Page 81 of The Design of Dukes
David slammed the vellum onto the table. “You cannot expect this of me.” Bitterness soured his stomach.
“If you would be the man Andromeda would have, you must start here. Read it.” She stood and walked to the door. “I’ll be in the back parlor working on my correspondence, should you need me.”
David stared at the letter, feeling betrayed by his aunt for forcing him to accept something he could not. The clarity with which he now viewed Horace was bad enough.
Ill breeding always shows in the end. You must stamp it out lest the stain spread.
As Horace had meant to stamp him out for being Emelia’s son. Aunt Pen would never lie about such a thing. David had absolutely no doubt that had his father succeeded in marrying again and producing another heir, David would have awoken one night with a knife at his throat.
Hands shaking, David poured more scotch into his glass. Bits of conversations with his father, punishments meted out, rules repeated, all raced through his mind.
Carefully, he picked up his mother’s letter.
I will begin this letter as I do all the others I’ve sent, by telling you I love you.
Hours later, David cast a bleary eye at the clock, wondering if Aunt Pen would demand he have dinner with her. He’d read the letter from his mother a half-dozen times while sipping scotch. It was obvious his aunt had been in touch with his mother because Emelia knew all about the house party and his intent to marry Beatrice.
It was a hard thing for him to accept his mother’s love, having gone so long without it. David had been jealous of the unknown, faceless bastard son his mother had borne her lover, Kinkaid, from the moment Horace had informed him, somewhatgleefully,he now realized, of his brother’s existence, when David was eleven. His brother had Emelia.
And David was left with Horace.
He reached into his pocket for the butterfly clip, the tips of his fingers caressing the wings, thinking how clever Andromeda was. He wanted her now, at this moment, with an ache that threatened to bring him to his knees. Not because he wished to bed her, although that would certainly improve his mood, but David only wanted her near.
Had he not been insulted by an annoying creature at a garden party, David might never have acknowledged the truth of his existence.
“I miss you, little shrub.” He pulled the clip out. “So much.”
29
Romy smoothed down the skirts of her ice-blue gown, smiling when her fingers stuck against the small pocket hidden within the folds of silk. The gown had been delivered by one of Madame Dupree’s assistants only this morning. The waist, with its series of tiny pleats, required Daisy to lace Romy's corset a bit tighter than usual, but the look was worth it.
Lady Compton walked past, crimson skirts sweeping out around her.
A lovely design. Lady Compton had been assured the gown had been created completely by Madame Dupree. The modiste had gone to great lengths to ensure every one of her clients knew the whispered rumors of Lady Andromeda Barrington designing gowns were patently ridiculous. Yes, she admitted, Lady Andromeda had a flair for color and fashion, a talent which she was only too happy to share with those who frequented Madame Dupree’s establishment. But to suggest a pampered duke’s daughter was a modisteandMadame Dupree’s partner? Ludicrous.
Thankfully, the talk had begun to die down, though Romy was infuriated Lady Beatrice Howard had found out her secret. She was forced to avoid Madame Dupree’s, a concession she’d made at the request of the modiste herself, though Romy still sent designs with fabric suggestions and other notes.
Yet another reason to dislike Lady Beatrice Howard. Romy didn’t bother to acknowledge the other.
Carefully, Romy picked her way through the crowd. The skirts of her gown were much fuller than usual, belling out around her and giving Romy cause to avoid some of the younger gentlemen who didn’t watch where they stepped. Lady Ralston’s ball was a complete crush, as usual. Pomade, perfume, and shaving soap along with the acrid scent of too many bodies pressed together singed her nostrils as she struggled to make her way to her mother’s side.
“She’s no coward, I give her that much.”
The words floated on the air just to the left of Romy.
“Walking about with her head held high. The Beautiful Barringtons.” A snort. “One should call them theBrazenBarringtons. I wonder if she made the gown herself?”
Romy glanced out of the corner of her eye. She wasn’t acquainted with either of the women, though she recognized one as a client of Madame Dupree’s.
“I can hardly merit such talk. I doubt she can sew a hem.” A sharp giggle. “Though perhaps her mother taught her. I’m sure the dowager duchess learned to thread a needle as a lady’s companion.”
Romy’s fingers curled inside her gloves, but she pointedly ignored both women. Now that she was no longer encased in her bubble of ignorance, it was illuminating to hear how society viewed the Barringtons. No one woulddareoffend the Duke of Averell or her family outright, but now Romy heard the snideness beneath their courteous words and the thinly veiled insults hidden inside genteel conversation.
She blamed Granby for destroying her blissful ignorance.
While the talk about the Duke of Averell’s sister secretly masquerading as a modiste was scoffed at, the gossip about Romy enticing Granby enough so he tossed aside Lady Beatrice Howard had not. Beatrice was painted with angelic and saintly brushstrokes while Romy was forced into the role of scheming enchantress. She was now the owner of a battered reputation.
“Ignore them. I do.” Her sister-in-law, the Duchess of Averell, sidled up next to her, taking Romy’s arm in hers. “They’re merely jealous. All will be well, Sister.”
