MAKE SURE THE CRAVAT is straight,” Frederick reminded his valet. Just because Lady Theodosia had seen him dusty with rubble particles over him, did not mean she should see him with a crooked cravat three hours later.

“Very good, Your Grace.”

“I hope you’re not smiling.”

“Naturally not, Your Grace,” his valet replied, though the man’s voice wobbled, and Frederick had the suspicion he was amused. “I’m only happy you express reverence for the importance of well-maintained clothes.”

“Well—” Frederick was certain he normally might have berated the man, but how could he fault the man for being happy?

He mused over what Lady Theodosia and he would chat about. Would his mother like her? And would she like his mother?

He smiled. Naturally his mother would like her: there was so much likable about Lady Theodosia.

His valet stepped back. “You look exquisite, Your Grace. No one would believe you’d arrived in your room covered with a layer of dust.”

“Splendid. Now you’ll just have to work on a memory potion.”

“Your Grace?”

“Never mind, George.” Frederick bounded from the room and wove through the complex of corridors until he reached his mother’s suite.

Piano music wafted through the corridors, and he knocked on his mother’s door. All the better to tell her about the events of the afternoon.

“Enter.” His mother used the same lofty voice that had caused all theater goers to adore her in the last century when she’d pranced about a stage in Covent Garden until Frederick’s father had spotted her and whisked her away.

Frederick opened the door to his mother’s chambers. The view of the Yorkshire countryside spread through the large windows. Even the snow could not obscure the sharp slopes of the Dales.

Frederick had given his mother the best room in the house. After all, his preferred location was in the dank laboratory.

Which now had a hole in it.

He frowned. He’d forgotten to get a servant to clean it and repair the hole. How odd he’d forgotten.

“Darling!” His mother halted her melody and rose from the pianoforte. Her dress rustled against the revolving piano stool, and he gazed at it with satisfaction.

“That truly is helpful.” He spun the stool again. The leather covering was still intact and seemed in no danger of spinning off the carved pedestal.

“Most inventive,” his mother declared, smoothing the net flounce that adorned her corbeau colored gown. 

Frederick kissed her on the cheek. “And that’s a pretty dress.” 

“Naturally. My taste is exquisite.” She took his arm. “But is there perhaps another reason you wanted to see me? Apart from bestowing compliments on my immaculate taste? The servants mentioned you seemed unhappy after your visit to Cambridge.”

Guilt that he hadn’t gone to see her when he returned coursed through him. He’d sought solace in his laboratory instead. 

“Do not worry,” he said. “I discovered I’d been going about the experiment all wrong. I’d created a waterproof cloak, but a waterproof frockcoat would be more appealing.”

“And what gave you that revelation?”

“Spilling water on Admiral Fitzroy’s face.” 

“Punishment for thrusting his niece onto us for Christmas?”

“His niece is currently sewing an improved version.”

His mother frowned. “Frederick Bowen, Duke of Salisbury, that is not the way to treat guests, no matter how much you despise their presence.”

N-no, that wasn’t it at all.”

His mother narrowed her eyes and surveyed him with the intensity of a conductor perturbed by the wayward wandering of a bow, and then she—

Smiled. “You’re happy.”

“Nonsense.” He directed his gaze back on the revolving piano stool, yet heat had decided to spread from the back of his neck to his cheeks.

His mother cupped her hand to his ear. “I think I hear wedding bells.”

Normally Frederick might have squirmed.

Ever since his mother had developed a passion for Loretta Van Lochen novels, she’d developed an appalling habit of seeing romance everywhere.

His mother’s eyes sparkled.  “Let’s dine.”

*

THIS WAS ALL WRONG.

Celia stood in the dining room.

The duke and duchess had not arrived yet, and she awkwardly perused the gilt framed paintings of landscapes she would never visit. The row of footmen seemed determined to mirror the classical statues dug from the ground to be placed in this room in rigidity.

She clutched the back of a chair.

“Allow me.” One of the footmen appeared at once. “This is actually His Grace’s seat, but you could sit over there—”

“I prefer to stand,” Celia said quickly. “Such lovely décor! One really must scrutinize it.”

Celia attempted to act like it was perfectly natural for her to be here.

The footman inclined his torso, but his head tilted slightly, as if most guests were not prone to complimenting the dining room décor. Perhaps less thought had been put into the furniture here than in other areas of the home.

Still, Celia did not see how it would be possible for anything to be nicer than this. The dark paneled walls of the room made it feel cozier than Celia knew it should. Golden goddesses perched candles upon their heads in what must be the ducal form of candlesticks. The candles didn’t smell poorly, and they did not darken the crisp white tablecloth Celia could not imagine having to keep clean.

Finally footsteps sounded on the corridor outside.

The footmen’s backs grew more rigid, and their skin paled.

Celia swallowed hard. Perhaps she and the duke had shared pleasantries, but he remained a lofty aristocrat invited to court with a frequency Lady Fitzroy would be deeply jealous of, and she remained a maid.

“Ah,” the duke said. “You’re here.”

He was more handsome in the light.

He’d managed to be less intimidating when he’d appeared dusty after the explosion. He’d been wearing more casual clothes, but now he was in full finery. Black velvet glimmered under the candles, and every fold of his snowy white cravat was exquisite. But it was his eyes, dark and intelligent, she noticed most. His hair had seemed the type of brown most often seen in mice, but now, when it was no longer covered by dust and rubble, and when she could see him up close, it was clear that his brown locks possessed many varying shades. Somehow each strand managed to be glorious. His dark eyes danced over his regal nose, that managed to neither dip up or down, but remain perfectly, effortlessly straight. 

She shouldn’t be here. She’d put on her very nicest dress, though she imagined the duke and duchess would notice the simple, rough texture of the gown and its dearth of ribbons and lace. She felt like an imposter, even though the duke had invited her here specifically. She raised her chin. And why shouldn’t he? Her father was an earl. As had been her grandfather, and six ancestors before him. Some people provided for their bastards better.

But not her father.

He’d had her educated with his real daughters, to the constant dismay of Lady Fitzroy. But since he died... She sighed. She was still her husband’s bastard, and she’d never be more than a servant.

Perhaps Lord Bowen knew her lineage. At any rate it was clear he did not consider it improper for her to dine with him. He’d even brought his mother...whose background was a great deal more eccentric than she would have imagined possible for a lady of the highest echelons of the ton.

––––––––

THE WOMAN BESIDE HIM must be his mother. Her gown was also dark, though a green tint gleamed under the flickering candlelights. Unlike others in her generation, she hadn’t abandoned fashion. Her net flounce and puffed sleeves were as elegant as anything found in Matchmaking for Wallflowers, though she’d chosen more sophisticated colors than the pink and lavender Theodosia and Amaryllis favored.

“Your Graces.” Celia sank into a curtsy.

“My Lady.” Frederick swept into a deep bow.

Celia’s smile wobbled. The man was polite, but the pet name was too close to what people might call true aristocrats.

“You needn’t call me that,” she said hastily.

Was one allowed to contradict a duke? She shifted her legs over the wooden floor, and the footman promptly drew up a chair. Likely he worried she would decide to lunge onto the wrong seat or crush the elaborate carved back with her quivering fingers.

She sat down to eat with them and tried not to linger too long on the chiselled features of his face and the hard planes of his chest.

From the amused look of the duchess and the manner she kept on gazing between them, she doubted she’d succeeded. 

No matter.

She was here, dining with a duke.

It was something she would remember her entire life, and she intended to enjoy it.

“Your home is so beautiful,” she murmured.

The duchess beamed. “I’m so pleased you enjoy it. My late husband brought a great many things back with him on his Grand Tour.”

“I have the impression Father was purchasing things and sending them on ahead of him,” the duke said.

“Well, your father was most efficient.” The duchess’s gaze grew pensive. “It is such a pity your generation was never able to go on your own Grand Tours.”

“None of your family did.”

“That did not benefit them.”

“I doubt they would list not going on the continent high on their list of disadvantages.”

“Perhaps not,” the duchess demurred, “Though I do feel that a Grand Tour was a great advantage for the young men who went. Or at least...it made them risk more.”

“There’s nothing like being uncertain about the quality of the next inn’s bedding to make one embrace the present,” the duke said drily.

“Or perhaps of seeing a lovely, unexpected view,” Celia ventured, conscious she should join the conversation.

“Exactly,” the duchess said. “I’m not certain the duke would have married me if he hadn’t gone to Europe.”

“He wouldn’t have developed a taste for opera,” Frederick said.

The duchess shrugged. “Your father was always musically gifted. Just like you.”

Celia took a sip of her drink, and a footman immediately appeared to refill it. Her lips twitched. No wonder the footmen in Fitzroy Place had complained of working hard. Looking suitably disinterested in a conversation while keeping certain the diners were attended to must still be easier than scrubbing a floor or lighting a fire.

“What instruments do you play?” Celia inquired.

“Oh, everything,” the duchess said. “Though between us, I’ve always believed my son to be more interested in the construction of the instruments. I hear though that you are quite adept at the construction of garments.”

“Your son’s waterproof fabric is most appealing,” Celia said.

“I hope soldiers appreciate it,” the duke said.

“Oh, I can envision many more people than that appreciating it,” Celia said. “Servants don’t ride about in covered carriages with regularity.”

“How true,” the duchess said. “It is rare to find someone in the ton who understands it.”

But then, they were hardly normal members of the ton.

The duchess had been an entertainer at Covent Garden, using her voice and sense of humor rather than her lineage to attract a duke.

“It’s easy to forget about the rigid expectations of the ton,” the duchess said. “I married into it, and they had to put up with it. Mostly I prefer dismissing them as overly snobbish. It’s quite sad when the best thing a person has ever achieved was an accident.”

“Mother,” the duke said. “Perhaps it’s best not to criticize the ton. Not all members are the same.”

The duchess shrugged. “Perhaps not.” She glanced at Celia. “You might be shocked to learn that I used to be an entertainer.”

“I’m sure she knows about it,” the duke said. “You mention it to everyone.”

The duchess grinned. “It’s all they desire to speak about. I can hardly hide it.”

“But you make them uncomfortable.” The duke gave Celia an apologetic glance.

“I would love to hear about it,” Celia said to the duchess.

She brightened. “I used to be the best singer in all Covent Garden.”

“I’m not certain you had much competition,” the duke said.

“Fiddle-faddle,” the duchess said. “We were all talented. Some of the comedy has gone out of fashion.”

“As have the wigs,” the duke added. “And the oversized skirts.” 

“And low waistlines?” Celia added.

“She knows her history,” the duke said.

“I’m hardly history,” the duchess protested. “That would suggest an antiquity I by no means possess. Perhaps the fashion changed. I certainly wouldn’t have advised the ton to spend this entire decade in clothes resembling Greek or Roman statues, as if the ancient Classical men and women restricted themselves to white attire.”

“Those statues may have been painted once,” the duke mused. “Time would have altered any paint’s chemistry.”

“Truly?” Celia asked. She’d spent so many hours washing the ivory gowns Theodosia and Amaryllis wore. It was amusing, and perhaps even dreadful, that they were emulating a fashion that had never existed.

“The large skirts are still found at court.” Celia remembered preparing the gowns for when Theodosia and Amaryllis had debuted and they’d been presented. “They are pretty.”

Theodosia and Amaryllis had complained about the comfort, but that had been no concern to Celia.

The duchess smiled triumphantly. “Indeed they are pretty. And most flattering. I don’t know how the women of the ton think that they’ll find husbands, if half-of them look like they’re already expecting. It hardly speaks for an intact virginity. And no man wants to find himself sliced apart by some jealous rival.”

*

MOTHER AND LADY THEODOSIA were getting along well.

The footmen seemed to be spending far too much time smiling. Frederick wasn’t new to the manor house. The natural resting points for the tips of their lips had never been higher than the rest of their lip before. Their eyes flickered with knowingness.

He’d been right.

Lady Theodosia’s presence utterly distracted him.

It wasn’t for the reasons he’d imagined.

He’d imagined her to speak condescendingly about his work, exclaiming over his fascination for the content in test tubes. He’d imagined her to devote far too large a conversation portion to the dissection of fashion trends and the insistence that her style was unparalleled, even though at twenty she would be too young to have much knowledge of the context of the fashion trends, and even though her aristocratic birth negated the possibility she had personal knowledge on the construction of those fashions.

Lady Theodosia did neither of those things. She didn’t even speak about the London set. She’d never remarked it odd he avoided the capital with the same vigor as one who was wary of crocodile-infested water.

The footmen cleared the table.

This was the time when the butler would inquire if he desired a new drink. The question was a formality: Frederick possessed no particular fondness for the amaretto-colored liquids his class delighted in drinking from crystal glasses.

This time though...

The green leaves and red ribbon of mistletoe made him feel festive. “Bring us up some eggnog.”

The butler gave a slight bow, but not before his eyes sparkled once again.

“I’ve never had that before,” Lady Theodosia exclaimed.

“That’s because you’ve never lived in the North,” his mother said. “Poor child.”

Sympathy coursed through Frederick. “I hadn’t realized you wouldn’t have come across it. It’s not a northern drink.”

“People of my class have limited experiences,” Lady Theodosia said.

His sympathy heightened. The way women could be treated was appalling.

He shouldn’t wonder if the ladies of the ton had limited interest in science: no one had bothered to teach them the most rudimental parts of it.

He thought of Lady Fitzroy. It was difficult to imagine her encouraging her to develop an interest in things that did not relate to her future role as a mistress of a manor home. If she learned about the orient, it would be to judge the provenance of the elaborate fans, china vases and ivory boxes so popular. “I suppose your mother might have limited some of your access.”

Her face pinkened, and she drew her hands toward her. “Indeed.”

“Natural enough, I suppose,” he mused.

She gave a tight nod. Her face had gone from pink to white. Both looks suited her, though he regretted he’d made her uncomfortable.

“You must forgive my son,” his mother said. “He spends far too little time in society.”

He shrugged. “I suppose you do not have the problem.”

Lady Theodosia laughed. “No, there are different expectations for me.”