“GRANDMAMA, I’D LIKE you to meet Miss Josephine Wentworth of America, my intended bride.”
Josie curtsied. She knew that much of proper behavior toward royalty. But she couldn’t have spoken to save her life. She was completely tongue-tied, knowing she was in the presence of the Dowager Duchess of Blackthorne.
Blackthorne’s grandmother sat near the window in the sitting room of her townhome with the sun streaming down on her, making her upswept hair shine like silver. She was so petite the wing chair seemed to engulf her, yet her rigid back and regal pose, with one hand on a black cane set before her, made her seem daunting.
Nerves had Josie wringing the lace handkerchief Miss Brownlee had given her. The thought of those two unhappy boys she hoped to save was all that kept her from running to the docks and taking the first ship back to America. She knew when she was unwelcome, and the Dowager Duchess of Blackthorne was not happy to see her.
It was one thing to believe in your heart that no one person was better than any other, simply because of his birth. It was another thing entirely to stay calm in the face of someone as intimidating as the dowager, especially when she was marrying the woman’s grandson under false pretenses.
Josie gritted her teeth in an effort to stop her chin from quivering and tucked the wrinkled handkerchief into the edge of one glove, as she met the dowager’s arrogant gaze.
To her dismay, when she spoke, she ended up stammering, “I’m g-g-glad to m-m-meet you, Your G-G-Grace.”
The dowager turned a baleful eye on her grandson and asked, “Is that a permanent affliction or—”
“No, Your Grace,” Josie interjected. And then realized she’d committed another faux pas by interrupting. She swallowed over the irksome knot of fear in her throat and said, “Excuse me, Your Grace, but this has all been very sudden. And very overwhelming.”
The dowager ignored her and asked Blackthorne, “Did you rush the girl into this without giving her a chance to reconsider?”
“No!” Josie said, bringing the dowager’s attention sharply back in her direction. She squared her shoulders as her gaze collided with the older woman’s piercing blue eyes, and said, “I want to marry your grandson.”
“I’m not surprised,” the dowager replied. “This must be a dream come true for you.”
Josie flushed at the contempt she heard in the dowager’s voice. Blackthorne’s grandmother thought she was a grasping American, trading coins for a British title. Josie yearned to tell her the truth, that she was marrying Blackthorne to rescue his mistreated nephews, but she didn’t dare give away the truth before she and Blackthorne were well and truly wed.
“Grandmama.”
The single word, spoken by the duke in a soft, firm voice, caused the dowager’s lips to purse, as her blue eyes locked with those of her grandson. In a similarly quiet voice she said, “I expected you to choose a woman of equal rank and heritage, a woman worthy of your name.”
“Miss Wentworth is doing me the honor of becoming my wife,” he replied. “As my future duchess, she’s entitled to your respect. I insist upon it.”
The dowager raised a finely arched brow. “You insist?”
Josie watched the two proud peers of the realm face off and wondered who would give in first. The dowager suddenly turned to Josie, without a hint of capitulation, and said, “You will be my guest for dinner tonight.”
Josie couldn’t imagine how she was going to swallow a bite of food past the giant lump in her throat and searched for a way she could politely refuse. She would much rather have a plate of food sent to her room—a room anywhere other than in the dowager’s home—and avoid further interaction with either the duke or the dowager duchess before the wedding. “I would love to, Your Grace. However,” she shrugged and smiled, “I have nothing appropriate to wear.”
The dowager slid an incredulous look toward her grandson, then met Josie’s gaze again. “Why is that?”
“I was scheduled to return to America this morning, and my baggage was already loaded on shipboard. I have no idea where my trunks are at the moment,” she said, feeling the heat rising on her cheeks at the lie.
“One of my granddaughters should have something that will fit you,” the dowager said.
Josie looked at Blackthorne in astonishment. “You have sisters?”
“Two of them. Twins,” Blackthorne said. “They live here with my grandmother.”
If the duke had a grandmother and sisters living in London, Josie wondered why his nephews had been relegated to some faraway estate. Since she wasn’t supposed to know of Spencer’s and Clay’s existence, she didn’t ask. But it was one more black mark against the duke.
“Where are the girls?” the duke asked his grandmother. “I expected them to be here to meet Miss Wentworth.”
“Lark and Lindsey attended a picnic this afternoon at Kensington Gardens. You can’t expect them to drop everything whenever you interview another potential bride. Especially since you’ve been so dismissive of every female you’ve met so far.” She added in an undertone, “Including some very proper ladies I’ve introduced to you myself.”
Blackthorne’s lips thinned and a muscle in his jaw bunched.
His grandmother must have recognized he was at the limit of his patience, because she added, “I expect the twins to be home at any moment.”
As though they’d been summoned, Josie heard two female voices laughing and chattering beyond the door. A moment later the parlor door flew open and two identical girls with black curls, bright smiles, flushed faces, and flashing blue eyes appeared arm in arm. The twins were tall, with shapely figures—definitely not schoolroom misses.
Josie guessed the girls were somewhere between seventeen and twenty, since they had to be at least seventeen to be out in Society, and by the age of twenty, most girls were married and lived with their husbands. They were dressed at the height of fashion in the exact same peach-colored princess sheath, with stylish straw bonnets tied under their chins with matching peach ribbons.
“Good afternoon, Grandmama,” one of them said, untying the ribbon and removing her bonnet.
“Good afternoon, Marcus,” the other said, following her sister’s lead and letting the bonnet swing from her hand by the grosgrain ribbon.
“Who’s this?” they both said together, their eyes focused on Josie.
“This is the young woman your brother intends to marry,” the dowager announced.
Josie expected the same disdain she’d gotten from Blackthorne’s grandmother. She couldn’t have been more wrong. The two girls tossed their hats onto a nearby sofa and came rushing toward her, embracing her from both sides.
“I’m Lark,” one twin said.
“I’m Lindsey,” the other said.
“It’s so nice to meet you,” they chorused.
Josie smiled back, laughing along with them, because they seemed so entirely attuned to each other, just as her own twin sisters, Hannah and Hetty, were. “I’m Josie,” she said, responding with her first name, since they’d used their own. She saw a pinched look appear on the dowager’s face and presumed it was because she’d introduced herself using her nickname, rather than her entire proper name. Or maybe it was the devil-may-care way the girls had abandoned their hats and embraced a perfect stranger, surely not the ladylike behavior the dowager must expect from her granddaughters.
Which gave Josie some hope.
If these girls could grow up with the duke and the dowager as their role models and still be so friendly and outgoing, maybe there was a way for her to survive and thrive as a member of this family.
Josie searched for some difference between the two English girls, something that would allow her to tell them apart. Her sisters Hannah and Hetty looked identical, but the differences in their behavior—Hannah was far more confident and forward, Hetty far more silly—made it possible for her to easily discern who was who.
Then Josie saw something that stunned her, something she knew would make telling the duke’s sisters apart far more simple than it should have been. The twin named Lark had a scar across the left side of her neck, as though it had been sliced with a knife—or cut with a whip. She glanced at the other twin and was shocked to see that she had the same scar, but on the opposite side of her neck.
Josie wondered how they’d ended up with scars so similarly located. Had they been involved in some mishap? Or was it mere coincidence that the twins had mirror-image scars? In any case, she had the clue she needed to identify them.
“Miss Wentworth needs a gown to wear to dinner tonight,” the dowager said to the twins. “Please take her upstairs and see what you have on hand that Miss Pope can alter to fit her.”
“Gladly, Grandmama,” Lark said.
“Come along, Josie,” Lindsey said.
They looped their arms through hers and hurried her toward the door. She pulled them both to a stop and freed herself so she could turn and curtsy to the dowager. “It was a pleasure meeting you,” she said, flushing again at this second lie. The meeting had been more traumatic than enjoyable. She turned to the duke and said, “I presume you will also be at dinner?”
“Of course. I want you to meet my best friend, David Madison, the Earl of Seaton. I’ve asked him to stand up with me at our wedding tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” There was no mistaking the horror in the dowager’s voice. To emphasize her displeasure, she rose imperiously to her feet. “What sort of foolishness is this? A rushed-up wedding for the Duke of Blackthorne? Unthinkable!”
“I’m sorry to break the news to you this way, Grandmama,” Blackthorne said. “But neither Miss Wentworth nor I care to wait for the banns to be read. I’ve obtained a special license, and we’ll be married tomorrow morning.” He held up a hand to stop his sputtering grandmother from protesting further as he added, “At St. George’s. You and the twins are invited, of course.”
“And your bride?” the dowager said. “Who will stand by her?”
“There is no one, Your Grace,” Josie said. “I’m an orphan. My sisters and brothers are scattered across America with no opportunity to come here within the three weeks it would take to read the banns. So, you see, there’s no reason to wait.”
The dowager shot a frigid look at her grandson. “There’s propriety. And tradition. And honor. And courtesy to one’s family.” Then she turned her cold blue eyes on Josie. “You said your trunks are missing, and you have nothing to wear tonight. What, pray tell, were you planning to wear to your wedding tomorrow morning?”
“I…” Josie hadn’t thought about a wedding gown. “I suppose I will have to find my trunks.” Which meant she had to contact Miss Brownlee and have her make a wedding gown, if such a thing could be accomplished in so short a time.
“You will stay here tonight,” the dowager said. “My dressmaker, Miss Pope, will take care of the matter, as soon as she finishes altering whatever you will be wearing to dinner tonight.” She turned to her grandson and said, “I wonder if you’ve thought about the time needed to plan a wedding breakfast to introduce your wife to Society.”
Josie saw the perturbed look on the duke’s face. Obviously, he hadn’t considered the need for a wedding breakfast but apparently realized, once it had been pointed out to him, the necessity for it.
“How long would you need to plan such an event?” he asked the dowager.
Josie could almost see the wheels spinning in the dowager’s head, wondering how much time she would need to change the duke’s mind about marrying some uncouth American girl.
Before the dowager could speak, Blackthorne said, “I’m willing to postpone the wedding for a week, Grandmama, if that’s agreeable to Miss Wentworth, in order to give you time to plan a wedding breakfast. But the wedding will remain a family affair.”
Josie was afraid that even a week was going to give her too much time to reconsider and regret what she was doing, but it seemed the best compromise she was going to be offered. “A week would give us time to become better acquainted,” she said.
“I suppose I can manage a wedding breakfast in seven days,” the dowager conceded. She glanced at Josie. “And have a wedding gown made for Miss Wentworth.”
Josie opened her mouth to protest the dowager’s high-handedness, but the older woman said, “It will be my wedding gift to you.” Under her breath, Josie heard her mutter, “At least you’ll look like a proper Blackthorne bride.”
The twins rejoined her and Lark said, “We’ll stand beside you, Josie.” She turned to her brother and asked, “You won’t mind, will you, Marcus?”
“I think that’s a very kind gesture,” he said. “If Miss Wentworth is agreeable. Miss Wentworth?”
Josie could hardly see the duke through the sudden rush of tears in her eyes, and her throat ached too badly to speak. She wouldn’t have to stand at the front of the church alone. She would have these two young ladies, who reminded her of the family she missed so terribly, to stand up with her.
She managed a wobbly smile and croaked, “I think that would be lovely.”