Page 31 of A Wife for the Beast (Scandals and Second Chances #6)
"Terrified," she admitted with characteristic honesty. "Though I suppose such feelings are natural when one is about to submit oneself to the judgment of the most critical society in England."
"You need not be terrified," he said with more conviction than she had expected. "You possess every quality that London society claims to value—beauty, intelligence, dignity, and the sort of natural grace that cannot be taught or assumed. They will be fortunate to make your acquaintance."
The confidence in his voice filled her with warmth. He had come to value her qualities sufficiently, to believe in her ability to succeed even in circumstances that challenged his own considerable social experience.
Grosvenor House, when it finally appeared before them in all its Georgian splendor, exceeded even her most optimistic expectations for grandeur and elegance.
The massive structure dominated an entire side of Berkeley Square, its classical facade speaking of wealth and taste accumulated over generations, while the uniformed servants who emerged to greet their arrival suggested a level of formality that made Yorkshire seem positively rustic by comparison.
How different this was from the comfortable, if faded, elegance of Ravenshollow Manor, Evangeline reflected as she absorbed the sheer scale of the London establishment.
Here was power made manifest in stone and mortar, a declaration of the Hollowbridge family's place in the very heart of England's social and political life.
The weight of expectation seemed to press upon her shoulders like a physical burden—how many duchesses had walked through these doors before her?
How many had successfully navigated the treacherous waters of London society from this very threshold?
"Welcome home, Your Grace," the butler, a man of such dignified bearing that he might have been mistaken for nobility himself, said with a bow that managed to convey both respect and genuine pleasure at his master's return.
"Everything has been prepared according to your instructions, and the household staff is entirely at your disposal. "
Morrison's greeting carried undertones that spoke of years of loyal service and genuine relief at his master's return to London society.
Evangeline noted the way the butler's eyes discreetly assessed her, no doubt measuring her against the memory of the previous duchess and wondering whether this provincial newcomer would prove worthy of the ancient title she now bore.
"Thank you, Morrison. May I present my wife, the Duchess of Ravenshollow? I trust you will extend to her every courtesy and assistance as she assumes her responsibilities as mistress of this establishment."
The butler's bow to Evangeline was even more profound than that which he had offered to his master, though she detected a subtle assessment in his manner that suggested she was being evaluated according to standards she could not yet comprehend.
"Your Grace, it is my honour to serve you. I believe you will find that the household staff is well prepared to accommodate your requirements, whatever they might prove to be."
The interior of Grosvenor House proved even more magnificent than its exterior had suggested, with soaring ceilings that seemed to reach toward heaven itself, elaborate moldings that spoke of master craftsmen's devotion to their art, and furnishings that represented centuries of accumulated wealth and refined taste.
The main staircase alone was more impressive than anything at Ravenshollow Manor, its marble steps worn smooth by generations of ducal feet, while the state rooms were decorated with paintings by masters whose names were whispered with reverence in the finest galleries of Europe.
Each room they passed through told a story of power and privilege that stretched back through centuries of English history.
Evangeline found herself wondering about the women who had walked these halls before her—duchesses who had hosted kings and queens, who had shaped the destinies of nations through their drawing room conversations, who had left their mark upon the very fabric of English society.
The portraits that lined the walls seemed to watch her with eyes that held both welcome and challenge, as though the spirits of previous duchesses were assessing whether this provincial newcomer possessed the strength to carry forward their legacy.
"Good heavens," Evangeline murmured as Morrison conducted them through the principal apartments, each more splendid than the last. "I had not quite comprehended the scope of what maintaining such an establishment would entail."
The morning room alone contained furnishings that could have purchased her father's entire estate, while the drawing room boasted a collection of artwork that rivaled the holdings of many museums. How was she, a captain's daughter who had grown up counting every shilling, supposed to preside over such magnificence without betraying her humble origins at every turn?
"You will adapt," Lucian assured her with confidence that proved remarkably comforting. "The principles of household management remain the same regardless of scale, and Morrison's experience will prove invaluable in handling the details that are specific to London society."
Their first test came sooner than either had anticipated, in the form of morning callers who arrived within hours of their appearance in Berkeley Square.
Word of the Duke's return to London had apparently spread through the fashionable world with remarkable speed, bringing a steady stream of visitors whose motivations ranged from genuine friendship to mere curiosity about the mysterious new duchess.
"Lady Worthington and Miss Worthington," Morrison announced with the sort of formal precision that transformed the morning room into something resembling a court receiving chamber.
The ladies who entered were clearly representatives of the highest circles of society, their elaborate morning dress and confident bearing marking them as arbiters of fashion whose approval could determine social success or failure.
Lady Worthington, a beautiful woman of perhaps fifty years with silver hair arranged in the latest mode and jewels that spoke of ancient family wealth, examined Evangeline with the sort of shrewd attention that missed no detail of dress or manner.
Behind her followed Miss Worthington, a pretty girl of perhaps twenty who possessed the sort of assured bearing that came from a lifetime of unquestioned social superiority.
Her gown was the very pinnacle of fashion, her deportment perfect, and her smile carried the particular quality that marked those who had never doubted their place in the world.
Yet Evangeline detected something calculating in the younger woman's gaze, as though she were cataloguing potential weaknesses for future exploitation.
Here, Evangeline realized with a start of recognition, were the true powers behind London society's throne.
Lady Worthington was undoubtedly one of the patronesses of Almack's, one of those formidable women who could grant or deny access to the most exclusive circles with a single word.
Her approval would open doors throughout the ton; her disapproval would slam them shut with finality that even ducal rank could not overcome.
"Your Grace," Lady Worthington said with a curtsey that was perfectly executed yet somehow managed to convey subtle reservation about extending full recognition to someone whose background remained uncertain.
"What a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.
London society has been quite curious about the Duke's sudden marriage and retreat to Yorkshire. "
The word 'curious' carried implications that made Evangeline's pulse quicken with awareness that she was being subjected to an examination whose outcome would determine her future in fashionable society.
Every word, every gesture, every nuance of her response would be weighed and measured against standards she was only beginning to comprehend.
"The pleasure is entirely mutual, Lady Worthington," Evangeline replied with the sort of gracious courtesy that concealed her growing awareness that this encounter represented a crucial test of her acceptability.
"I confess myself delighted to begin forming connections within London society, though I fear my provincial background has ill-prepared me for the sophistication of metropolitan social life. "
The admission was carefully calculated, humble enough to avoid appearing presumptuous, yet confident enough to suggest that she understood her position and was prepared to learn.
She had observed enough of her father's diplomatic negotiations to understand that appearing too eager or too indifferent could prove equally disastrous in such circumstances.
"Oh, but you must not deprecate yourself so, Your Grace," Miss Worthington interjected with the sort of bright enthusiasm that marked very young ladies making their social debuts, though Evangeline detected an edge beneath the sweetness that suggested this particular young lady possessed claws hidden beneath her silk gloves.
"Provincial backgrounds can be quite charming, and I am certain that London society will find your freshness most refreshing after so many seasons of familiar faces. "
The carefully phrased compliment contained just enough subtle condescension to remind Evangeline that her acceptance by the ton was far from guaranteed, yet she maintained her composed expression while formulating a response that would establish her position without appearing defensive.
Miss Worthington was clearly testing her mettle, probing for signs of insecurity or inappropriate pride that could be used against her in future social encounters.