Page 1 of A Duke Never Tells
PROLOGUE
MEG PINWELL
“What do you think?” Lady Meg Pinwell glided into the morning room and sank into a deep curtsy. “Is it too much?”
“Two ostrich plumes sticking out of your head? If you have to ask, I think you already know the answer.” Meg’s aunt, Clara Bosley, snorted and returned her attention to the book in her hands.
Pirouetting so she could see her reflection in the front window, Meg curtsied again, paying particular attention to the bend and lift of the long, white feathers. “I think it’s very regal.”
“You look like a ship with luffing sails,” Clara commented, not looking up, and only the slightest of smiles hinting at her amusement. “Lean to port or starboard too far, and you’ll capsize.”
Meg squinted at her reflection as she adjusted her white elbow-length gloves. “Well, this is disappointing. I want to look like a great lady, not a sinking ship.”
“You either are a great lady, or you are not, Meg. One plume or two won’t make a difference, except to let everyone know you’re trying too hard and secretly don’t think yourself worthy of any plumage.”
Meg gathered the skirt of her white presentation gown and flopped onto the sofa beside her aunt. “You’re supposed to say encouraging things, Auntie. I’m expected to make a good match, you know. Papa even went to London last week to see if he could find any gossip threads that might lead to an exceptional marriage for me.”
That clearly caught Clara’s attention. She closed her book and set it aside. “Your father is an earl, my love, and your mother a countess. If they expect you to improve your station over their own, it leaves you no option but to marry either a marquis or a duke. Or a prince, I suppose, though Prinny’s unmarried brothers are much too old and fat for you. They’re being ridiculous.” She reached up, batting a finger at one of the ostrich plumes rising above Meg’s head. “And two ostrich plumes will not guarantee you a duchy, any more than one would condemn you to a sheep farm.”
“But this is for my debut. In front of the Queen. I have to be confident and demure and proper. With the correct amount of plumage.”
“What you generally are, Meg, my dear, is memorable. And far wittier than your parents would prefer.”
“Yes, but there’s good memorable and bad memorable. I don’t want to be the bad kind.”
“You always look the good memorable, you know. Even with no ostrich plumes. I overheard Tom Harris calling you a black-haired beauty just yesterday.” Her mouth twitched. “And then I told him you would be just as beautiful with blue hair, or none at all.”
Meg sighed. “Thank you, I think, but I’d like the plumes and my hair to do the work of impressing people at Court, so I don’t have to speak other than perhaps to say, ‘Your Highness’ as I curtsy.”
Shifting to face her more squarely, Clara narrowed her eyes. “Many people would wish to have a quarter of your good humor, Meg. It is as much a part of you as your hair, and unlike your looks, you can choose whether to display it or not. Wit is not a flaw.”
“According to Mama, it is. ‘Why do you always have to say something silly the moment the conversation slows? Can’t you simply be a polite, well-mannered young lady?’” By now she had that conversation memorized, she’d heard it so often. “I always begin well, but then I make a comment I shouldn’t. Suddenly I’m a vain minx who requires everyone to notice me simply because I said that the brown patch on the flank of Mr. Harker’s new cow looked like a gentleman’s naughty bits. Which it did.”
“So much so that he sold the cow again. Meg, you have a grand, exuberant sense of humor. If you were a man, you would be applauded for it.”
“But I’m not a man.” Meg smoothed the soft silk of her gown. It was a fine dress—a bit plain because evidently plainness equated with chastity—very much in the tradition of the attire all young ladies wore for their presentation to the Queen at the outset of their debut Season in London. “I can’t go about saying whatever comes into my head. And I need plume advice. Everyone else will be wearing their finest. What if they all have two plumes, and I’m the only one with one?”
“Then you’ll be noticed for your modesty. Whereas, if you’re the only one with two plumes in your hair y—”
“Capsizing galleon.” Sighing, Meg nodded. That made the feathers bounce, shifting her unruly black hair and the pins that held the things in place to starboard, and with a grin she did it again. “I do see your point. A stiff wind might do me in.”
Clara reached over to pat Meg’s hand. “If you’re worried about being an original, there is nothing wrong with that. There’s nothing ordinary about me, and I am quite happy.”
Snorting, Meg squeezed Clara’s fingers. Yes, they were aunt and niece, but with only eight years between them, they were closer to being sisters. And Clara was certainly her dearest friend. “No, there is not an ordinary thing about you. And if it were up to me, I would wear a half dozen ostrich feathers dyed in all the colors of the rainbow. But outlandish ladies don’t find good matches, and I do want to make a good match. And to make a good impression.”
“You want to be ordinary ? My goodness.”
“Clara, this is why Mama worries about us spending time together,” Meg whispered, only half jesting. “What I want, I think, is to be very close to completely acceptable, and then just a little bit… more.” She held her thumb and forefinger ever-so-slightly apart. “It’s only women who don’t care about their marital status who make outlandish gestures, or who speak when they should be silent, or who wear too many or not enough ostrich plumes.”
“I didn’t wear any feathers at my debut; they made me sneeze. And yet I think I’m quite spectacular.”
Clara Bosley was also quite possibly the least marriage-minded woman Meg had ever encountered. “You are spectacular, which is aided by the fact that you are smarter than most everyone, and don’t care what anyone else thinks.”
Clara’s cheeks pinked. “Thank you. I accept your compliment.”
“But I’m not you,” Meg pressed. “Mama and Papa have spoiled me horribly, have given me leave to be as silly and outspoken as I wish, to traipse about after you carrying signs advocating for women’s rights and the end of fox hunting, and the only thing they’ve asked in return is that as a grown woman I make them proud. I’m eighteen now. A grown woman.”
“Dear, if someone gives you leave to be outspoken, it’s they who control your character; not you. I much prefer being able to decide for myself who I am, and behave accordingly.”
Meg fought the growing urge to plunk her face into her hands. Clara Bosley, avowed spinster and bluestocking at the age of six-and-twenty, marcher for women’s suffrage, and a woman who lived alone but for a maid in her cottage at the edge of Brundon Hall’s property, had the ability to turn every moment into a crusade, and every crusade into a military operation.
No, Clara was not the perfect model for a young lady who tended to say the first thing that came into her head, especially when Meg got bored or when nerves got the best of her—or when the mood struck her. “I know you like to think yourself independent, Auntie, dear, and I don’t mean to offend, but you have your home thanks to two men—your father, and my father.”
“Nonsense.” Clara waved a hand at her. “I have my own income. I have had since I published my first pamphlet. Yes, my father—your grandfather—settled a generous inheritance on me, but he did the same for your mother. I’m here only because your mother asked me to come to Devon. She worried about me being alone in London. As if having a hundred friends and compatriots didn’t signify as much as having one husband.” She made a face. “But, as it turns out, I adore my only niece, and thus I have no qualms about living down the hill from her home.”
“Your niece is a very lucky young lady.” Meg grinned. “And you have taught me to appreciate eccentric behavior, and to rage against boorish behavior. Or at least to point it out.”
“I’m only eight years older than you are, Meg. Don’t accuse me of dictating the rules of behavior to you, for heaven’s sake. And some people are both eccentric and boorish.”
Meg laughed at that. “I told Mama you were just like a sister to me, and she rolled her eyes.”
“Of course she did. Because she married a wealthy man with a title, she now thinks status and money equates with perfection. And you’re her daughter, so of course there are standards which you must uphold. And things you must like, and others which you must dislike. I, on the other hand, like being unmarried. I also like to smoke a pipe, now and then.” She pretended to look over her shoulder. “Let’s not tell her that, though, or she will put her foot down.”
“I can’t help being an earl’s daughter any more than a fisherman’s daughter could be other than what she is. But I’m aware of that, and of how lucky I am, and I should behave in a manner that doesn’t shame or embarrass my family.” That was what it all came down to; she owned a certain degree of respect and respectability by virtue of her birth. The key was not to overset what she had by being too much… herself.
Nudging her shoulder, Clara smiled. “I have never felt embarrassed to be in your company. Sometimes you make my cheeks hurt because I’ve been laughing so hard, but I would never complain about that.”
“My point is that inciting laughter at odd moments or blurting out in the middle of a waltz that I enjoy shuttlecock isn’t how a young lady is supposed to attract a husband.”
“Husband, husband, husband. A highly overrated commodity in my opinion.”
“Clar—”
“However,” her aunt broke in, raising a finger, “and despite my reservations about your intention to find yourself a husband simply because it is the thing one does, I am delighted that you’re finally going to London. It has been five years since I last held a protest there or had a discussion with real teeth. And since you’ll be out in Society this Season, I can introduce you to some of my friends and compatriots. If I can outflank your mother and arrange for such a thing, that is.”
Meg wanted to meet them, and at the same time had a very good idea what her parents would think of that. “Whatever Mama may say, your friends will always be welcomed at Pinwell House, at least. And at every party I ever hostess, no matter who I marry.”
“I’m honored. And we may remain friends so long as you don’t expect me ever to throw myself about on the dance floor.” Clara shuddered.
“At any soirees of mine there will only be waltzes and music for listening to while we stroll about nibbling fragrant cheeses. And perhaps a poetry or dramatic reading every ten minutes or so by wailing women draped in black.”
Clara laughed. “Now that sounds divine.”
She would do no such thing, of course, but it was fun to imagine what a stir such eccentricity would cause. Causing stirs with her statements and opinions—and enjoying the mayhem, though—was her aunt’s province. Meg preferred when everything went swimmingly, which did happen more often when she wasn’t in Clara’s company. She wasn’t about to admit that aloud, though. Her mother already thought that the time spent with her aunt had made her even less fit for Society. Showing well for her debut Season would be the perfect way to prove that she could mind her tongue. Her thoughts, of course, would remain an absurd chaos of nonsense, but the point would be for no one else to realize that.
And perhaps Clara Bosley wasn’t the best person with whom to discuss fashion or marital status or being demure, but at least her opinion was always honest. Meg hugged her aunt’s arm. “Papa returned yesterday afternoon. He never said a word about London or marriage all through dinner despite my interrogations, but he kept glancing at Mama, and I swear he giggled at one point.”
“That doesn’t bode well. Gregory being excessively pleased with himself is nearly as intolerable as your mother after she’s bought the only bolt of imported green silk in the entire shire.”
Meg snorted. “She does like green. And silk.”
“Mm-hmm. Your mother told me he’d returned, but I couldn’t pry anything out of her, either.” Clara shifted, tapping her fingers on the book’s cover. “Whatever the outcome of his trip, I do hope you mean to have your own say in all this. Gregory and Josephine will only have to interact with their son-in-law on holidays. You will have to live with him.”
“Don’t forget, I may have you come live with us, so you’ll see him nearly daily, as well.” Meg grinned. “Even if you won’t live with us, I mean to have you over for dinner at least thrice a week.”
“Then I want a say in his choosing, as well. Now, go change out of that thing before you drip tea on it and ruin your chance to wed anyone but a ratcatcher.”
Laughing, Meg rose. “I mean to wed at least a marquis to make Mama and Papa happy, so I hope there is a plentitude of handsome ones in London. I am following your advice to utilize my mind above my heart, however, because my choice must be above reproach, and he must support expanding the vote to include women in addition to his being well-favored.”
“If you were only utilizing your mind, you wouldn’t care if he was well-favored or not. An ugly husband is far more likely to remain faithful, you know.”
Meg grimaced. “I suppose you’re correct. I will keep appearance on my list, but place it at the bottom on the chance I find two acceptable gentlemen equal in every other sense and I must break the tie.”
To herself she could admit that she wasn’t entirely comfortable with her own logic, especially not when something as important as choosing a husband was involved. However, she did read a great deal, and while she adored the tales of the young ladies who fell madly in love with stern, handsome men harboring dark secrets, transferring those tales to real life seemed silly. Who would wish to entangle themselves with a distant, brooding man who lied to his supposed beloved? Ridiculous. No, as Clara said, logic would serve her much better.
“I still maintain you’d be happier setting up your own household, as I did,” Clara insisted. “Then you may do or say whatever you wish without worrying over whether you’ve insulted anyone’s sensibilities or pride.”
“Please do not encourage Margaret to speak her mind, Clara.” Meg’s mother, Josephine—Lady Brundon—glided into the room. “For heaven’s sake. Saying or doing the wrong thing is always a disaster, whether a lady is married or single or widowed.”
“Only if she bows to the constraints of Society, Jo.”
“I have no idea where you get such ideas,” the countess said to Clara, shaking her head. “Meg is a lady. She is Society. And you, well, I’m almost convinced you were a changeling, Sister.”
Clara laughed. “I’ve thought the same thing for years. I have no idea how you tolerated all the lace and frills our mother flung all over you. At least our father taught me useful things.”
“Yes, my dear. And when is the last time you had to march on Paris or clean a rifle?”
Her lips twitching, Clara cleared her throat. “I was actually referring to being able to organize and head a household, think for myself, and to kill and field dress a buck without getting entrails all over me.”
“Oh, good heavens, Clara.”
“Ha! What news does Gregory bring from London? Is there a list of possible husbands for Meg? I’d like to see it.”
“No. Absolutely not. Off with you. I need to chat with Meg.”
With a mock scowl, Aunt Clara rose. “I’ll be in the library, then, reading Gregory’s oh-so-masculine farm almanacs and sprinkling my feminine thoughts all over them. And Meg, don’t you dare agree to anything without first considering all alternatives.”
“Yes, Aunt Clara.”
Once Clara left the room, Meg’s mother took her vacated seat on the couch. “As I’ve said before, you spend too much time in my sister’s company. She follows none of the rules, and is as likely to sit down for a chat with a housemaid as she is with a duke. And she would speak to them both as if they were her equals. Clearly, you are listening to none of my lessons.”
“I always pay attention to your lessons, Mama.” She just didn’t always agree with them. “And I adore Clara. She keeps my head from being too far in the clouds.”
“I’m more worried about her dragging your feet into the mud. A young lady’s head is supposed to be in the clouds, filled with all sorts of daydreams about marrying handsome marquises bound for dukedoms.”
Hmm. “That seems very specific, Mama,” Meg said, her pulse jumping madly. Had they found her a handsome marquis?
“Does it?” Josephine smiled, tapping the ends of her fingers together. “Well, it so happens that your father dined with a very good friend of his two evenings ago. The Duke of Earnhurst.”
Meg had read enough London newspapers to know who that was, and she frowned, her eyebrows dipping together. “Earnhurst? He’s ancient. A widower. I don’t—”
“Not him, dearest. I said ‘marquis,’ if you’ll recall. It’s his son. The Marquis of Duffy. He’s much younger.”
Meg stared at her mother while her mind raced through all the snippets she’d read in the gossip sheets. “You cannot be serious, Mama. James Clay? Don’t they call him ‘the Pirate’? Because of all the maidenly virtue he’s stolen?”
“Never trust gossips, Meg. They invent all sorts of nonsense simply to elevate themselves. And while, yes, Duffy is a very popular man in London, every man with standing has someone else waiting for the opportunity to ruin or belittle him. The Marquis of Duffy has standing. A great deal of it. He will be the Duke of Earnhurst one day. A duke, darling. Which would make you a duchess.”
A duchess. That was… Goodness. She’d dreamed about such things as a little girl, but… Goodness. Think, Meg. She shook herself. The possibility of wedding a future duke did not make this a fairy tale. Be logical. “You’ve always told me I need to be proper, and now you want me to marry someone so improper that I’ve heard about his misdeeds all the way out here in Devon? I know you and Papa want me to make a good match, but certainly it can’t all be about title and rank.”
“Not all, but a considerable portion, yes.”
Oh, dear. “But I had thought to find someone who would be compatible with my life and my views. Not Papa’s. We’ve already ordered a great many gowns for me to wear in London so that I may meet all my possible matches. And I’ve been practicing being… charming.” Or less chatty, anyway, which boiled down to the same thing.
“I told you the truth about your father’s purpose in going to London. He only meant to give us—you—a head start on the Season. To discover which gentlemen might suit so you could avoid wasting your time with the less auspicious ones.”
“Or avoid using up all my patience and good manners on them,” Meg supplied with a grin.
“You said that; not me.” Her mother sighed. “He left London in despair of finding anyone worthy of you. It was entirely coincidental that a storm forced him to stop his travel early, and he then remembered Earnhurst Castle and his old friend Richard Clay in Dorset, not a mile from the inn where he’d taken refuge for the night. When he sent word of his presence and to ask if he might call on His Grace in the morning, weather permitting, Earnhurst himself rode out to the inn to meet him that very evening. In the rain, yet. It was fate, I think.”
The morning room door opened once more, and her father stepped in. “Dash it, Jo, I wanted to be the one to tell her.” The earl lifted an eyebrow at his wife, then aimed a smile at Meg. “A duke, my dear.”
A duke-to-be, technically, but that wasn’t the point, she supposed. “You might have given me the chance to agree, you know. Or at least to meet the man.”
“That’s your aunt talking. The proverbial iron was hot, Meg, so I struck. And never fear. The wedding isn’t to take place for six months. Such things take time to prepare. And with you now being betrothed before the Season even begins, you won’t have to worry about sifting through every young man who thinks he can compose poetry. You know you dislike such nonsense.”
“I love such nonsense.”
“No,” her mother corrected, “you love to laugh at such nonsense.”
Meg folded her hands together. While she did delight in deliberate, clever silliness, she tried not to wound anyone’s feelings. “Even after all those lessons in being patient and proper, you were worried I would make a comment about some man’s idiotic poetry, and then I’d never find a husband, weren’t you?”
“No, Meg. Of course not,” her mother exclaimed, too brightly. “We have always had complete faith in you.”
“Very well,” she countered, still skeptical, “for argument’s sake we’ll accept that I’m quite the catch, on account of my generous dowry, if nothing else. If Lord Duffy is a marquis destined for a dukedom after his father’s death, though, why is he still unmarried? Every woman in London—in England—should have set their cap at him ages ago, shouldn’t they?”
Her father sat on the chair opposite the couch. “Lord Duffy is apparently not anxious to wed. His father, however, feels James Clay has been given enough time to sow his wild oats, and he’s been searching for a suitable match for his son. Our meeting was… serendipitous.”
“For you, perhaps. What about for the young lady of as-yet unmarred reputation who hasn’t even had her debut Season and who’s just been betrothed to a rakehell?” For heaven’s sake, yes, she could be outspoken with her opinions and free with her jests, but that hardly compared with a man who seduced women and wagered and drank and God knew what else.
“I told you, Meg, his reputation is exaggerated.”
Meg looked at her father. They’d made up their minds, then. “Will Lord Duffy make me a good husband?” she asked, holding his gaze.
“I haven’t seen James Clay in thirteen years, my dear. But I know his father. And Richard—His Grace—is a good man. He wouldn’t do anything dishonorable.”
The Duke of Earnhurst did have a much better reputation than his son. In addition, when Gregory Pinwell, Earl of Brundon, looked her in the eye and said a man could be trusted, then she had no reason not to believe that man trustworthy. Even if the suddenness of all this did lift the hairs on the back of her neck.
“Everything’s been settled, then?” Privately she supposed it didn’t matter if her well-buried excitement at becoming an immediate marchioness and an eventual duchess was mixed with just a little bit of relief. It didn’t mean she was surrendering to her parents’ wishes as much as it meant that she didn’t have to constantly worry over saying the wrong thing at the wrong time for the entire Season, or whether she was in fact choosing a spouse for a better reason than that he looked pretty. Or ugly, if she followed Clara’s advice. “The agreements have been made.”
“Yes, it has, and yes, they have.” Sitting forward, her father leaned his elbows on his knees. “Earnhurst—Richard—and I talked for hours. He wants someone who will be a calming influence on his son, and also a positive influence on him. I told him all about you, how much your friends adore you, your delight in humor, how well-mannered and sensitive to others’ feelings you are, your intelligence, and your generally cheerful manner.”
“I sound like a dog.”
“Meg!” her mother chastised.
“I did not make you sound like a dog, Margaret Elizabeth Pinwell,” her father stated crisply. “I hope you have more faith in me than that.”
“I— Of course I do. This is just very sudden. And a great deal to comprehend, all at once.” Nor was she terribly well-mannered. In fact, at this moment she was extremely tempted to sneak into the library and drink a glass of her father’s whiskey, for heaven’s sake. Two glasses, even.
The earl nodded. “It is a great deal to comprehend. At the bottom of it all, though, this is a very good match. I’ve signed an agreement, and you’re to wed James Clay, Marquis of Duffy, in six months. And yes, I’m aware of Duffy’s reputation, but such is the way of unmarried men. I wish there’d been time for the two of you to meet before you became engaged, but as I said, Earnhurst wants his son settled down.”
The countess put her hand over Meg’s, much as Clara had done earlier. “You are a fine young woman. He certainly has no reason to object to you. And you are right to ask these questions. But also consider how much more fun this Season will be now. No need to find a husband, because it’s been seen to. Just dances and dinners and picnics, getting to know your betrothed, and purchasing, oh, everything, for a wedding trousseau.”
“I am very aware that other parents of other young ladies might merely have marched in, stated the facts, and left again for them to stew,” Meg said slowly, covering her mother’s hand with her free one and reminding herself that she’d had her fun and now she needed to be a lady. “I know I’ve given you cause to worry, and I know you are very good to me. Better than I deserve, I’m certain.” She hid a sigh behind a smile. “And as for Lord Duffy, I suppose I can manage him.”
Her father smiled back at her, relief easing the lines of his face. “Oh, I don’t doubt that.”
“If he doesn’t at least have a sense of humor, though, I shall be quite cross,” she added, utterly serious.
“Just please refrain from boxing his ears, darling,” her mother put in. “At least until after the wedding.”
“I shall attempt to do so.”
The countess freed her hand and stood. “You’re a clever young lady, Margaret Elizabeth. I’ve always thought so. And as a marchioness, you could be the toast of Mayfair. And when you eventually become a duchess, oh, my.”
Becoming a duchess did have a certain appeal to it, no matter how much Clara would argue that a husband’s title should not determine a woman’s status or importance in Society any more than it should his own. “I would like to know more about him. His character, his finances, his ambitions.” Silently she added appearance, but she supposed if he looked a complete fright she might be excused from the match, despite Aunt Clara’s opinion about the fleeting nature of beauty. It did seem as though someone called the Pirate should be devilishly handsome, though. Or perhaps it was that he was missing an eye or had a wooden leg. Oh, dear.
“Give yourself the morning to absorb the news,” her father said, putting a hand on Meg’s shoulder. “And I leave it to you whether you want to tell your aunt or have your mother do it.”
“Coward,” Josephine murmured. “I’ll tell her. She’s my sister. And please, Meg, don’t listen to her complaints. Not everyone has the option to live on their brother-in-law’s property and sell women’s suffrage pamphlets and books for pin money. She’s not quite as independent as she likes to claim.”
“Eccentric, yes,” the earl put in. “And that is a sign of privilege, as well.”
“Whereas you, a marchioness, will be able to participate in charities to your heart’s delight, and do some actual good rather than just stirring up the rabble.”
For a moment Meg was glad that Aunt Clara, staunch ally or not, wasn’t present to hear her causes disparaged. She eyed her mother. “Indeed. Perhaps I can even persuade Lord Duffy to embrace some of Clara’s women’s suffrage ideas.”
“I wouldn’t begin with that,” Gregory pointed out with a chuckle. “Thank you, Meg, for taking this so well. I did worry.”
She would have to devote a great deal of thought to everything that had just happened, but Meg did know one thing for certain: Her parents loved her, and they wanted what was best for her—a good marriage, a comfortable life, and status. She certainly couldn’t complain about any of those things, though she had some large questions about her betrothed’s less-than-stellar reputation. Six months until she became a marchioness, though. For heaven’s sake, the time would fly.
“Thank you, Papa. Mama. I’ll do my best to make you proud of me.”
Her mother smiled. “Oh, darling, you c—”
The morning room door opened. “My lord,” Vance the butler said, a silver tray in one hand. “You have a note, my lord. Two of them, actually. Both by special messenger.”
The earl took the two missives from the salver. “Ah. From Earnhurst and his man of business.” Gregory broke the wax seal of the first letter and unfolded the note. “It seems His Grace has informed Lord Duffy of his betrothal and has put a full-page advertisement to that effect in the London Times as of this morning. Your engagement has been announced, Meg. And in fine style.”
Hmm. Meg silently wondered if the advertisement had been placed so promptly in order to keep Lord Duffy—or less likely, herself—from trying to escape an obvious marital trap. “Today’s newspaper? I’ll go find it,” she said, heading for the door. Her name, connected irretrievably in print and unmistakably entwined with Lord Duffy and the Duke of Earnhurst. Good heavens. And just twenty minutes ago she’d been worried if wearing two ostrich plumes was being too ostentatious.
The newspaper waited in its usual place at her father’s seat at the breakfast table. Vance had ironed it, laying it flat for easy perusal. Glancing at John, the footman, silently and efficiently delivering sliced ham to the sideboard, she licked her finger and turned the page.
Oh, my. There it was, with beautiful scrolling at the borders and in bold lettering, something that would be seen and remembered and more than likely never successfully disputed. Poor Lord Duffy. There would be no escape for either of them. Another shiver of nerves went through her, and she pushed them away. She would have six months in which to meet him, assess his character, and decide if she agreed with her father and the Duke of Earnhurst that she and Lord Duffy would make a good match.
Taking the newspaper, she pranced back into the morning room. “Here it is. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my name writ so large. I wish he’d said ‘Meg’ instead of ‘Margaret,’ though; Margaret makes me feel like a grandmother.”
Her parents didn’t respond, and she looked up from the announcement. The earl had a missive in each hand, both of them opened now, and his complexion made her drop the newspaper and hurry to his side.
“Goodness! What’s happened? Papa? Mama?”
“I can hardly…” The countess gestured at the couch. “Sit down, darling.”
“What’s wrong, for goodness’ sake?”
“The second note,” her father said, lowering his hands. “The one from Earnhurst’s man of business.”
“Oh, dear. Is Lord Duffy secretly married already? I don’t—”
“The duke is dead, Meg,” he broke in. “Evidently, he’d been ill for some time, though he never told me. I did think he looked tired, but… Damnation. He should never have ridden out in the rain to see me. I would have gone to meet him at Earnhurst, for God’s sake.”
Meg sat on the couch. Engaged and then an almost-father-in-law lost, all in the same five minutes. “I’m sorry, Papa. If he chose not to tell you, he didn’t want you to know. You can’t blame yourself.”
“Tell her the rest,” the countess urged, sitting rather heavily, herself.
“Because the engagement announcement—and our connection—is now public knowledge, we are expected to honor tradition. You are expected to honor tradition. Your wedding will be held shortly after the official mourning period, in approximately one year. And—”
“And you will observe full mourning,” her mother took up. “You’ll be in black crepe for six months, gray for the six after that, and will not be attending any parties in London. In fact, I see no reason for us to even journey to London. You—we—would be trapped, housebound, for the entire duration of the Season.” The countess shuddered.
Meg opened her mouth, but no sound emerged. It felt selfish, but her first thought was that this was her eighteenth year. She’d planned it all out. Yes, her parents had altered her daydreams a little, but two minutes ago she’d been contemplating becoming a marchioness in six months. Now she would be a duchess in a year, and one with no chance to first make any friends in Mayfair, or even visit her family’s home on Charles Street in London.
Her presentation gown, her ostrich feathers—it would all go into a trunk, along with everything she’d been so excited and nervous to experience. Now she had a year of wearing black and being subdued and housebound ahead of her. “Well, that’s horrid,” she muttered. Her last view was the ostrich feathers falling into her face as she fainted. Aunt Clara had been right, after all. She’d capsized.