Page 3 of Married to a Wicked Duke
Her father grunted in response. “I’ll have you know…” he started again, then gave up and turned to look out the window.
Veronica was relieved when the gates of the Brownwoods’ country house appeared at the end of a long dirt road. The sight of the house brought a faint smile to her lips. Behind the large black iron gates stood a large stone house surrounded by acres of what looked to be dense woodland and gardens. Veronica knew well that her grandmother’s sole aim for this gathering was to find her a suitable match. But she hoped she might manage a little time to herself to appreciate the beautiful surroundings. Somewhat hopefully, she had even packed her sketchbook and pencils in hope of drawing some of the plants and animals she encountered.
But she knew there would be an ocean of social niceties to navigate before she had such a luxury. At the thought, she stifled another yawn. She was exhausted after the long coach journey from London—and far too many hours of listening to her father and grandmother arguing—and they had not even arrived at the party yet.
The carriage rolled to a stop at the end of a long tree-lined driveway, and the coachman opened the door, offering his hand to Veronica and her grandmother. The Earl stumbled out behind them.
“Pull yourself together,” hissed the Dowager Marchioness.
Veronica drew in a long breath of the fragrant country air, enjoying the feel of the warm breeze against her cheeks. As they made their way toward the house, the Dowager Duchess of Brownwood emerged from within a large white marquee in the garden.
“Pippa, darling!” she hurried towards the Dowager Marchioness, her old childhood friend. The two older ladies embraced warmly.
“Your Grace, you remember my granddaughter, Lady Veronica Caster.” The Dowager Marchioness nudged Veronica forward. Her voice soured: “And my son-in-law, the Earl of Volk.”
“Of course, welcome, Lady Veronica, Lord Volk.” The Dowager Duchess ushered them towards the marquee.
“I do apologize for our tardiness,” the Dowager Marchioness said as they walked across the neatly manicured grass. “I know it’s terribly rude to be so late.”
The Dowager Duchess flapped a dismissive hand. “Nonsense. I know it is a long journey. I am just thrilled you could make it at all.”
Behind the Dowager Marchioness’s back, the Earl gave Veronica a self-satisfied smile. She found herself returning it. She looped her arm through her father’s. “Behave, Papa,” she murmured.
They stepped into the marquee. The Dowager Duchess had spared no expense, with white-clothed tables dotted around the tent, decorated with bright floral arrangements, and a large food and drinks table laid out with plates of now-half-eaten hors d’oeuvres. Each chair was draped with a matching blanket—embroidered with the Brownwood coat of arms, of course—and a string quartet was playing softly in one corner.
The tent was filled with people, some sitting around the tables with drinks in hand, others flitting around, chatting and laughing. Just the sight of so many people made Veronica weary, but she forced a smile and said, “Everything looks wonderful, Your Grace.”
“Thank you, my dear.” The Dowager Duchess took her arm. “This way. I would like to introduce you to some lovely young ladies I just know you will get along with swimmingly.”
Veronica kept her smile plastered to her face, though the muscles in her neck tightened with dread. Young ladies of her class were not usually pleased to see her. Not the daughter of the disgraced drunkard the Earl of Volk. Ever since she was a child, Veronica had been on the receiving end of jibes about her father and his reputation. Nonetheless, she pressed her shoulders back and approached the group of young ladies with something she hoped was bordering on confidence. She prayed they could not tell how fast her heart was thudding.
The Dowager Duchess rattled through a list of names Veronica knew she would never remember. “And this is Lady Juliet Carfield.”
Veronica murmured a greeting. She knew of Lady Juliet, of course. Everyone did. The diamond of the Season, they called her. A talented singer, and an impossible beauty.
Lady Juliet was dressed in a rose-pink silk gown, feathers tucked tastefully into her curled blonde hair, every bit as beautiful as Veronica had expected. Lady Juliet looked down at her with ice-blue eyes and gave her a syrupy smile. “I’m pleased you could make it, Lady Veronica. I do hope your father did not give you too much trouble today.”
A faint twitter of laughter rippled through the group. Veronica pressed her lips together, pushing down the hurt. She forced herself to return Lady Juliet’s smile. “Not at all, My Lady. My father is very pleased to be here.” A blatant lie of course—these days, her father was not pleased to be anywhere other than tucked away in his drawing room with a bottle of liquor clutched to his chest. But that was most definitely something Lady Juliet and the others did not need to know.
“So,” said one of the other ladies—Lady Arabella? Veronica guessed—once the Dowager Duchess had disappeared, “have you met him yet?”
Veronica frowned. “Met who?”
Lady Arabella looked at her as though she had two heads. “TheDuke, of course. Her Grace’s grandson.” She exchanged glances with the other ladies and giggled. “Is he not the reason we are all here?”
The others joined in the laughter, though Veronica could see through to the truth of Lady Arabella’s statement.
Is that why Grandmother was so insistent on bringing me here too?
Veronica knew her grandmother wished to find her a match before the Season’s end. But she had seemed utterly adamant that they attend this particular gathering. Veronica had assumed it was because her grandmother and the Dowager Duchess were such close friends. Now she began to wonder if she had naively misread the situation.
Just what, she wondered, was so special about the Duke of Brownwood? Was it merely his title that had all the ladies—and possibly her own grandmother—so enamored with him? Veronica had never deemed such things important. She had little interest in titles. She did not care if her future husband was a Duke or a stable hand. She just wanted him to love her for who she was.
And for a young lady of theton, Veronica knew, that was as outlandish a dream as marrying the King of Spain.
“Oh goodness, His Grace is simply divine,” sang another of the ladies. “Impossibly handsome. And such an imposing figure. He looks as though he could pick you up and throw you over his shoulder without a hint of effort.” The ladies giggled again.
“He can try that with me any time,” said one.
