Page 51 of Duke of Iron
Miss Abbot stood at the ready with a letter opener, her posture a study in devotion and well-bred curiosity. May turned the phrase over in her mind while she accepted another card from the silver tray Bexley had just placed before her.
She scanned the first, “Lady Montclair requests the pleasure of your company at her musicale, next Thursday at nine o’clock.” Then a ball, an at-home tea, a garden party, a ‘rural frolic’ in Richmond—on and on, through a stack that could have furnished a medium-sized bonfire.
She eyed the pile. “Is this… all of them?”
“I believe the post has arrived thrice today, Your Grace,” Abbot said, separating a note with a green wax seal. “If I may, this one is hand-delivered.”
May took it, but her attention was drawn to the sheer volume of invitations. She had never been wanted at anything—certainly not this way, in triplicate. She considered her own history—three seasons, seven major assemblies, countless minor events, and not one proper invitation that hadn’t been the result of her mother’s tireless campaign. Now she was a duchess, and suddenly everyone wanted to know her.
“Would you like me to begin declining any?” Miss Abbot asked, watching her with the look one reserves for a patient about to attempt standing.
May plucked the note with the green seal, reading aloud, “Luncheon, at the assembly rooms, with Lady Kitty Monrose and Lady Christie Portwell.” She squinted at the date. “Tomorrow.”
“They must have known you’d say yes,” Abbot observed, then added slyly, “I suspect they have a wager.”
May raised her brow but did not comment. She set Rydal’s basket on the floor, where he could see the sunlight, and resumed reading.
The names stirred a faint memory. Lady Kitty Monrose had once been declared the diamond of the Season, though May did not recall by whom or whether it had been a jest. Lady Christie Portwell, on the other hand, had been the most-danced-with debutante at some ball or other, notorious for managing three partners in the space of a single quadrille.
They were, in other words, the sort of people her mother had always wanted her to know, and the sort she’d never once had a real conversation with. May’s sisters had called them ‘the Medusas of Mayfair,’ a nickname born of their ability to reduce lesser mortals to stone with a single glance.
She was expected to accept. That was what duchesses did, was it not? Attend luncheons and be admired, say kind things, and make other women feel at once included and slightly inferior.
She signed the note and passed it to Abbot. “Tell them I will attend. And—” She hesitated, already dreading what her sisters would say. “Tell them I look forward to it.”
The next morning, the servants descended upon May with renewed purpose. The breakfast tray was twice the size she preferred; the bath was twice as hot, the soap twice as fragrant. Abbot threw herself into the perfect arrangement of May’s hair, electing for a series of soft, demure curls that framed her face and—Abbot assured her—would not require fussing for at least six hours.
“You look very fine, Your Grace,” the housekeeper said, as if afraid the Duchess might flee the premises if left unsupervised.
May studied her reflection with a critical eye. She looked like herself, except… not. The new spectacles glinted in the morning light, delicate gold wire curving gracefully over her ears. Her dress, a blue silk with understated pearl trim, clung to her waist and fell in precise lines. Even her gloves—never before a subject of comment—were immaculate, the buttons at her wrist gleaming.
She hardly recognized herself.
“Will you require the carriage, Your Grace?” Abbot inquired, entering with a shawl.
“I shall walk,” May said, determined to exert control over at least one aspect of her day. She did not mention that she wished to clear her head before plunging into the social whirl.
The walk to the assembly rooms was pleasant enough. The city was in the full swing of spring, with the air smelling faintly of grass and the dust of recent rain. May’s only companions were her thoughts and the memory of Rydal’s squall at breakfast—a reminder, perhaps, that some things could not be subdued by flowers and silk.
At the assembly rooms, the doorman bowed so deeply he nearly collided with his own knees. May ascended the stairs and entered the parlor, where she was at once assailed by the scent of hothouse lilies and the quiet din of female voices, punctuated by the clink of glass and the distant rumble of someone rearranging furniture.
Lady Kitty Monrose and Lady Christie Portwell stood near the tall windows, their heads bent together like co-conspirators in a particularly intricate scheme. They turned in unison at May’s approach, their expressions morphing from private amusement to dazzling welcome.
“Duchess of Irondale,” Lady Kitty trilled, sweeping forward with a rustle of yellow chiffon and an outstretched hand. “How splendid of you to join us.”
May smiled, accepting the hand. “Thank you for inviting me. The flowers are exquisite.”
“Only the best for a duchess,” Kitty replied, then, as if sharing a secret, “We had to fight three committees to get them. You have no idea the effort it takes to keep lilies in season.”
Lady Christie Portwell circled in, her own dress a pale lavender trimmed with what looked like a miniature taxidermy menagerie of silk butterflies. “We are delighted to make your acquaintance at last, Your Grace,” she said, voice as syrupy as tea. “We had nearly despaired of you leaving the house at all. So mysterious! So… domesticated.”
May’s smile wobbled, but she rallied. “I have been much occupied with the house and its… many inhabitants.”
“Of course,” said Kitty. “A new title is like a new wardrobe. So many things to arrange and discard.” She offered a conspiratorial glance to Christie, who nodded, her eyes shining with mirth.
They led May to a divan upholstered in some violent shade of green, and plied her with lemonade and biscuits that were both dainty and, to May’s palate, so sweet they made her teeth ache.
The room soon filled with other ladies—some May recognized from portraits in the gossip sheets, others she had only heard referenced in cautionary tales by her mother. They came in pairs or trios, all smiling, all fluttering fans and parasols, all eager to observe the new Duchess of Irondale.
