Page 18 of A Perplexing Regency Romance (The League of Meddling Butlers #5)

“Perhaps we ought to have come in your carriage,” Finella said. “You would be more comfortable.”

“Nonsense,” the duchess said. “I am determined to show you off.”

Finella swallowed a sigh. She really did not feel like any prize to be shown off.

“Miss Fernsby,” the duchess said, “I feel you do not have a lot of confidence in yourself.”

Was it so obvious? She supposed it was. “It’s true,” Finella said. “I don’t think I’ve ever been very bowled over by my looks, though especially since I came to Town. I did not have a lot to compare myself to at home, but here…”

“It’s all nonsense. It’s nonsense existing in your mind.

You’ve got the prettiest face going this season, your dimples are inestimably charming.

The wind has caused some of your pretty curls to escape your bonnet and it appears lovely.

You must just have confidence in yourself.

Furthermore, I believe I now understand your temperament.

You are rather a soft touch, which is very engaging. ”

Finella nodded because she felt she ought to. She thought the praise rather highflying, though she did like her hair and she did think she was a soft touch.

“Do not compare yourself to a lady who is tall when you are short. Do not compare yourself to a lady who is all cool wit when you are a soft touch. Be yourself and proud of it. Do you know what some people called me before I wed the duke? I was Lady Margaret at the time. I overheard a gentleman name me “Middling Margaret.” He’d heard it at his club apparently.

But guess who did not find me middling? The two gentlemen who offered for me, one of which I accepted. ”

Finella could not conceive of the idea that anybody had ever named the duchess “Middling Margaret.” How dare that gentleman!

“One of the things that was very satisfying to me in those early years was that the gentleman who had applied that moniker to me very suddenly found himself having to address me as Your Grace. It probably choked him to do it. He’s long dead now, which is the other thing I can be satisfied about.”

Finella laughed despite herself. She very much wished she could take on the duchesses’ attitude about things.

The lady had heard something terrible, just as Finella had.

Rather than wilting like a dying flower, she’d gone forth with confidence.

She laughed in the face of her detractor and then as a final blow, outlived him.

She tapped her chin as she watched carriages pass their rather slow-going barouche.

Why could not she take on the duchesses’ attitude?

It seemed very foreign, of course. It would be rather an about-face.

Finella was not accustomed to putting herself forward or being confident.

But on the other hand, it was not against the law, was it?

Nobody could do anything about it. She’d already heard something said about her that was terrible. What else could they say?

Perhaps she would consult Lucy about it, as her maid was full of good sense.

In the meantime, Finella sat up straighter, determined to try it out.

She imagined herself a very powerful and admired person.

She thought of Lady Gaddington being sorry for what she said.

Then she thought of Lady Gaddington wishing to be friends with her, as Finella Fernsby had become very renowned and sought after.

For some reason or other. Finella would hold her at arm’s length and display a certain coolness that would be understood.

Lady Gaddington would be entirely cast down over it.

“Miss Fernsby.”

Finella was pulled out of her daydream by Lady Violet.

The lady was on a very fine chestnut mare and dressed in a blue wool riding coat, accompanied by two grooms. She looked exceedingly elegant.

Finella felt as if she was a balloon of rising confidence that had just been pricked with a pin and slowly deflated.

“Lady Violet,” she said. She did her very best to be friendly, though it was irritating that the lady looked divine on horseback.

“Miss Fernsby,” Lady Violet said. “Do you ride?”

“Indeed, yes, quite a bit at home. I did not bring my horse to Town though.” Finella wondered at the question, which had seemed a bit condescending.

What lady from the countryside did not ride her own horse and drive her own curricle?

Perhaps Lady Violet meant to point out how glorious she was looking, astride her own horse.

“I recommended to Miss Fernsby to leave her horse at home,” the duchess said. “A lady on a horse in the country is all well and good, but here…” The duchess waved her hand vaguely round.

Finella tried not to laugh. Somehow, the duchess had managed to condemn a lady riding her horse in the park without saying it directly or even why.

It had certainly hit its mark, as Lady Violet looked rather startled.

Recovering herself, she said, “Your Grace, I understand you host one of the events of the season. Secrets Exposed.”

Finella wondered if the duchess would recognize that as the fishing expedition that it probably was.

She understood that the identity of the twenty ladies selected to participate each year was always eagerly anticipated and that ladies could be very let down if they were not chosen.

Finella herself was a bit terrified of the prospect.

She assumed she would be one of the twenty ladies included, as the duchess sponsored her.

It felt a little fraudulent. If the duchess knew nothing about her, she doubted she would be chosen.

“Indeed,” the duchess said to Lady Violet. It was said enigmatically and gave the lady no information.

“I see,” Lady Violet said.

Finella was not so certain she did see. One would be very foolish to attempt to manage the duchess.

“Goodness, there is the duke and Sir Edward ahead,” Lady Violet said. “Your Grace, Miss Fernsby.” She spurred her horse off in their direction.

Finella squinted her eyes. Yes, there he was and looking very handsome astride his horse.

He was mounted on a very fine grey and Finella could see how spirited the horse was.

A horse of that caliber did not like to stand still and so danced back and forth in protest. She almost wished she was on her own horse now, as she rode a grey too.

They were a very particular type of horse, she’d always thought.

What unfolded next was very strange. She was almost sure that the duke had spotted Lady Violet. He leaned toward Sir Edward to say something. Then they spurred their horses into a gallop across the green of the park. Lady Violet made an attempt to follow them and then gave up and reined in.

“Poor Lady Violet,” the duchess said.

Finella supposed the duchess thought what she thought about it. However, naming that elegant lady “poor” seemed a stretch.

“She looks very well on a horse,” Finella said.

“She’s at least got that going for her.”

Finella looked quizzically at the duchess.

Her Grace smiled. “She is too young, you see. Not in years, but in mind. She’ll be much better suited next year.

For now, though, she will chase what she will never catch and she will drop hints about being included in Secrets Exposed which I would never do.

Lord Packington would be well advised to rein her in a bit. ”

“Goodness, I hadn’t thought.”

The duchess nodded sagely. “I hold nothing against her, it is just the childishness in her that must be got over. She is not the first lady arriving to Town too soon. No doubt she harassed Packington over it, against his better judgment. Now she is playing at being a seasoned lady when she is no such thing.”

That put quite a different spin on Lady Violet. On the other hand, Finella could not feel too sorry for the lady. She’d return next season looking just as elegant as she did today.

For now, Lady Violet continued on down the carriage road with her grooms trailing behind until she was out of sight.

“Duchess, Miss Fernsby!”

Finella turned round in her seat. There he was. The duke. Gracious, he and Sir Edward must have circled round.

“Your Grace, Miss Fernsby,” Sir Edward said.

Both gentlemen, and certainly their horses, were out of breath.

“We noted you up ahead and now here you are behind us,” the duchess said, looking very amused, “how extraordinary.”

“Ah yes,” the duke said. “Our horses suddenly demanded a gallop.”

“Yes, it did seem it was required at a lucky moment,” the duchess said.

Despite the duchesses’ broad hint that she’d understood they’d galloped away from Lady Violet, neither of the gentlemen answered. If they had done so to escape Lady Violet’s company, they were too gentlemanly to say so.

“The regatta is on the morrow,” the duchess said, “how do your preparations for it get on, Sir Edward?”

“Rather terrifically, Your Grace,” Sir Edward said. “I’ve been out several times with a seasoned sailor and have really picked up the hang of the thing.”

The duchess looked skeptical. “See that you do not drown the duke.”

Sir Edward had the good grace to blush.

“Miss Fernsby,” the duke said, “have you ever attended a regatta before?”

“Never,” Finella said. “I’ve actually never set foot on a boat. I’m looking forward to it.”

“I do not like the bouncing around myself,” the duchess said, “but it is only for a short period of time so I will put up with it. I have no idea how people sail all the way to America without losing their minds over it.”

“You should be all right on a barge,” the duke said, “they don’t seem to take the waves as harshly as a sloop. Miss Fernsby, what is your favorite color?”

Finella thought that question came out of nowhere. “Goodness, I have a fondness for yellow. I suppose it is not a particularly sophisticated preference, but it is such a happy color. It seems to me.”

“It is tradition,” Sir Edward, “that each boat must tie a colored scarf or shawl round the bottom of their mast. It makes it easier for the people standing on the banks of the river to see who is who.”

Finella was certain she’d gone purple. What did it mean, asking for her favorite color? Would there be a yellow shawl tied round Sir Edward’s mast? If there was, what did that mean? Did the duke just ask her what her favorite color was as a casual question or was there something in it?

“I do wish you gentlemen luck,” the duchess said. “Though you are up against the Duke of Barstow. He’s won it three years running.”

“Miss Fernsby, you will know that duke by his mast decorated with a red silk shawl in honor of his red-haired duchess,” Sir Edward said. “I hope when you catch sight of him, he is trailing far behind us.”

Finella thought the Duke of Barstow was quite romantic to tie on a red shawl for his red-haired duchess.

After witnessing the poetical tableau, her ideas of marital happiness had been somewhat shaken.

She must remember that Lord and Lady Thurston must be the exception to how things usually were.

Not every wife was putting on a funeral for a marriage to denigrate her husband and not every husband was jumping out of a coffin in answer to it.

But then, if the Duke of Barstow used a color to signal a lady, did they all do that? She did not know!

“Well now,” the duchess said, “I believe I’ve been exposed to the wind sufficiently for one day. I will take Miss Fernsby home.”

“We will escort you to the gates, Duchess,” the duke said. “If you are not opposed to it.”

“Far be it for me to refuse an escort,” the duchess said, looking very pleased.

Finella could not work out the duke. He seemed to like her. She would imagine it was just grateful friendliness over their encounter on The Strand, but this seemed a bit much for that.

Did he like her? It seemed extraordinary, but it also seemed as if it might be true.

She did her best to stop her thoughts about it, as she would rather her cheeks not resemble two aubergines.

High color was a family curse of sorts. Her father had darker hair, a light brown shade, but he had the same skin.

He could go purple in the face when he was pleased, displeased, or just out in a strong wind.

As much as he’d teased her over “going strawberry,” he was just the same.

The duke walked his horse alongside Finella as their barouche made its slow way forward.

They fell to talking about the duke’s horse and her own grey.

They were both in agreement that greys were more energetic than other horses and could be surprisingly clever and headstrong when they felt like it.

The duke’s horse was dammed by Bab, which was a very fine family lineage.

Her own horse’s history was not so elevated, but Finella had fallen in love with Kestrel the moment her father had brought the mare home.

Kestrel was terribly stubborn, but on the other hand she did like to gallop and she would do absolutely anything for an apple and a good rubdown.

At the gates, the duke tipped his hat and the barouche rode on.

“Miss Fernsby, you had a very pleasant conversation with the duke while I was left to parry Sir Edward’s nonsense.”

Finella had not even thought of that. “I am sorry, I should have noticed.”

The duchess patted her hand. “Have all the pleasant conversations with the duke that you like. As for Sir Edward, well, all I’ll say about it is I hope he and the duke survive the regatta. As has long been known about him, Sir Edward is not brimming with sense.”