rather pleasurable fantasy, it was all of half past four.

  Still prowling, I went back into the library and, after a moment of standing inside the door, sat down in a leather armchair. After a few moments, I sat up straight as I caught sight of something on the table next to the chair. Cambourne’s little journal! The one he’d been scribbling away in the night I got foxed at the Clarendon.

  It drew my gaze, as though it held sirenlike powers. But my will was stronger. I would not stoop to reading it. No matter how curious I might be, it was not a fair way to gain information—not as, say, seducing him would be. I would not! I resolutely turned my head and studied the portrait over the fireplace. A Romney, not one of his best, but not bad. After a few moments of this, I reasoned that it could not harm anything so very much were I to just look in the direction of the journal again. And possibly to pick it up. I would not, of course, read it.

  The outside was of dark, mellowed leather, worn smooth, I thought, by his hands. I ran mine over it, taking some pleasure in the certain knowledge that his had recently been in the exact same place. Holding it was surprisingly comforting—as though even in his absence, a part of him was here with me after all—and I realized how much I had come to look forward to his presence. Having made this admission, I leaned my head back against the chair again, and made the further admission that the house was too quiet without him. I let the book fall open in my lap, and smiled as I recognized his bold hand from my letters.

  Monday, 16 December, I read, against my better judgment. This entry was written very nearly four weeks previous to our wedding, I realized. It was more or less the type of thing I had imagined he wrote in it.

  Took a seat in the Speakers’ gallery today, this being the fixed day for the discussion of Glenbray’s scheme of commercial policy. Before debate commenced heard Arnold make credible speech. v. good for maiden speech, well received. Graham and six more spoke in favor and Sir Wm. Granger aga
inst. Then busied myself at my desk with various matters, rode out despite rain, conferred with D. who came to call, went a few rounds at Jackson’s, dined at Lord R’s.

  Was there anything to be found in here, I could not help but wonder, of a more personal nature? Not, of course, that I would look for it. But then, if everything was like the entry I had just read, what could be the harm in reading just a little further? Then a moment later: What I was doing was wrong, I told myself, as I flipped pages back, wrong, wrong, wrong. I kept going, however, skimming over more entries, much of a piece with the first two, until:

  Friday, 3 January.

  Closeted at Whitehall with F. for most of the morning. Lunched with Atherton most congenially—he will depart tomorrow for Northumberland. Beat Hugo most handily at Jackson’s Rooms. Dined with Vesper. Very interesting visit from Axton.

  That, at least coincided with my father’s version of events. I started, thinking I had heard a noise, and quickly put the book down on the table. I sat very still, waiting for someone to appear. After a few minutes, in which I remained very much alone, I dared let out my breath, and my hand, as if of its own accord, crept back out for the journal.

  Saturday, 11 January

  Dined with M.

  I stared at the wall, unseeing, as the blood pounded against my ears. That M could signify any number of people, I reminded myself—Michaels and Moncton, to name just two of his cronies. But it could also mean Milburn! Was Milburn back on 11 January? If so it would have been less than a week before our wedding, but eight days after my father had apparently visited Cambourne. What could that mean? M could also, I realized with a sinking heart, represent Mathilde Claussen. Would I find out if I kept up my snooping—sorry—reading? I had begun the undertaking with the idea of perhaps finding some information about Bertie, or that would help me understand what Cambourne had done, but now I was looking for something else entirely. Would Mathilde appear after the wedding? Would I? Would his feelings on our marriage be recorded here?