Chapter 7

Osborn greeted Isabella and Frederica at the bottom of the stairs. “The Duke of Riverton is in the drawing room, my ladies.”

Isabella’s eyes widened. “You let him in while we were unavailable?”

The butler stared at her, his face a blank mask that somehow managed to convey that he thought her a simpleton. “He’s the Duke of Riverton.”

Well, there was that. Residing at the top of the aristocratic pile meant things like social graces were irrelevant. Especially in the home of a man desperate to gain the favor of as many of those vote-wielding aristocrats as possible.

Isabella blinked at the harsh thoughts going through her head. Less than a week in London, and already she was wallowing in an anti-elitist tirade that even her father would frown on. While he’d never suffered any lost love for his wife’s title-bearing ancestors, he’d always maintained a respect for them and the system. Isabella had too, until she’d been thrust into the inner workings of it.

Knowing that her uncle, a member of the elite House of Lords, was willing to trade for votes instead of relying on the merit of the bill was a bit disillusioning.

Frederica’s cold fingers wrapped around Isabella’s. “We’ll go in directly, Osborn. Please have a tray brought in.”

The thought of more tea made Isabella’s stomach roil. She’d have to make more of a point to nibble on biscuits, despite the fact that it wasn’t easy to do so with any real elegance.

The duke was standing at the window when Frederica and Isabella walked in—although considering his enormous size, it could be more aptly described that he was blocking the window. The man really was impressive. As the daughter of a farmer, Isabella could appreciate the strength and ability of a man of the duke’s stature. It was a shame that all of that fitness was probably limited to riding horses and shooting billiards.

He turned from the window with a smile, and even Isabella’s malcontent attitude couldn’t find fault with the man’s appearance. Perfectly smoothed dark blond hair and smiling green eyes weren’t a common combination in England, but they were certainly an attractive one. If his brother was the handsome one, she wasn’t sure she’d survive meeting him.

“My apologies, Miss St. Claire, Miss Breckenridge. Had I been informed you were indisposed, I’d have gladly returned at a more convenient time.” He inclined his head in Frederica’s direction before nodding toward Isabella.

“Not at all, Your Grace. It is such an honor to have you come call.” Frederica curtsied before settling herself into her earlier position on the settee. Isabella followed suit with a bit of wariness. The duke was the first man all afternoon to acknowledge Freddie before Bella. Despite her earlier teasing, Isabella hadn’t really been confident in the duke’s interest. And now that he was here, she wasn’t sure what she really wanted him to do.

Having him interested in Frederica would obviously be a testament to his good sense and a boon to her popularity, but such an increase in status would dampen any hope Freddie had of getting her father to accept Arthur’s renewed suit. Assuming Arthur was interested in renewing his suit. When had life gotten so complicated?

“Thank you. I trust you have recovered from last night? The room was quite crowded. I heard many people comment on how difficult it was to breathe.” He folded himself into one of the armchairs, which brought him close enough for Isabella to catch a whiff of cedar and grass. The earthy scent was in such contrast to the rosewater and lavender she’d been smelling the rest of the afternoon that she had to fight the urge to inhale deeply.

“Yes, thank you.” Frederica’s calm voice helped Isabella get a firm hold on her faculties. “All I needed was a bit of space and air. I was feeling quite refreshed by the time I rejoined the party. Miss Breckenridge’s attentions made the recovery much faster than it would have been otherwise.” Frederica smiled sweetly in Isabella’s direction, making Bella want to bash her cousin in the head with the decorative pillow at her back.

The duke glanced sideways at Isabella and swallowed. Was he uncomfortable that Frederica had forced him to acknowledge Isabella? Did he wish her removed from the room? It was enough to make Isabella consider the merits of a spate of fake coughing or even the claim of another need to retire. Despite what Frederica seemed to think, the attentions of the duke were not something to be sloughed off easily. Arthur had been gone for years and might be intending to disappear again. Isabella couldn’t let her cousin toss a secure and vibrant future away on a whim and a memory.

“I merely saw to your comfort, cousin. It was the esteemed duke who truly set you on the path to a quick recovery.” Isabella winced, afraid she might be laying a bit too much praise on the man. She didn’t want to make Frederica appear desperate.

“Of course.” Freddie glared in Bella’s direction before smiling at the duke once more. “I am most appreciative, Duke.”

He inclined his head, managing to look powerful and superior even while sitting in a delicate armchair.

Osborn entered silently, a laden tray in his hands. After setting it on the table for the seventh time that day, he leaned over and whispered something in Frederica’s ear.

Isabella’s eyes narrowed as Frederica’s widened. Her cousin’s skin paled, and Isabella was very much afraid that her cousin was going to faint away in front of the duke for the second time in as many days. If Freddie wanted to retain the duke’s attention at all, fainting was probably not the proper method. Isabella didn’t know much about the duke, but she couldn’t see him wanting a woman with such a propensity. It would be terribly inconvenient to have your wife faint every time you talked to her.

But Freddie didn’t faint.

She didn’t do much of anything else either, leaving Isabella to lean forward and see to the tea.

“Have you a favorite type of biscuit, Your Grace?” Isabella asked as she passed a cup of tea to the duke.

He thanked her with a nod, even as he cast a skeptical look in Frederica’s direction. “Yes. There’s a particularly fine cinnamon biscuit that my brother’s housekeeper makes. I’ve never admitted it to her, but I have been known to stop by his house on occasion to see if she’s made any that day.”

Isabella fixed Frederica a cup but left it on the table, since she wasn’t sure Freddie was even aware of what was going on around her. “I don’t believe I’ve ever had a cinnamon—”

“If that’s your favorite, I should see if we have some.” Frederica burst into the conversation while popping up from her position on the settee.

The duke fumbled his cup as he quickly rose to his feet. Aside from the slight bobble of china, the move had been rather graceful for such a large man. Isabella had assumed he didn’t dance because he wasn’t good at it. Now she wasn’t so sure.

He cleared his throat and slid his teacup onto the table. “I don’t think cinnamon biscuits are all that com—”

“I’ll check.”

And before Isabella or the duke could say a word, Frederica’s skirt was swishing through the door.

Isabella had no idea what had gotten into her normally sedate cousin, but she knew if word got back to her uncle that the duke had a terrible visit, both the girls’ lives would be miserable.

So she smiled at the duke. Her best smile. The one men had been falling over themselves to compliment all afternoon.

He paused in the act of resuming his seat but said nothing.

Isabella’s smile faltered a bit. “Miss St. Claire is very attentive to her guests.”

One thick golden brow lifted, and his head tilted to the side as he considered her. “An admirable trait.”

“Yes.” Isabella nodded, wondering how far she could get before her compliments of Frederica made her sound like a medicine show charlatan. “She’s been the best of hostesses.”

She hadn’t really left him much room to respond. He could hardly agree that yes she’d make a man a wonderful wife someday and wouldn’t it be fortunate if that man was him. Frederica really would faint if she knew Isabella had pulled such a confession from him.

“Perhaps. But I wouldn’t think she’d be the most adequate of chaperons.”

Isabella winced at the frank statement, although she was a bit more surprised that he was the first to call them out on it. Would her uncle’s claim of Frederica’s spinster status falter if the duke started courting her cousin? What would that do to their plans?

The duke settled back into the armchair with care, as if he worried that the entire thing was going to break at any moment. Given his size and the delicate appearance of the chair, that wasn’t a completely foolish notion. She considered offering him the settee, but there wasn’t a way to do that without appearing awkward.

More awkward than she’d already appeared anyway.

“Oh. Well.” Isabella took a sip of tea, trying to come up with a reasonable justification for the lack of an older female relation in the house. “My uncle says the maturity Frederica has gained in her several Seasons is enough to serve as a chaperon here in our home.”

The questioning look returned to the duke’s face, but this time one side of his lips tilted up as well. He ran his thumb along the edge of his lip before returning his hand to rest on the arm of the chair, his forefinger rubbing slowly against his thumb. “I had no idea we were declaring women spinsters at such a young age.”

Isabella tried not to laugh, but it was impossible not to answer the slight smirk on the duke’s face with a small smile of her own. Unfortunately the shared humor gave her nowhere to take the conversation except further into the ridiculous—and nowhere near the true reason her situation was not quite as proper as they were pretending it was.

She could hardly tell the duke that Uncle Percy didn’t trust that any of his distant female relations would not try to discourage certain men from calling on her or that they wouldn’t actually marry her off to one of them before the vote. Instead she repeated the line he’d been bandying about Town. “I believe the age of declaration depends greatly upon the female in question. Some are more trustworthy and mature than others.”

His grin broke wide open for a moment, displaying an even row of teeth and charming grooves on either side of his smile. The curved lips were quickly contained, but in that one moment the duke had been the most handsome man she’d ever seen. “That would explain her excellent hostessing skills.”

“It would?” Isabella fumbled with her cup, unsure of how the duke had managed to find anything reasonable in her bumbling statement but thankful that he’d bought it. “I mean. Of course it does.”

“What with her being so matronly at such a young age. I’m glad you enlightened me of her status. I was unaware. Do you think she still considers herself open to marriage, or is she planning on seeking a small cottage in Brighton? I hear the spinsters there like to meet weekly for cribbage.”

Isabella wanted to laugh—she really did—but whether out of mirth or panic, she wasn’t sure. Where was Frederica? Was she making the biscuits herself?

Just then Frederica burst into the room, a slight blush riding her cheekbones and a small smile on her face. She crossed the room and sat next to Isabella, leaning over to whisper while she adjusted her skirts. “Arthur is in the kitchens.”

Whatever Miss St. Claire was sharing had a profound effect on Miss Breckenridge. Her incredibly colored eyes widened, glancing between her cousin and the door before she dropped her gaze back into her teacup.

Griffith was beginning to think that, despite their small numbers, this family had entirely too much turmoil for him. In truth, the only thing keeping him in this uncomfortably tiny chair was the fact that he wasn’t ready to admit that he had been wrong in his choice of Miss St. Claire. He absolutely hated being wrong.

He cleared his throat and reached for a biscuit, though not a cinnamon one. Despite her long delay, Miss St. Claire didn’t seem to remember that was what she’d gone to see to in the first place. Not that he’d expected her to return with cinnamon biscuits—they weren’t that common, after all—but he had anticipated a pretty apology about it.

“Oh.” Miss St. Claire turned her attention back to him, red splotches riding high across her cheekbones and making her nose appear even larger. “We don’t have cinnamon biscuits.”

Griffith inclined his head. “Quite all right.”

The three of them stared at one another, the girls seeming to communicate without words, while Griffith was left to wonder how other men did this every day. Of course, he hadn’t had any problem conversing with Miss Breckenridge moments before, even if the propriety of the conversation had been questionable. They’d at least been talking. And despite what his family seemed to think, Griffith did intend to converse with his wife. He didn’t expect her to be a silent fixture he had to remember to dust off every once in a while.

Only he couldn’t think of the first thing to say to Miss St. Claire.

“We went to the Egyptian Hall a few days ago.” Miss Breckenridge’s glance bounced from Griffith to her cousin to the door and back again. “Have you had a chance to go, Your Grace?”

“I’m afraid not.”

She smiled. “Not a great lover of art?”

“Of some art.” He shrugged. “My youngest sister paints quite well. I have several of her pieces at Hawthorne House. Nearly every fire screen in the house has her touch on it.”

“I do watercolours.” Miss St. Claire’s blurted statement had Griffith jerking a bit in his chair. He’d forgotten she was there.

He cleared his throat and reminded himself—again—that he was here to visit Miss St. Claire and not her younger, prettier, more personable cousin. “Do you enjoy them?”

She popped up, nearly as abruptly as she had before, and Griffith scrambled to his feet.

“I’ll go get them for you.”

Miss Breckenridge jumped up from her seat and grabbed her cousin’s elbow. “No, I rather think your watercolours can wait.”

The tightening of Miss St. Claire’s lips made it quite evident that more was under discussion than amateur artwork. Griffith should probably care what it was since he was intending to marry Miss St. Claire, but he couldn’t seem to drum up more than the mild curiosity that naturally occurred when one was in the presence of a potentially good mystery.

“But he hasn’t seen my watercolours in years.”

Miss Breckenridge’s eyes narrowed. “The duke has never seen your watercolours.”

The blush returned in full force as Miss St. Claire looked his way with an apologetic smile. It appeared she was suffering from the same malady he was—forgetting the other person was there. Again. Being overlooked wasn’t something Griffith was accustomed to experiencing.

He should probably have cared more.

As this wasn’t the first time that thought had occurred to him, he had to wonder if Ryland was right and he was going to find his choice of wife a bit boring. Could he love boring?

The butler appeared in the door. “Miladies, Lord Naworth has arrived. Shall I send him away?”

Miss Breckenridge closed her eyes and sighed. “No. Send him in.” She gave a pointed look to her cousin. “His Grace came to visit with Miss St. Claire.”

Sharp footsteps echoed from the adjacent hall as the butler turned to depart the room, and all of the room’s occupants swung their gazes to the open door to see an average-sized man with a slender build and pointy chin enter the room with an enormous smile on his face. To be honest, Griffith was surprised it had taken Lord Pontebrook this long to join them.

“Riverton! What honor brings you to my home?”

Griffith thought that was rather obvious, given the fact that he was in the drawing room with the ladies instead of in the viscount’s study, but he refrained from the comment. The quickly covered burst of laughter from Miss Breckenridge likely indicated a similar thought had crept through her head.

“I wanted to take note of Miss St. Claire’s health after—”

“What beauty is before me, in grace as well as face?” A wiry man in a bottle-green coat swept into the room, extending a bouquet of brightly colored flowers. He crossed to Miss Breckenridge and bowed low. “For a glimpse of just her smile, I have walked from Bruton Place.”

Had his sisters had to put up with such nauseating nonsense? Where was this man’s sense of pride? Griffith couldn’t resist mumbling, “You live in Brook Street, Naworth.”

“I should see to more tea!” Miss St. Claire stepped around the tea table and headed for the door.

“You could simply ring for it.” Miss Breckenridge’s voice was resigned, as if she knew that her suggestion would be ignored.

“Her hair is the golden sun in the blue sky of her eyes,” Lord Naworth continued.

Lord Pontebrook clapped Griffith on the back. “Since you’re here I’d love to discuss the prospects in Parliament this year.”

Griffith had never seen a house so chaotic. If he was going to take control of this courtship, he was going to have to remove Miss St. Claire from these surroundings. He cast a glance around the room as the butler showed yet another gentleman into the drawing room, thankfully removing Lord Pontebrook from Griffith’s side but adding to the noise as the man expounded upon his joy at being able to simply bask in the presence of Miss Breckenridge’s beauty.

The first man was still reciting his poem, though. And after a particularly excruciating line about the curve of Miss Breckenridge’s temples, Griffith could have sworn he heard her mutter, “Oh good, I get a new hat.”