Page 6 of A Wallflower's Convenient Duke
Yet, the reality of her societal constraints weighed heavily. A young lady daring to speak openly about artefacts in the company of gentlemen—and especially of a duke—would all but invite her mother's swift and painful censure. The rigid dictates of grace, charm, and modest femininity loomed ever large, a stifling force against her quiet yearning for true companionship—one built upon intellect and shared passions, rather than mere pleasantries and propriety.
Eventually, Blanche started to notice that her mother's eyes seemed to be continually drawn in the direction of the Duke also. Lady Wicksford ‘s attention, usually reserved for matters of societal standing and advantageous matches, was fixated on the Duke of Brooksdale with an unusual fervour.
Blanche stole glances at her mother, trying to discern the source of such fascination. It was an anomaly for Mother, who typically displayed a disdain for scholarly gentlemen and their pursuits. The Duke, brooding and enigmatic, seemed an unlikely object of her mother's interest, despite his title.
Yet she continued to dart gazes his way, with an intense interest in him.
The unease that prickled the back of Blanche's neck grew with each passing moment. Her mother's inscrutable expression offered no clues, leaving Blanche to wonder what could have captured her attention so completely. The musicale, an event crafted to showcase eligible matches, was an odd setting for Mother’s sudden preoccupation with a scholarly figure. Lady Wicksford ‘s cryptic look, a subtle blend of fascination and intrigue, rarely boded well. Blanche could sense the undercurrents of a scheme unfolding, hidden beneath the veneer of societal niceties.
As the last notes of the musicale performances lingered in the air, Blanche found herself engaged in a lively conversation with Penelope about the various compositions and what they liked about them all. The strains of melodies still resonated, and the room buzzed with post-musicale discussions among the guests.
Amidst the chatter, Blanche noticed her mother approaching, wearing an oddly flustered expression. Lady Wicksford ‘s usual composed demeanour seemed momentarily unsettled, a detail that did not escape Blanche's notice. Curiosity and concern flickered in her eyes as the dowager viscountess reached them.
"Blanche, my dear," Mother began in strained tones, her hand delicately fanning her face as if to dispel an invisible discomfort. "I find myself suddenly feeling quite faint and unwell. I fear it is the stifling heat of these crowded rooms."
Blanche's brows furrowed with genuine worry, but she maintained her composure. "Mother, we should find a quiet place for you to rest…"
Lady Wicksford nodded with a degree of urgency that struck Blanche as peculiar. "Yes, the blue parlour will be the best roomfor me to recover. I believe I left my smelling salts there. It would be most unseemly if I were to cause a scene and embarrass us all by swooning."
Penelope, sensing the seriousness of the situation, offered her support. "Would you like me to assist you?"
"Oh no," the viscountess insisted before Blanche could even think about responding. "I should not want to humiliate myself in front of you. I would only like Blanche to come with me. Please, my dear, let us go now…"
Blanche shot her friend a confused look before she agreed to her mother's demands. "Of course, let us go right away…"
"Hold on," Lady Wicksford barked, her now stark attention elsewhere. "I believe Jane is calling me. I shall just see what she needs. I will meet you in the blue parlour momentarily."
Blanche was left standing with a furrowed brow, a perplexed expression etched on her features. Her mother's behaviour seemed erratic, and the urgency of her request appeared to dissipate with each hurried step. The need for smelling salts and the urgency of finding a quiet place for rest seemed to have been abandoned in favour of a casual encounter with an acquaintance. It left Blanche standing amidst the genteel throng, grappling with the enigma of her mother’s behaviour.
"What on earth is happening?" she asked Penelope.
"I am not sure," Penelope admitted. "But knowing your mother, I think it best for you to wait where she is expecting you."
With a resigned sigh, Blanche chose to venture off alone in search of the elusive blue parlour. The grandeur of the McGearys' residence offered a labyrinth of opulent corridors, and Blanche navigated the intricacies with a sense of purpose. Her mother's seemingly capricious request lingered in her thoughts, a puzzle yet to be unravelled.
Perhaps all would make sense once they were alone. If Mother had a plan of some kind, then she hoped it would all make sense once she had finished talking to Jane.
The door to the blue parlour swung open, revealing a haven of serenity amidst the bustling energy of the musicale. As Blanche stepped into the room, her eyes widened in awe, and her breath caught in her throat. The cosy parlour, meant for repose and tranquillity, was an unexpected treasure trove of antiquities that seemed to echo the cherished collection of her late father.
The room was a veritable trove of antiquities, each artefact a testament to an enduring reverence for history and the allure of bygone eras. Delicate statuary, timeworn scrolls, and relics of forgotten civilisations adorned the shelves and tables, their presence imbuing the space with a sense of timeless intrigue—far surpassing mere opulence.
Blanche's gaze swept over the room, and she felt an immediate connection to the artefacts that surrounded her. It was as if the Baron had gathered pieces of history, each holding a story waiting to be uncovered. Her heart fluttered with a mixture of nostalgia and wonder; the air itself imbued with the resonance of centuries gone by.
Her eyes settled on a mosaic fragment, a piece that seemed to beckon her with its intricate patterns and vibrant hues. As Blanche approached, she felt an inexplicable pull toward the artefact. Running her fingers over the ancient tile, she marvelled at the craftsmanship, the skill of hands long gone but leaving their mark on this tangible piece of history.
Nostalgia welled up inside her, a poignant reminder of her late father's cherished collection. The mosaic fragment, forged centuries ago, seemed to bridge the gap between the past and the present. In that quiet moment of reflection, the parlour became a sanctuary where Blanche could commune with the artefacts,much like the intimate connection she shared with her father during their archaeological explorations.
As Blanche stood enraptured by the mosaic fragment, tracing the intricate patterns with her fingertips, she became aware of approaching footsteps. Expecting her mother, she turned with a gentle smile, ready to share the serenity of the room filled with antiquities.
To her astonishment, it was not the viscountess who entered the parlour, but the Duke of Brooksdale himself. His Grace — Philip — crossed the threshold with the composed bearing of a man accustomed to command, his brooding countenance tempered by a quiet, almost introspective air. His eyes, a striking shade of green, swept the room with contemplative deliberation before coming to rest on her.
Blanche’s breath caught. Their eyes met, and in that suspended instant, the world narrowed to the silent understanding exchanged between two strangers unexpectedly entwined. This was not supposed to happen.
What am I to do now?
His gaze lingered — not in impertinence, but in fascination — drawn to the delicate pendant at her throat. The Roman mosaic fragment, once unearthed by her late father, gleamed softly against her skin, its ancient artistry whispering stories of a world long past. It was a piece of her heart, and now it lay bare to the scrutiny of the Duke.
Rather than retreating, he advanced — not hastily, but with a quiet certainty that defied the bounds of propriety. There was an undeniable gravity in his manner, a sense of purpose that eclipsed the expected conventions of an introduction.
