“If you think,” the duke warned him, “that society will forgive and forget and accept her merely because you’re now prepared to marry her, Ian, you’re quite wrong, I assure you. They’ll ignore your part in the nasty affair, as they already have, because you are a man—and a rich one, not to mention that you’re now the Marquess of Kensington. When you make Lady Cameron your marchioness, however, they’ll tolerate her because they have no choice, but they’ll cut her dead whenever the opportunity arises. It’s going to take a show of force from some persons of great consequence to make society realize they must accept her. Otherwise they’ll treat her like a pariah.”
For himself Ian would have calmly and unhesitatingly told society to go to hell, but they’d already put Elizabeth through hell, and he wanted somehow to make it right for her again. He was idly considering how to go about it when his grandfather said firmly, “I shall go to London and be there when your betrothal is announced.”
“No,” Ian said, his jaw tightening in anger. It was one thing to relinquish his hatred for the man, but it was another entirely to allow him to insinuate himself into Ian’s life as an ally or to accept help from him.
“I realize,” his grandfather said calmly, “why you were so quick to reject my offer. However, I did not make it for my gratification alone. There are two other sound reasons: It will benefit Lady Elizabeth tremendously if society sees that I am fully willing to accept her as my granddaughter-in-law. I am the only one who has a prayer of swaying them. Second,” the duke continued, pressing his advantage while he had one to press, “until society sees you and me together and in complete accord at least once, the gossip about your questionable parentage and our relationship will continue. In other words, you can call yourself my heir, but until they see that I regard you as such, they won’t entirely believe what you say or what the newspapers print. Now then, if you want Lady Elizabeth treated with the respect due the Marchioness of Kensington, the ton will first have to accept you as Marquess of Kensington. The two things are tied together. It must be done slowly,” he emphasized, “one step at a time. Handled in that way, no one will dare to oppose me or to defy you, and they will then have to accept Lady Elizabeth and let the gossip be laid to rest.”
Ian hesitated, a thousand emotions warring in his heart and mind. “I’ll think about it,” he agreed curtly.
“I understand,” the duke said quietly. “In the event you decide to call upon my support, I will leave for London in the mom and stay at my town house.”
Ian got up to leave, and his grandfather also arose. Awkwardly, the older man held out his hand, and hesitantly, Ian took it. His grandfather’s grip was surprisingly strong, and it lasted a long time. “Ian,” he said suddenly and desperately, “if I could undo what I did thirty-two years ago, I would do it. I swear to you.”
“I’m sure you would,” Ian said in a noncommittal tone.
“Do you think,” he continued in a ragged voice, “that someday you might forgive me completely?”
Ian answered him honestly. “I don’t know.”
He nodded and took his hand away. “I shall be in London within the week. When do you plan to be there?”
“That depends on how long it takes to deal with Christina’s father and Elizabeth’s uncle and to explain things to Elizabeth. All things considered, I ought to be in London by the fifteenth.”
19
Elizabeth stood up slowly, her hands clenched into nervous fists at her sides as she gaped at Alexandra Townsende across the young duchess’s sumptuous green-and-cream London drawing room. “Alex, this is madness!” she burst out in frustrated disbelief. “My uncle gave me until the twenty-fourth, and it’s already the fifteenth! How can you possibly expect me to consider attending a ball tonight, when my life is practically coming to an end, and we haven’t thought of a single solution!”
“It might be a solution,” Alex reasoned. “And it is the only one I’ve been able to think of since you arrived.”
Elizabeth paused in her pacing to roll her eyes and shake her head in a gesture that clearly implied Alex had taken leave of her senses. Elizabeth had come racing back from Scotland to England, hoping to reason with her uncle, only to have him gleefully inform her that he’d just received a near-offer from Lord Marchman as well. “I prefer to wait in hope Marchman comes up to scratch. His title is greater, and so is his wealth; therefore he’s less likely to squander my money. I’ve written to him and asked him to make his decision by the twenty-fourth.”
Elizabeth had kept her senses and used his good mood to convince him to let her go to London in the meantime. Now that he knew he was about to get her off his hands, Uncle Julius was uncharacteristically agreeable. “Very well. Today is the tenth; you may remain there until the twenty-fourth. I shall send a message to you if Marchman offers.”
“I—I think I’d like Alexandra Townsende’s advice on the formalities of a wedding,” Elizabeth had prevaricated on an impulse, hoping that Alex might somehow help her find a way to avoid marrying either man. “She is in London for the Season, and I can stay with her.”
“You may use my town bouse if you bring your own servants,” he offered magnanimously. “If Belhaven wants to press his suit with you in person in the meantime, he may call upon you in the city. In fact, while you are there you may order a wedding gown. Nothing too expensive,” he added with a dark frown. “There’s no reason for a big town wedding when a small one here at Havenhurst will do as well. And there’s no reason for a wedding gown either, now that I reflect on it, since your mother’s was only worn the one time.”
Elizabeth didn’t bother to remind him that her mother had been married in an elaborate ceremony at St. James’s in a sumptuous, pearl-encrusted gown with a fifteen-foot train, and that such a gown for an intimate little wedding would look absurd. At the moment she was still hoping to avoid any ceremony at all, and she was much too anxious to flee to London to discuss finery. Now, after she’d spent five days with Alex, thinking of and discarding impossible solutions, Alex had suddenly decided it was imperative Elizabeth reenter society at a ball tonight. To make matters worse, in his excessive eagerness to continue his courtship, Sir Francis had arrived in London yesterday and was practically haunting Uncle Julius’s town house on Promenade Street.
“Elizabeth.” Alex’s voice was filled with determination. “I’ll admit I haven’t had a great deal of time to work out all the details, since I only conceived of the plan three hours ago, but if you’ll just sit down and have some of that tea, I’ll try to explain the logic of it.”
“Attending a ball tonight,” Elizabeth said as she obediently sank down on a lovely little settee upholstered in green silk, “is not a solution, it’s—it’s a nightmare!”
“Will you just let me explain? There’s no point arguing about it, because I’ve already set wheels in motion, and I absolutely refuse to be gainsaid.”
Elizabeth raked her hair off her forehead in a nervous gesture and nodded reluctantly. When Alexandra glanced pointedly at the tea her butler had just carried in Elizabeth sighed, picked up the dainty cup, and took a sip. “Explain.”
“Not to put too fine a point on it, we have nine days left of your reprieve. Nine days to find you a more desirable suitor.”
Elizabeth choked on her tea. “Another suitor? You are joking!” she sputtered, caught somewhere between hilarity and horror.
“Not at all,” said Alex practically, daintily sipping her tea. “When you made your debut you received fifteen offers in four weeks. If you could accumulate an average of half a suitor per day before, then, even allowing for the scandal hanging over your head, there’s no reason in the world why we oughtn’t be able to find at least one suitor you like in nine full days. You’re more beautiful now than you were as a girl.”
Elizabeth paled at the mention of the scandal. “I can’t do it,” she said shakily. “I cannot face everyone. Not yet!”
“Not alone, perhaps, but you won’t be alone tonight.” In
her desperation to convince Elizabeth of the feasibility and the necessity of the plan Alex leaned forward, propping her elbows on her knees. “I’ve been busy these past three hours since I conceived the plan. Since the Season is just beginning, not everyone has arrived yet, but I’ve already sent a note to my husband’s grandmother asking her to call on me here today the moment she arrives in town. My husband is still at Hawthorne, but he’d planned to return tonight and spend the early evening at one of his clubs. I’ve already sent him a long note explaining the entire situation and asking him to join us at the Willingtons’ ball at ten-thirty. I’ve also sent a note to my brother-in-law, Anthony, and he will escort you. So far that makes four of us to stand by you. That may not seem like many to you, but you cannot fully imagine the enormous influence my husband and his grandmother have.” With a reassuring, affectionate grin she explained, “The Dowager Duchess of Hawthorne is a lady of enormous consequence, and she shamelessly adores forcing society to bend to her will. You haven’t met my husband yet,” Alex finished, her smile turning tender, “but Jordan has even more influence than the dowager, and he will not permit anyone to say an unkind word to you. They wouldn’t even dare try if he is with us.”
“Does he—does he know about me? Who I am, I mean, and what happened?”
“I explained in the note who you are—to me—and briefly what had happened to you two years ago. I would have told him before this, but I haven’t seen him since I came to you at Havenhurst. He’s been away, seeing to all the business and estate matters that were left to others for the year and a half we were traveling.”
Elizabeth felt sick at the very real possibility that Alex’s husband might return to London tonight and announce that Elizabeth was not a fit companion for his wife—or that he wanted nothing whatever to do with the scheme. The prospect was so repugnant that Elizabeth actually seized on an obstacle to the entire plan with enormous relief. “It won’t work!” she said happily.
“Why not?” Alex asked.
“I have nothing to wear!”
“Yes, you do,” Alex replied with a triumphant smile. “It’s a gown I brought back from France.”
She held up her hand to silence Elizabeth’s cry of protest. “I cannot wear the gown,” she said quietly. “My waist is enlarging already.”
Elizabeth cast a dubious glance at Alex’s slim waist as her friend finished reasonably, “By next year it will be quite out of style, so it’s only right that one of us enjoy it. I’ve already sent word to Bentner to bring Berta here along with anything else you’ll need,” Alex admitted with a sheepish grin. “I’ve no intention of letting you go back to Promenade Street, because I fear you would send me a note later today announcing you have a violent headache and have taken to your bed with your salts.”
Despite all the awful emotions warring in Elizabeth she had to bite back a guilty smile over that last astute remark. She’d already been thinking of doing exactly that. “I’ll agree to the plan,” she said slowly, her wide green eyes insistent, “but only if the dowager duchess has no reservations at all about sponsoring me tonight.”
“Leave that to me,” Alex said with a huge sigh of relief. She glanced up as the butler arrived in the doorway and grandly announced, “The dowager duchess has arrived, your grace. I’ve shown her into the yellow salon as you instructed.” With a bright smile that displayed confidence she didn’t completely feel, Alex stood up. “I just wanted to have a few words with her alone, to explain before she meets you,” she said, already heading away. Partway across the room she stopped and turned back. “There’s one small thing I ought to warn you about,” she added hesitantly. “My husband’s grandmother is occasionally a bit—brusque,” she finished lamely.
The “few words” Alex needed with the dowager took considerably less than five minutes, but Elizabeth watched the clock in sublime misery, imagining the sort of indignant reluctance Alex must be confronting. When the drawing room door swung open Elizabeth was so tense that she shot to her feet and then had to stand there, feeling graceless and gauche, while the most formidable-looking woman she had ever beheld swept majestically into the room beside Alex.
Besides having the regal posture of a woman who was born with a ramrod down her back, the Dowager Duchess of Hawthorne was quite tall and possessed of a piercing pair of hazel eyes, an aristocratic nose, and an imperious expression that had been permanently stamped into her otherwise seamless white skin.
In aloof silence she waited while Alex performed the introductions, then she watched Elizabeth execute her curtsy and acknowledge the introduction. Still silent, the dowager then raised her lorgnette to her cold hazel eyes and inspected Elizabeth from the top of her hair to the tips of her toes, while Elizabeth mentally abandoned any notion that the old woman would lend her consequence tonight, willingly or otherwise.
When she finally deigned to speak, the dowager’s voice had the cutting snap of a whip. “Young woman!” she said without preamble, “Alexandra has just explained to me that she is wishful of my assistance in reintroducing you to society this evening. However, as I told Alexandra, there was no need for her to describe to me the scandal that surrounded your association with a certain Mr. Ian Thornton the year before last. I am well aware of it—as is nearly everyone else in society.” She let that unkind and unnecessary statement do its damage to Elizabeth’s lacerated pride for a full moment before she demanded, “What I want to know is whether or not I can expect a repetition of it, if I were to agree with what Alexandra wants.”
Drowning in angry mortification, Elizabeth nevertheless managed not to flinch or drop her gaze, and although her voice shook slightly, she managed to say calmly and clearly, “I have no control over wagging tongues, your grace. If I had, I would not have been the topic of scandal two years ago. However, I have no desire whatever to reenter your society. I still have scars enough from my last sortie among the Quality.” Having deliberately injected a liberal amount of derision into the word “Quality,” Elizabeth closed her mouth and braced herself to be verbally filleted by the old woman whose white brows had snapped together over the bridge of her thin nose. An instant later, however, the pale hazel eyes registered something that might have been approval, then they shifted to Alexandra. With a curt nod the dowager said, “I quite agree, Alexandra. She has spirit enough to endure what they will put her through. Amazing, is it not,” continued the dowager to Elizabeth with a gruff smile, “that on the one hand we of the ton pride ourselves on our civilized manners, and yet many of us will dine on one another’s reputations in preference to the most sumptuous meal.” Leaving Elizabeth to sink slowly and dazedly into the chair she’d shot out of but moments before, the dowager then walked over to the sofa and seated herself, her eyes narrowed in thought. “The Willingtons’ ball tonight will be a complete crush,” she said after a moment. “That may be to our advantage—everyone of importance and otherwise will be there. Afterward there’ll be less reason to gossip about Elizabeth’s appearance, for everyone will have seen her for themselves.”
“Your grace,” Elizabeth said, flustered and feeling some expression of gratitude was surely in order for the trouble the dowager was about to be put to, “it—it’s beyond kind of you to do this—”
“Nonsense,” the woman interrupted, looking appalled. “I am rarely kind. Pleasant, at times,” she continued while Alexandra tried to hide her amusement. “Even gracious when the occasion demands, but I wouldn’t say ‘kind.’ ‘Kind’ is so very bland. Like lukewarm tea. Now, if you will take my advice, my girl,” she added, looking at Elizabeth’s strained features and pale skin, “you will immediately take yourself upstairs and have a long and restorative nap. You’re alarmingly peaked. While you rest”—she turned to Alexandra—“Alexandra and I will make our plans.”
Elizabeth reacted to this peremptory order to go to bed exactly as everyone reacted to the dowager duchess’s orders: After a moment of shocked affront she did exactly as she was bidden.
Alex hastily excu
sed herself to accompany Elizabeth to a guest chamber, and once inside, Alex hugged her tightly. “I’m sorry for that awful moment—she said she wanted to reassure herself you had courage, but I never imagined she meant to do it that way. In any case,” she finished happily, “I knew she would like you excessively, and she does!”
She departed in a flurry of rose skirts, leaving Elizabeth to lean weakly against the door of her bed chamber and wonder how the dowager treated people she liked only slightly.
The dowager was waiting in the drawing room when Alex returned, a bemused expression on her face. “Alexandra,” she began at once, helping herself to tea, “it occurs to me there is something of which you may not be aware . . .
She broke off, glaring at the butler who appeared in the doorway and caused her to stop speaking. “Excuse me, your grace,” he said to Alexandra, “but Mr. Bentner begs a word with you.”
“Who is Mr. Bentner?” the dowager demanded irritably when Alexandra instantly agreed to see him in the drawing room.
“Elizabeth’s butler,” Alex explained with a smile. “He’s the most delightful man—he’s addicted to mystery novels.” A moment later, while the dowager looked on in sharp disapproval, a stout, white-haired man clad in slightly shabby black coat and trousers marched boldly into the drawing room and seated himself beside Alexandra without so much as a by-your-leave.
“Your note said you have a plan to help Miss Elizabeth out of her coil, Miss Alex,” he said eagerly. “I brought Berta myself so I could hear it.”
“It’s a little vague yet, Bentner,” Alex admitted. “Basically, we’re going to re-present her to society tonight and see if we can’t live down that old scandal over Mr. Thornton.”