Duchess Diaries [2] How to Pursue a Princess

  Papa sighed. “I’d thought to ask Rose’s new husband for enough money to cover the loan, but they left for their honeymoon before I could think of a way to do so.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t,” Lily said sharply. “Lord Sinclair and Rose are deeply in love. It would have been awkward if you’d asked for money the second she wed him.”

  “I know, I know.” A hint of wistfulness colored Papa’s voice. “Although I doubt Sinclair would have thought it so much. Three thousand pounds is but a pittance to a man like him.”

  “But not to Rose.”

  “Yes, yes. You’re right, of course.” Papa sank into a chair across from them, his shoulders sagging. “I wish I’d never borrowed those funds.”

  Dahlia took a deep breath. “As do we all. I suppose . . . I suppose I could talk to Lord Kirk.”

  “No,” Lily said.

  “Now wait a moment.” Papa eyed Dahlia thoughtfully. “Kirk is fond of Dahlia. Perhaps she can—”

  “He was fond of her,” Lily corrected. “They had a falling out.”

  Dahlia’s face was bright pink. “I don’t mind speaking to him again if I must.”

  “There!” Papa interjected, looking hopeful.

  “No, no, and no.” Lily sent Papa a stern look. “I won’t have it.”

  Papa read her meaning in her gaze. “Yes,” he said abruptly. “You’re right. I was just thinking— But it’s best if we find another way.” He looked at his daughters regretfully. “I should have never involved the two of you; this is my fault. I must find the answer somehow. And if it comes to prison, then that’s where I’ll go and—”

  “No,” Dahlia said. “I will talk to Lord Kirk. It’s the only way.” When Lily started to speak, Dahlia added, “It won’t be a sacrifice. He’s a little gruff, but he has a surprising sense of humor and”—Dahlia fidgeted with a button on her pocket—“he wishes to marry me.”

  Lily’s heart sank. Oh no. “You never said a word.”

  “Because I refused him, so there was no need. Perhaps if I agree, then he will see his way to forgive the note and—”

  “No,” Papa said. “Good God, Dahlia, he’s twice your age!”

  “No, he’s not. He’s only eight years older.”

  “Eight?” Lily couldn’t keep the disbelief from her voice. “I find that hard to believe. But whatever his age, he’s too old for you. Besides, if anyone is to get us out of this predicament through an advantageous marriage, it should be me.”

  “You?” Papa looked surprised. “But you’ve always said you’d never marry.”

  “Because I’ve never met anyone who has sparked my interest, nor has anyone shown any interest in me, which is a perfect set of happenstances. But now that Rose is gone, I’m the oldest, so it’s up to me to resolve this issue.”

  Dahlia looked troubled. “Lily, you can’t.”

  “Why not?” Lily forced a smile. It’s not as if I would have ever opened a modiste’s shop, anyway. That is a mere dream. “I’ve been thinking lately that I’d like to taste a more fanciful way of life. Just think of the parties and gowns, amusements and luxurious apartments. And once I’m wed to a wealthy gentleman, Dahlia can come and stay with me.” The more Lily thought about it, the more certain she was that this was the way to proceed.

  Besides, what other options were there?

  Dahlia clasped her hands in her lap. “No, Lily. That sounds lovely, but who would you marry? There are no single gentlemen except Lord Kirk for miles and miles.”

  “Our godmother is forever inviting me to her social events—she invited me to a house party which begins quite soon, in fact—so the means of meeting an eligible parti is readily available. I should respond to her invitation as soon as I can.” She frowned. “Where is it? I tucked it away somewhere.” Lily stood and crossed to the small tray that sat upon a side table. She pulled out a stack of correspondence and looked though it. “Here it is!” She waved a thick missive written on heavy pink paper.

  “I don’t know about this.” Dahlia’s voice was tinged with concern. “While it sounds like a simple matter to find and marry a wealthy man, especially with the help of our godmother, I wonder if the thing can be accomplished in such a short time. We only have a month or so.”

  “Which means that I cannot dawdle.”

  “But, Lily, what if you don’t meet anyone worth falling in love with at the duchess’s house party? What then?”

  “I shall leave the quality of available suitors to our godmother. She always promises a bevy of what she terms”—Lily opened the letter and read—“ ‘eligible and handsome young men of good fortune and family.’ When she puts it that way, how could I fail to fall in love with at least one of them?”

  Papa was looking more hopeful by the minute. “Och, it’s a capital idea, Lily. It just might work.”

  “Of course it will.” Lily resumed her seat and placed the letter into Dahlia’s waiting hand.

  Her sister read through the missive. “The duchess is certainly bald in her purpose. I dislike that.”

  Up until now, Lily hadn’t liked it either, which was why she hadn’t accepted any of her godmother’s invitations. But now, a growing sense of determination filled her. “She’s merely being kind. She knows our marriage prospects are quite dim here at Caith Manor.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “So it’s settled. I’ll go to the duchess’s house party, where I’ll meet a lovely, wealthy man and solve all of our problems.”

  Papa brightened. “I daresay a house party will be quite fun, too. According to Rose, the duchess plans many amusements for her guests.”

  “Exactly,” Lily said with a bravado she didn’t feel. “And I just made some new gowns for the coming year and was wondering where I’d ever find events formal enough to wear them.”

  “Your gowns are without compare,” Dahlia complimented, obviously still troubled but trying to smile.

  Lily pursed her lips, her mind moving rapidly over the items in her wardrobe. “I shall need some new shoes, and two pairs of long gloves, for mine are quite worn, but that should be enough for now.”

  “You may borrow my gloves, which are like new, for I’ve used them only once. You may also borrow my blue half boots and both pairs of my ballroom slippers. Oh, and you must take the new red cape that you made me. It’s still chilly in the evenings.”

  “Thank you, Dahlia. That should set me quite well.” She caught her father’s look, noting the sad turn of his mouth, and her irritation at him disappeared. He was a dear man, but scientific of mind, which left very little in the way of common sense. But despite his faults, she loved him dearly. “Papa, don’t look like that.” She went to stoop beside his chair, where she hugged him tightly. “We’ll find a way out of this mess. But you must promise that in the future you won’t take any more silly chances and put so much at risk.”

  He hugged her back, smelling as he always did of mint, lavender, and potting dirt. “I will never again be so foolish. But”—he tilted her chin up so that her eyes met his—“are you certain you wish to do this? I won’t have you making an unnecessary sacrifice.”

  Lily thought of Dahlia’s hesitant offer to talk to Kirk and, aware that her sister watched, forced a merry smile. “Yes, yes, a thousand yeses! I’ll enjoy the parties and rides while the duchess finds me a wealthy, handsome, generous husband whom I shall love forever.”

  Lily planted a kiss on Papa’s forehead and then stood. “Come, Dahlia! You must help me pack. I’ve men to impress, and a future husband to find!”

  Two

  From the Diary of the Duchess of Roxburghe I sent out a lure to Lily Balfour, and it seems that she has finally—to use one of Roxburghe’s horrid fishing terms—“taken the bait.” Now I’ve but to plan a house party and cajole certain eligible young men to exchange the entertainments of London for a few weeks of amusements at my country estate here in Scotland.

  Such a feat might be difficult for other hostesses, but I have the ultimate enticement t
o lure handsome bachelors from the madness of the London season—fields teeming with foxes and pheasant, and a stable filled with the finest hunters imaginable.

  Bless Roxburghe. He is an excellent husband.

  Floors Castle

  May 7, 1813

  A young footman ran lightly down the back steps into the servants’ quarters, hurried around the corner, then knocked on the washroom door. A muffled voice bade him enter, and he hurried inside, only to stop in astonishment. Three tubs of warm water had been placed in a line, where six housemaids—working two together—scrubbed roly-poly pugs. More maids and the housekeeper, Mrs. Cairness, worked at another table, where they dried additional balls of fur with large towels.

  One of the pugs barked and then attacked the towel as the housekeeper tried to dry him. She chuckled and played tug-of-war with him for a moment before she wrapped the other side of the towel about his round body and rubbed him dry. Finished, she kissed the pug’s head before she handed him to a waiting footman, who carried him to the next table.

  There, two maids and the butler, Mr. MacDougal, stood in wait. The maids held a pug between them as the butler carefully combed its hair, trimmed its nails, then tied a kerchief about its thick neck.

  The footman, belatedly remembering his purpose, stepped forward. “Mr. MacDougal, I—”

  The butler held up a gloved hand.

  The footman gulped back his words.

  MacDougal squinted at the dog in front of him, then picked up a silver-backed comb and carefully ran it over the dog’s left ear. It was an older dog, his muzzle well grayed as he sat panting, his tongue hanging to one side of his wide mouth as he stared at the footman through milky eyes.

  The footman shifted from foot to foot, waiting. Finally, the butler tilted the little pug’s face up and said with a note of approval, “There’s a guid lad, Randolph. Now ye look quite the gentleman. I believe her grace will approve.”

  The pug’s little tail twirled as he barked in agreement.

  The butler placed the silver comb back on the table and said to the maid, “Take Randolph to the kitchen fer his dinner. Cook was preparing their dishes when I left a half hour ago. Once ye’ve finished, return here. Her grace will be home soon and they must all be bathed by the time she arrives.”

  “Yes, Mr. MacDougal.” The maid curtsied, then carefully gathered Randolph and hurried from the room, careful to close the door behind her.

  The butler turned to the footman. “Now, John. What did ye need?”

  John blinked. Lord, but he’d almost forgotten why he’d come in search of the butler. It wouldn’t do to be so slack in his duties before Mr. MacDougal. The butler was a fixture at magnificent Floors Castle, having served her grace since he’d been a young lad of seventeen, the only servant who could claim such longevity. As such, MacDougal had unprecedented power. “Yes, sir. I came to tell ye that—”

  “Here, Moira.” Mrs. Cairness was toweling dry another of the pugs. “Take puir wee Teenie to Mr. MacDougal to comb. He’s as dry as we can make him.”

  The housemaid bundled the dog in his towel and carried him to MacDougal, who eyed the damp hair with a critical eye. As the butler began to comb the dog, he asked, “Well, John? Out wit’ it.”

  “Yes, sir! I’m sorry, I was distracted by the dogs. Her grace just returned from the vicar’s and wishes to—”

  “Her grace has returned? Why dinna ye say so?” MacDougal put down the comb and peeled off his gloves. “She wasna due back fer two more hours! Mrs. Cairness, would ye finish here?”

  The housekeeper handed a towel to a waiting chambermaid and then crossed to the butler’s side. “O’ course. Ye go ahead and welcome her grace. I’ll have the dogs brought to her once’t they are all dried, combed, and fed.”

  “Thank ye, Mrs. Cairness.” The butler picked up a stiff brush from a shelf beside the door and brushed his clothes. “Well, John, where is her grace?”

  “She went to her bedchamber to change, but she asked tha’ ye meet her in the sitting room as she’s a grand project fer ye.”

  MacDougal swallowed a sigh. Wha’ are ye a’doin’ now, yer grace? He replaced the brush on the shelf and then made certain his cuffs were in order. “John, tell Cook that her grace will wish fer dinner after all, fer she dinna stay at the vicar’s as planned.”

  The footman bowed smartly. “Yes, sir!” He dashed off.

  Several minutes later, MacDougal arrived in the sitting room just as her ladyship settled into a chair opposite Lady Charlotte, who was tucked into the corner of the gold silk settee. Both ladies appeared agitated, their faces flushed, their chins lifted.

  While it wasn’t unusual to see her grace in a taking—her being a woman of passion, as it were—it was odd to see her companion so overcome. The youngest daughter of the late Earl of Argyll, Lady Charlotte was a spinster who’d made her home with her grace and was now an indispensable part of the household. She was the duchess’s constant companion and was known for her calm, soothing presence.

  Now, though, Lady Charlotte’s cheeks were stained with color. “Of all the nerve!” she said, her button-bow mouth pressed into a disapproving line. “I’ve never been so insulted!”

  “Nor I! I’d like to—” The duchess snapped her mouth closed, her brilliant blue eyes flashing over her prominent nose.

  MacDougal bowed before the duchess. “Ye’re home early, yer grace. I’ve asked Cook to prepare ye and Lady Charlotte a nice light supper.”

  “Thank you,” her grace said impatiently. “As you’ve guessed, we didn’t stay at the vicar’s.”

  “No,” said Lady Charlotte, her lace mobcap askew. “Not after that woman arrived.”

  MacDougal waited, but Lady Charlotte and her grace merely sat stewing in silence, apparently reliving some horrible memory. He gently cleared his throat. “I dinna suppose tha’ Lady MacInnis was at the vicar’s?”

  Her grace’s newest rival, Countess MacInnis, had recently moved into a large estate only a short distance from Floors Castle. The duchess and the much younger countess had rapidly begun competing for guests for their many social events, so MacDougal was surprised when the duchess shook her head. “It has nothing to do with Lady MacInnis. Not this time, anyway.”

  Lady Charlotte blew out her cheeks in exasperation. “Lady MacInnis is a saint compared to the Grand Duchess Natasha Nikolaevna.”

  “Ye met a grand duchess?” MacDougal couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice. “At the vicar’s?”

  “She’s visiting with her grandson.” Her grace shoved her red wig back into place from where it had slipped to one side.

  “He’s a prince.” Lady Charlotte picked up her knitting, her movements agitated. “What was his name again?”

  “Piotr Romanovin, the Prince Wulfinski,” the duchess said with a dismissive sniff. “They are royalty from some tiny country near Prussia, where I’ve no doubt they wear atrocious full red skirts made of coarse material, dance like whirligigs, and embroider every tablecloth and napkin with horrid red-and-green borders.”

  “I believe Oxenburg is quite beautiful.” Lady Charlotte put her cap back into order. “The Duke of Richmond has been there and said it was breathtaking, but dreadfully cold.”

  “Richmond thinks the Pavilion at Brighton is quite the thing, too. The man has no taste whatsoever. And neither did that prince. His boots were dull, his cravat merely knotted, and his coat fit far too loosely. He looked disheveled.”

  “But despite his lack of fashion, he was very handsome.” Lady Charlotte pulled her knitting basket toward her and settled her newest project into her lap.

  “He might have been handsome,” her grace said grudgingly.

  “He was polite, too,” Lady Charlotte added. “But she wasn’t.”

  “She was a harridan.” The duchess’s blue eyes blazed.

  “I was never more insulted!” Lady Charlotte’s knitting needles clacked with every word as she turned to MacDougal. “The vicar introduced us—”

  ??
?Obviously not realizing how rude she could be,” the duchess interjected, “or he’d have never put us in such an awkward situation.”

  MacDougal nodded sympathetically. “She sounds horrid, yer grace, grand duchess or no’.”

  The duchess pressed her mouth into a flat line. “She acted as if she thought we were nobodies.”

  Lady Charlotte nodded, her needles clacking faster. “The woman ignored her grace!”

  MacDougal couldn’t contain his shock.

  Lady Charlotte looked vindicated. “Exactly. The grand duchess refused to even look at us until the vicar insisted she at least greet us. He was astonished at her rudeness as well.”

  The duchess sniffed. “He might have been surprised, but I was not. I expect such things of foreigners. It’s a wonder we allow any of them into the country, for they ruin everything.”

  “Yes,” Lady Charlotte agreed, completely ignoring the fact that her own mother had been an Italian woman of genteel birth. “Her grandson, the prince, tried to apologize—”

  “—which is the only reason I invited them to our coming house party.”

  MacDougal blinked. “Pardon me, yer grace, but did ye say ‘house party’?”

  “Yes, yes. We’re to have a house party. I decided just this morning only an hour before I met the prince and that woman.”

  Lady Charlotte eyed the duchess with appreciation. “Margaret, it was very generous of you to invite them.”

  “Yes, it was, although we do need more men and, as you say, he was quite handsome. Even if he attends, we’re still short three.” The duchess leaned back in her seat. “Which reminds me why I sent for you, MacDougal. We’re having a house party in a week’s time and I need you to add the grand duchess and her grandson, the prince, to the invitation list.”

  “There’s already a list?”

  “Of course there’s already a list. How else would I know we’re short three men?”

  “Aye, yer grace. I’m sorry I wasna thinkin’ properly.”

  “You’ll need that list, too, so you know who to send invitations to.”