Page 3 of Only a Fortnight with the Duke

CHAPTER 3

“— a nuisance!”

George stood and sipped his brandy while he listened to his friend speak of Emmeline Clark, the young woman who just a few moments ago had deeply wounded the Duke of Blackwood’s pride, though he was hard-pressed to admit as much.

“What, precisely, did she say to you, dear Duke? She has made your cheeks ruddy and your disposition unpleasant.”

“That she would never marry a man the likes of me,” he scoffed, quieting as he realized that his anger had drawn a bit of attention. Simon Waldorf turned his back to the rest of the room so he might converse with his friend as privately as was possible at an event like this one. “As if she could know my countenance from a mere few seconds of observation. As if I had her in mind as a bride at all! We’ve not met nor been introduced.”

“Would you not consider her?” George’s kind eyes wandered in the direction of the young ladies, amused when he noticed that Emmeline’s body language was a mirror of his dear friend’s. “She and her friends are all quite pretty.”

Simon’s gaze followed suit, though he only allowed himself a moment to look, lest she spot him. There was no denying Lady Clark’s beauty. In truth, he had not walked by her accidentally. She’d caught his eye the moment he walked into the ballroom, but her tone and accusation diminished any brightness he’d first noticed.

“She is stunning,” he said, honestly. “But beauty is no measure of character. I would sooner wed a woman with a plain face and a poor figure so long as she had something of substantial interest going on in her mind.”

“And this young lady does not? Her first impression of you sounded quite creative to me. Perhaps she is a writer.”

Simon huffed his dissent, though he hardly seemed to register his friend’s teasing. “Whether her tongue is sharp or not is of no interest to me. If her only protest to my character is that I do not appear to be fit to wed, then it is obvious that she thinks of little else. Pray tell—do you know who she is, George?”

“I cannot say that I do, dear Simon. I am familiar with her friends, however. It would be no difficult matter to find out.”

“Do and tell me once you have. I want to be sure that I stay far away from her and her associates. This is precisely why I can not stand to be anywhere near English society during the social season.”

“Is that so, Your Grace?”

“It is. It turns the heads of women who are typically sound and intelligent into porridge. All they can think of is marriage. Hasn’t anyone here ever heard of a book?”

George put an arm around his friend’s shoulders. “The young lady is beautiful, as you said, and a good conversationalist. Is that not enough to consider her?”

“It is not. I’ve no need to marry for convenience, George.”

“Haven’t you?”

Simon turned quizzically to face his friend, one brow raised. “I haven’t ,” he insisted.

“It is my objective to find a wife this season—one who is pleasant enough to look at and to be around, at least. Should fortune shine on me and I fall in love, so be it. It is not my priority. My priority is to secure my title and position for my family’s next generations. What of you? Have you not thought of doing the same, truly?”

“I have not.”

“Perhaps you ought.”

Simon shrugged George off of him and turned around to look for Lady Clark again, though he did not see her where she had been just before. Feeling foolish for looking at all, he shook his head vehemently. “I am in no rush to marry. I most certainly will not be doing so to please others. I have never been a man who cared much about my reputation. People with minds idle enough to partake in gossip or of no interest to me.”

As he spoke, the Duke of Blackwood felt the distinct pressure of being stared at. He followed the sensation and briefly, woefully, made eye contact with Lady Norcliffe, whose daughter had already been offered to him on three separate occasions as a suitable wife. A daughter who was hardly old enough to be out in society and would be nearly twenty years his junior, even if, as her mother had so crudely suggested once while drunk at a dinner party, he were to wait for her to come of amenable age.

“Excuse me, Your Grace, I must be off,” Simon muttered, slipping away to the balcony to avoid contact with the woman.

Nearby, Emmeline and her friends had been summoned by Lord Clark, the Earl of Stanton, who offered them fresh drinks.

“I am quite disappointed to see that you have not taken one turn on the dance floor yet,” Lord Clark reprimanded her, his eyelids heavy and cheeks ruddy from drink. “Ladies, please, you must assist me. I do not wish to see my daughter die alone. Make sure she does not waste away the entire evening.”

“We will do our best, my Lord,” Lydia answered with a wry smile.

“You ought to find a comfortable place to sit down, Papa,” Emmeline said pleasantly, though her concern was knit into the wrinkle of her brow. “The night has just begun. I will still have plenty of time to dance.” The girls watched him leave, then for a bit returned to their lively conversation. Soon thereafter, however, Emmeline’s thoughts were once again haunted by the rude, arrogant Duke as she watched him all but run past them toward the balcony. She shook her head, and Margaret raise a brow.

“What is it now that has you vexed, dear Emmeline?”

“I just cannot let it go unanswered.”

“Let what go unanswered?”

“Him. Those horrible things he said to me.”

Lydia and Margaret glanced between themselves, their faces a mirror or Emmeline’s a few minutes before when she spoke to her father. “Are you sure you want to follow him right now?” Lydia asked. “I don’t think that there is anyone else outside on the balcony. You could be risking your dignity, Emmeline.”

“Please,” Lady Clark said, reaching out to grab each of their hands in hers. “Stay nearby and keep a watch. If I trouble myself with a scandal, so be it. I can not stand here and let that foul man get away with this behavior.”

“If you are sure,” Margaret muttered. She knew from the look on her friend’s face that Emmeline was going to follow the Duke out to the balcony whether they agreed to help or not. She would rather her friend be protected. “We will wait here, but please, make haste.”

Nodding, Emmeline took one deep breath to gather her nerve, then scurried off in pursuit of the Duke.

Her mouth was poised to launch into her speech as she walked outside into the tepid night air, but his silhouette, leaning against a column, gave her pause. Pale moonlight cast thin bands of luminescence across his features, turning his hair dark blue and highlighting the fine details of his face. For a moment, Emmeline thought that she could see the depth of him in them, that she could read the stories of his life written in those creases and lines.

The pounding of her heart as she took an indulgent pause frightened her and reminded her why she had come outside in the first place.

“Your Grace.” Lady Emmeline’s voice was strong and commanding, and for an instant she watched surprise cross the Duke’s features as he turned to look her. As soon as it came, though, it was gone, and she felt her fury flair as a smirk appeared instead. “I cannot leave our conversation where it ended. I must have a word with you before the night is over.”

Simon straightened his posture and stepped forward, his tall, wide frame steeping her in shadow. She stood without moving, but the rate of her heart beating increased, testing the bounds of her composure under rising frustration. “You must have come up with one remarkable apology. It is a treacherous affair you have walked into.”

“Treacherous?”

“Yes.” He came closer to her still, bending forward to bridge in part the gap their heights created. “You spoke yourself of my reputation. It seems to me that following me outside on your own could put you in a precarious position.”

Emmeline did not back down under his teasing, though she could not really know whether he meant it or not. He was a stranger, and he could very well be threatening her, for all she knew. But he was also a powerful man–one who, if she could change his mind, might be able to correct the same pitiful mindset in others that he’d championed in front of her just a while ago.

“In what manner, Your Grace? Are you concerned that I will not find a good husband if I am caught alone here, with you?”

“Aren’t you concerned?”

“I am not. What I have to say to you is more important to me than any marriage arrangement that could be made. I would say no to a prince to make sure that you understood the foul, derogatory manner of your earlier implication.”

Simon nearly faltered, surprised by the fire that shone in her eyes and the conviction in her voice. But he composed himself. “Go on, then. Say what you have come to say.”

“I am more–no, women are more than a measure of the men they can coax into a suitable union. You speak with such callousness of that which you could not possibly know. To be a woman is to be seen through and filtered through the eyes and minds of men. If you come upon conversation with a young lady, and you discover that she has marriage at the forefront of her mind, you ought to remember that she is as such because men have reduced her to such.” The Earl’s daughter, even with eyes darkened by the night sky to a deep emerald, burned with a fire the likes of which Simon Waldorf had not seen in anyone he had yet made acquaintance of–man or woman. Her light flared as her sentence reached its conclusion and he waited as Emmeline caught her breath. He watched her collect her thoughts, lock her gaze on his, and spoke her mind in earnest.

“What might a lady aspire to do, when she must first pray that what the Lord deemed to make her at birth–pleasing to a man’s eye, wealthy by virtue of her father, or at the very least of some value to a prospective husband–is enough to find one who can ensure her a life with a roof over her head and food at her table? Once my very survival, and if I had young sisters, theirs as well, has been secured, Your Grace, and only then might I aspire to ambitions such that a man can entertain from childhood.” There was a pause once Emmeline had gotten the root of her anger out into the open air before them, then the elegance and grace Simon had first observed when he saw her fell back upon her like a beloved coat. “I am a lady, Your Grace, and as such can recognize that your initial observation was a true one–the most complicated matter of marriage is one that I must spend a great deal of my time and energy considering. It is not the whole of who I am, nor is it at the core of most young ladies. It is who we must be so that we might one day permit ourselves the chance to be more.”

When she was done, and said all that she wished to say, they were both silent for some time. Simon turned and faced out, toward the gardens, his hands on his hips as he considered all that she said, and Emmeline turned away after observing him for a moment unnoticed. She became unexpectedly bashful watching his reaction, surprised that he looked pensieve, not cross.

“No one has spoken to me in such a manner in all my life,” he breathed, incredulous. With a hint of a smirk on his fine face, Simon turned again to face the outlandish young lady with the golden curls and sharp tongue with a chuckle. “No man or lady but for perhapy my governess when she was cross with me.”

“I felt it was important for you to know,” Lady Emmeline answered, her voice gentler than before. She meant what she said, and was ready to defend it, but her shallow breathing gave her state away. She was wrestling with herself, proud that she’d followed her heart, but worried now that she had been outside for too long. She needed to leave soon lest she put her friends’ reputations up for trial next to her own.

“Yes, I see that,” Simon said, in earnest. “I…meant you no offense, my Lady. I have not encountered any young ladies of high society who do have depth beyond the style of their home furnishings or their evening attire, much less any willing to stand up for themselves as you have. I have met a great many women in my travels who were worldly, and who were educated through experience as opposed to etiquette books and housekeeping manuals. You are–”

“Oh, please!” Emmeline’s cheeks grew pink, and she pressed back again toward the door, nearly beside herself with frustration. “I am not some hero of womankind because I have rightfully identified you as arrogant and selfishly single-minded. It is in my character to speak on how I feel, and I am awarded by my station a measly but usable bit of influence that I do hope one day reminds you to treat the poor woman who does have the misfortune of marrying you with even a small measure of dignity and respect.”

“And who is it, precisely, that you intend to marry? What man would want to spend his limited days on Earth listening to you spout disdain for him?”

Emmeline scoffed, her hands flying to her hips. “It is not all men who I find self-important, pompous, and at times insufferable. I will marry for love as marriage ought to be, and my husband will not need to worry about my disdain for him. I will not settle for less than the respect and care that I deserve.”

“I am neither pompous, nor self-important. It was the truth.”

Lady Emmeline did not want to spend another second in the same manor as the Duke of Blackwood, much less alone with him on the balcony. She turned and moved to slip back into the ballroom. She was at the door when she heard the sound of rapid movement and felt the gentlest touch of his hand over hers. He did not grab her or force her to stay, and the shock of it stopped her in her trucks.

“Miss…I do not know what to call you.”

Emmeline did not turn around, but bowed her head, lowering her eyes to her feet. She knew his name and title, as she had made apparent, and she could not deny him hers, but she silently begged the powers that be to keep her father from facing any shame because of her. “I am daughter to the Earl of Stanton, Your Grace.”

“Lady Clark, then,” he said, with a sigh that almost sounded like relief. “I apologize for what I said before.”

Emmeline turned her head to look upon him, her eyes wide and lips parted slightly in her shock. “Your Grace?” His face, the one which had appeared so handsome at first glance, was striking, now. A certain tension in his brow and in the set of his jaw were gone and she saw, for the first time, something behind his eyes that felt all too familiar.

“It was not my intention to disparage you or diminish your character.”

A great deal passed between the two of them unspoken, and a great deal more was lost to the night air. Simon Walford swallowed his pride just long enough to consideer that he might very well have met his match, just as Emmeline grappled with the idea that there might have been more to the Duke lurking beneath his callous exterior. Regardless, Lady Clark had run out of time a while ago.

Simon watched her go, rubbing the wrist of the hand which had touched the indubitably fascinating Lady Clark.