Page 1 of Courting Scandal With The Duke

The start of the London Season

R ain pitter-pattered on the roof of the carriage. Rain mixed with snow if Barbara wasn’t mistaken.

‘What a dreadful evening,’ Barbara’s Great-Aunt Lenore moaned from the recesses of her corner of the carriage. ‘Are we to ever have some decent weather?’

While not even the glow of a street lamp pierced the gloom inside the carriage, Barbara did not doubt the dissatisfaction pasted on the older woman’s expression. She also sensed her fingers restlessly twisting her handkerchief.

‘March in England,’ Barbara said coolly. ‘’Tis only to be expected.’ She pulled her indigo velvet cloak closer about her person. Rain. It could not have worked out better.

‘I hope you remember all that I told you, Barbara,’ her aunt said anxiously. ‘The rules. ’

The rules of Almack’s were strictures that every young lady new upon the town must obey or for ever be ostracised. Her aunt had a reason to be anxious. She knew Barbara’s lack of fondness for regulations. In the darkness, it was easy for Barbara to hide her glee. ‘I have them memorised.’

It would not do to show that inside she was bubbling with resentment and anger and…

Well, a kind of naughty anticipation. ‘Let me see.’ She counted the items off on the fingers of her gloved hand.

‘Do not dance until you have been approved by a hostess. Do not dance with the same gentleman more than twice. Do not—’

‘I think you should not dance more than once. Not on your first visit, at least.’

‘Isn’t dancing the whole purpose of Almack’s? Would it be so scandalous to dance more than once?’ Barbara asked, grabbing for the strap as the carriage lurched around a corner.

Her aunt raised her walking stick and banged on the trapdoor. ‘Slow down!’

The carriage’s speed reduced to a crawl, no doubt to the annoyance of every other conveyance on the street.

Barbara swallowed her urge to laugh.

‘Not scandalous, no,’ Aunt Lenore said. ‘But there would be no reason you should. After all, you do not know any gentlemen. We will be lucky if any of them ask you to dance tonight. I think it is most unfortunate that your father has kept you out of England all these many years. Following the drum. I ask you.’

‘Good gracious, Aunt, you have me sounding like some round-heeled washerwoman.’

Her aunt gave a little squeal. ‘Barbara. I implore you. Do not use such language. You are a lady. Act like one, for heaven’s sake.’

‘I must add that to your list of rules, Aunt. No unseemly language.’

‘That is not a rule. It is common sense.’

‘Hmm. What else? Oh, act modestly. Debutantes wear white.’ Barbara’s ostrich feathers were white. Married ladies could wear other colours, muted greys and so forth. Her aunt hadn’t thought to mention widows. ‘Speak when spoken to, especially with regard to the hostesses. Will I know who they are?’

‘Of course you will. Did I not say I would introduce you? Indeed, your father insisted upon it. As soon as possible.’

Her father insisted upon a great many things. ‘Did he indicate when he would be in London?’

‘Not to me. I thought he might have written to you of his plans.’

‘Ah. Plans.’ Father’s plans were like dandelion clocks. They blew thither and yon in the slightest wind. Never seeming to settle anywhere. Until they did. Barbara was always the last to know. But this time she’d had advance warning of one of them. Foolish of Father in the extreme, as it turned out.

‘I did mention,’ her Aunt went on, ‘did I not, that you are not to dance the waltz with anyone?’ Aunt Lenore said. ‘Not on your debut.’

‘Several times, Aunt.’ Barbara hoped she sounded suitably meek. ‘I don’t know why you are making such a fuss. I’m not some miss fresh out of school. I have been married. Twice. A widow can do more or less as she pleases.’

‘Pish posh. You were married to foreigners. On foreign soil. It is not at all the same. And besides, your father is very keen for you to make an excellent match. This Season. His wishes were very clear. It is very important.’

Father be hanged! Barbara cared little about his wishes.

Her own wish was to remain steadfastly unwed until she reached twenty-five years of age in a year’s time.

That was when she would have access to the money left her by her first husband instead of having to rely on whatever Father decided to dole out to her. As long as she could avoid marriage.

If she did marry, on her twenty-fifth birthday, the money would automatically be handed over to her husband instead.

Barbara had no such intention. Never again would anyone bully her into marriage. She was going to make sure of it.

The carriage pulled up.

Aunt Lenore leaned forward to peer out of the window in the door. ‘Hah. Right outside. Well done, John Coachman. Come, Barbara. A few steps and we shall be out of this terrible weather.’

A footman opened the door and let down the steps. He held an umbrella over them as they made their way into the building.

In the cloakroom a throng of women were changing into dancing slippers and shedding wet cloaks. Aunt Lenore handed over her outer raiment and sat down to allow a maid help her on with her slippers.

Still in her cloak, Barbara squeezed onto a bench as far from her aunt as she could manage. She fiddled with the fastening of her shoe.

‘Barbara, are you ready?’ Aunt Lenore asked a few minutes later.

‘My buckle is caught. Go ahead. I will catch you up.’

Aunt Lenore hesitated. Then nodded. ‘Very well. I will present our tickets. Do not be too long. They will close the doors promptly at eleven.’

Other ladies were also hurrying. It wanted only a few minutes to eleven. The rain had made travel slower than normal. There were very few minutes to spare.

Perfect.

She slipped on her slippers and handed her cloak to the waiting maid.

The girl gasped.

‘Something amiss?’ Barbara asked, knowing very well why the girl looked as shocked as a lad with buckshot in his britches.

The girl swallowed, her eyes wide. ‘Nothing, miss.’

‘Milady,’ Barbara corrected. ‘Dowager Countess of Lipsweiger and Upsal, to be precise.’ Father had been so pleased about the title. Much good it had done him.

The girl didn’t seem the slightest bit impressed, but then the British were notorious for their scorn of anything foreign.

She went to the mirror and tucked the two curling ostrich plumes she had sheltered from the rain inside her cloak into her elaborately dressed coiffure. ‘Perfect,’ she said and sashayed up the stairs to her waiting Aunt.

It was all going swimmingly.

She tried not to laugh.

Rules.

Pish posh.

From now on, they were for other people.

Xavier, Duke of Derbridge, regarded the company at Almack’s with cool uninterest.

No matter how he tried, he could not seem to summon up any enthusiasm. They were all so…dull.

Duller than ditch water.

Duller than a rainy day in March.

Duller than a blade used to cut bone.

Duller than a sermon.

Duller…

What on earth was he thinking? They were all absolutely perfect wife material.

He rolled his shoulders and hid a wince at the pain from a bruised rib. His sparring partner had caught him a witty castor, as pugilists liked to say. It had been a good fight. At Jackson’s saloon, he was just another fellow who liked to box. No one there cared that he was a duke.

It provided him with all the excitement he needed. That and his horses.

The last thing he needed was an exciting wife. His father had married a woman the ton had admiringly called the Daring Duchess shortly after Xavier’s mother had died. Her recklessness had led his father to his death, leaving Xavier alone. A duke at twelve years old.

No, he certainly did not need that sort of woman in his life.

Oh, he had liked his stepmother well enough when he had first met her. He recalled thinking her pretty the first time Father introduced them. Father had gone to London on business and met her at a ball. Everyone who knew them said it had been love at first sight.

Xavier had liked her at first, and not only because his father said he should, but because his father said she was going to be his new mother.

He hadn’t realised he wanted a mother until then. He scarcely recalled his own mother. He and his father had been so close, he had never felt the need for anyone else.

As soon as he was old enough to ride a pony, he had accompanied Father on his tours of the estate, or out shooting for the table, or sailing in the bay.

More often than not of an evening, he and Father had sat beside the fire, Father reading aloud from his newspaper.

They had discussed things, man to man. Or so it had seemed to Xavier.

But he had noticed other boys’ mothers. How nice they were. Sort of gentle and sweet.

Sweet didn’t describe Lady Leticia. She hadn’t been interested in shooting, or newspapers, or, it seemed to Xavier, small boys. Those things weren’t fun.

She liked to ride fast. And because Xavier’s pony was too slow, she and Papa had stopped inviting him to go along. Papa said it was because Leticia was young and liked a bit of excitement. He said she made him feel young.

And besides, if he didn’t do what she wanted she would get very upset. Father didn’t like it when she cried.

Great-Uncle Tom, when he came to visit, muttered in his beard and said she was reckless and had addled Father’s brain. He used to say the moment Leticia saw him, she had decided to catch him.

As time went on, Father had spent more time in London, going to balls and parties.

With her. And only came home in the summer, when they’d invited lots of guests, and because adults did things a lad of Xavier’s age wouldn’t be interested in, according to his stepmama, he was better off in the schoolroom with his governess or tutor.

Happier, she had assured his father.

Only he hadn’t been.

So, they had sent him away to school.