Page 6 of The Duke Who Loved Me (The Duke's Estates 1)

“In the way of a parasitic wasp pushing into the hive.”

Cecelia stared at her aunt, who had not looked up from whatever she was doing, and wondered how anyone could describe their parents in such a disparaging tone. Aunt Valeria might have been speaking of total strangers. Whom she despised.

She felt a sudden flash of pain. How she missed her mother! Mama had been the polar opposite of the Vainsmedes. Warm and affectionate and prone to joking, she’d even brought Papa out of his self-absorption now and then and made their family feel—familial. She’d made him laugh. And she’d filled Cecelia’s days with love. Her absence was a great icy void that would never be filled.

Cecelia took a deep breath. And another. These grievous moments were rare now. They’d gradually lessened in the years since Mama died when she was twelve, leaving her in the care of her distracted father. She’d found ways to move on, of course. But she would never forget that day, and feeling so desperately alone.

Until James had come to see her. He’d stepped into this very drawing room so quietly that she knew nothing until he spoke her name. Her aunt had not yet arrived; her father was with his books. She was wildly startled when he said, “Cecelia.”

She’d lashed out, expecting some heartless complaint about his financial affairs. But James had sat down beside her on the sofa and taken her hand and told her how sorry he was. That nineteen-year-old sprig of fashion and aspiring sportsman, who’d often taunted her, had praised her mother in the kindest way and acknowledged how much she would be missed. Most particularly by Cecelia, of course. After a moment of incredulity, she’d burst into tears, thrown herself upon him, and sobbed on his shoulder. He’d tolerated the outburst as her father would not. He’d tried, clumsily, to comfort her, and Cecelia had seen that there was more to him than she’d understood.

A footman came in and announced visitors. Cecelia put the past aside. Aunt Valeria responded with a martyred sigh.

Four young ladies filed into the room, and Cecelia stood to greet them. She’d been expecting only one, Miss Harriet Finch, whose mother had been a school friend of her mama. Mrs. Finch had written asking for advice and aid with her daughter’s debut, and Cecelia had volunteered to help Miss Harriet acquire a bit of town polish. Now she seemed to be welcoming the whole upper level of a girls’ school, judging from the outmoded wardrobes and dowdy haircuts. “Hello,” she said.

The most conventionally pretty of the group, with red-blond hair, green eyes, a pointed chin beneath a broad forehead, and a beautiful figure, stepped forward. “How do you do?” she said. “I am Harriet Finch.”

According to the gossips, she was a considerable heiress. Quite a spate of inheritances lately, Cecelia thought, though she supposed people were always dying.

“And these are Miss Ada Grandison, Miss Sarah Moran, and Miss Charlotte Deeping,” the girl went on. She pointed as she gave their names.

“I see,” said Cecelia.

“They are my friends.” Miss Finch spoke as if they were a set of china that mustn’t on any account be broken up.

“May I present my aunt, Miss Vainsmede,” said Cecelia.

Aunt Valeria pointed to one ear and spoke in a loud toneless voice. “Very deaf. Sorry.” She returned to her box and notepad, putting her back to their visitors.

Cecelia hid a sigh. Her aunt could hear as well as anyone, but she insisted on telling society that she could not. It must have been an open secret, because the servants were well aware of her true state. But the ruse allowed Aunt Valeria to play her part as chaperone without making any effort to participate in society. Cecelia had once taxed her with feigning what others found a sad affliction. Her aunt had informed her that she actually did not hear people who nattered on about nothing. “My mind rejects their silly yapping,” she’d declared. “It turns to a sort of humming in my brain, and then I begin to think of something interesting instead.” Cecelia gestured toward a sofa. “Do sit down,” she said to her guests.

The girls sat in a row facing her. They didn’t fold their hands, but it felt as if they had. They looked hopeful and slightly apprehensive. Cecelia examined them, trying to remember which was which.

Miss Ada Grandison had heavy, authoritative eyebrows. They dominated smooth brown hair, brown eyes, a straight nose, and full lips.

Miss Sarah Moran, the shortest of the four, was a smiling round little person with sandy hair, a turned-up nose, and sparkling light blue eyes. It was too bad her pale brows and eyelashes washed her out.

The last, Miss Charlotte Deeping, was the tallest, with black hair, pale skin, and a sharp dark gaze. She looked spiky. “I thought you didn’t have a chaperone,” she said to Cecelia, confirming this impression.

“What made you think that?”

“We heard you went to a ball on your own.”

“I met my party there,” Cecelia replied, which was nearly true. She had attached herself to friends as soon as she arrived. That solitary venture had perhaps been a misjudgment. But it was a very minor scandal, more of an eccentricity, she told herself. She was impatient with the rules now that she was in her fourth season. “My aunt has lived with us since my mother died,” she told her visitors.

“I thought it must be a hum,” replied Miss Deeping. “It seems we are to be stifled to death here in London.”

Cecelia could sympathize. Because her father paid no attention and her aunt did not care, her situation was unusual. She’d been the mistress of the house for nine years, and manager of the Vainsmede properties for even longer. Her father left everything to her, too lazy to be bothered. Indeed Cecelia sometimes wondered how she ever came to be in the first place, as Papa cared for nothing but rich meals and reading. She supposed her maternal grandmother had simply informed him that he was being married and then sent someone to drag him from his library to the church on the day. But no, he had cared for Mama. She must believe that.

“Every circumstance is different,” said Miss Moran.

She was one who liked to smooth things over, Cecelia noted.

“And Miss Vainsmede is older than…” Miss Moran blushed and bit her lip as if afraid she’d given offense.

“Three years older than you,” Cecelia acknowledged. “Do you all want my advice?”

“We must have new clothes and haircuts,” said Miss Grandison.

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