Page 4 of The Duke’s Indecent Scandal (Indecent Dukes #1)

Chapter Three

T iffany

The Duchess of Richmond’s ball was an absolute crush. Tiffany felt like she could not breathe, and not just because her mother had insisted on a set of ill-fitting stays to help flatten Tiffany’s obscenely large bosom. There were so many people. Far more than the smaller events she’d been attending with her mother.

A dizzying array of jewels, silks, satins, feathers, and ribbons swirled in eddies within the crowd. There were a few dressed in darker colors, mostly the gentlemen, but they were small dots among the more decadent displays of sartorial splendor. Despite her own beautiful gown, she felt like she did not quite measure up to those around her.

Perhaps because of her bosom. All the other ladies had their waists neatly nipped in, their figures like the hourglass in her father’s library. She resembled more of a square. At least the pale yellow of her dress was of a similar hue to several other young ladies, so she did not stand out in that way.

It was also the prettiest dress she’d ever worn and certainly the most fashionable. She fingered the silky fabric of her skirt, sighing inwardly at how soft it was. She’d actually felt pretty when she put it on, though she knew it was the dress and not her. With her hair piled on her head, a few ringlets curling down, and her mother’s borrowed jewels around her throat, she hoped that she would at least fit in with the other debutantes. So far, she did not stand out, and that was probably the best she could hope for.

“Sebastian, would you be a dear and fetch us some punch?” her mother asked, smiling up at her brother. He was looking particularly handsome this evening in a dark green jacket over a mint green waistcoat with silver edging. His white shirt was immaculate, the points of his collar high at his chin, and his cravat tied in a complicated knot.

Tiffany sighed inwardly. It was unfair of him to be so beautiful. Sometimes, she wondered if being born first meant that he had taken all the good looks from their parents and if that was why she was so plain.

“Of course, Mother,” Sebastian said with a smile and a small bow. He turned and headed toward what must be the punch table. Tiffany could not see it, but she could only assume he knew where he was going.

As soon as he’d left them, her mother pulled Tiffany to the side.

“Stand straighter. No, do not thrust your chest at me.” Her mother rolled her eyes at Tiffany’s inability to follow her direction. She was trying her best, but sometimes, her mother’s instructions seemed contradictory. This was one of those times. “I did not say to hunch your shoulders. Now, where is your dance card?”

Tiffany held her hand up in front of her, a dance card and pencil dangling from her wrist.

“Good. I have a list of gentlemen I want you introduced to. Hopefully, a few of them will be agreeable to dancing with you. We do not want to start this Season on the wrong foot.” Her mother eyed her. “Are you listening, Tiffany?”

“Yes, Mama.” She’d practiced the dance lessons with her instructor until she’d nearly dropped, her mother always pushing her to be more perfect in her steps and form. It still was not good enough for her mother, but hopefully, she did not make too much a fool of herself.

“Smile, girl. You are already plain. You cannot be dour as well. Ah, your brother is returning.” Her mother straightened, beaming at him. Despite the pang in her chest, Tiffany forced a smile on her face.

Once, just once, she wished her mother would tell her that she looked pretty or even passing. At least Sebastian had told her she looked nice this evening, though he had done so in a rather absentminded way.

“Thank you, Sebastian,” her mother said sweetly smiling as she took the glass of punch from Sebastian. “Now, you must put yourself on your sister’s dance card. The first dance, of course, then a second. I have some gentlemen to introduce her to, but can you find some of your friends to dance with her at least once as a favor to you? If she dances with a few dukes, she may be able to attract more attention.”

“Of course, whatever I can do to help with your Season,” Sebastian said to Tiffany, smiling fondly at her. She took the punch with one hand and lifted her wrist with her dance card for him to take and write his name down, smiling back at him. Quickly, he scrawled his name in the first spot and another for later in the evening. “I am certain it will be no trouble filling your dance card. You are the sister of a duke, after all.”

She was, and from what she understood, that was likely to be her saving grace when it came to marriage. Though she had no beauty and often fumbled her way through conversations, her connections would ensure she not only married but married well. At least she had that. Her mother had often remarked that if she’d been born to a baron, her case would be hopeless.

“Thank you, Sebastian.”

Her brother smiled again, nodding as he let the card drop, then looked around. “As it happens, I see a few of my friends right now.”

Jerking his chin up at someone in the crowd—it must be easier to see everything at his height; Tiffany felt like all she could see were shoulders—Sebastian summoned several gentlemen to them. A moment later, Tiffany felt like the breath had been knocked out of her by the sheer amount of male beauty surrounding her.

By the way her mother tittered and fanned herself as each of the dukes greeted her, bending over her hand, she agreed with Tiffany’s assessment. Unlike Tiffany, she had clearly met them all before, as she did not require an introduction.

“Tiffany, this is the Duke of Ormonde, the Duke of Hereford, and the Duke of St. Albans. Gentlemen, my sister, Lady Tiffany.” Sebastian’s smile stayed on his face, but he watched closely as each of his friends greeted her. She was not sure why.

“Lady Tiffany, a delight to make your acquaintance,” Ormonde said, bowing over her hand. His dark good looks rivaled her brother’s, and his easy confidence and charm surpassed Sebastian’s. Just having him hold her hand, his dark gaze meeting hers and holding it effortlessly, made her feel rather weak in the knees.

“I am even more delighted,” Hereford said, stealing her hand from Ormonde and making her giggle. He was very handsome as well, with wavy brown hair, only a shade or two darker than hers, a strong Roman nose, and dark eyes that were thankfully not as penetrating as Ormonde’s. She knew they were not truly fighting over her attention, but even the jest was exciting. Hereford kissed the back of her hand, and she blushed a hot red.

“Not too delighted,” Sebastian murmured in a kind of warning, glaring at his friend. Tiffany frowned at him in confusion, but Hereford backed away, allowing St. Albans to take her hand and kiss the back of it. She could feel the press of his lips through the thin fabric of her glove and thought she might faint.

“I believe that leaves me to be the most delighted,” he declared with a wink as he straightened.

Tiffany rather thought she was the most delighted, but she held her tongue rather than saying the wrong thing in front of the dukes. She could only imagine how her mother would react.

“Thank you, Your Grace. Your Graces,” she quickly amended so as not to leave the other two out. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“You are all so kind,” her mother said, stepping forward. “We have a favor to ask of you. It is Tiffany’s first Season, and we were hoping some of Sebastian’s friends might help fill out her dance card. If the gentlemen see you dancing with her, surely some of them might have their interest piqued.”

“More than some,” Hereford said, quickly stepping forward to be the first to take her card. Tiffany lifted her wrist.

“No waltzes,” her mother said quickly when she saw where Hereford had the pencil poised. “She has not been given permission yet. We will be going to Almack’s on Wednesday.”

One of the requirements for a debutante before she could waltz—receiving permission for the Season from one of the hostesses at Almack’s. That was the dance Tiffany had practiced the most, usually when her mother was not around. Waltzes used to be forbidden; they were so risqué, and she did not want to embarrass herself.

There was also a part of her that dreamed…

A man who was so taken by her dancing that he did not mind her plain face and excessive bosom or that she never said the right thing. A man who offered to marry her, who would love her, and preferably lived far, far away from her mother. A thought that instantly swamped her in guilt for not wanting to be near her mother or her brother, but sometimes, they made her feel so…

“I would like to talk to you later, Bolton,” Hereford said to her brother, still smiling at her.

Her brother frowned but then nodded. “We can meet later.”

The Dukes of Ormonde and St. Albans also signed her card. St. Albans went last, and, oddly, she could have sworn she saw him flip a coin while the Duke of Ormonde picked his dance. When he stepped up to put his name down for a dance, his smile was still charming but not the same as he’d smiled at her before.

Or perhaps she was imagining things. As her mother said, she always had her head in the clouds. It was likely her own fault for reading too many of the romantic Gothic novels her maid would sometimes sneak to her. As if any of her brother’s contemporaries would ever have an interest in marrying her.

They did not need the prestige of marrying a duke’s sister, plain or otherwise. They were dukes. They could marry anyone they chose.

“There.” St. Albans dropped her card and pencil. “I look forward to our dance, Lady Tiffany.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she replied immediately. Those four words she knew her mother would never be able to criticize, so they were completely safe.

“All of you are too good,” her mother said, beaming around up at them. “We appreciate your efforts on our behalf.”

“Believe me, it is our pleasure.” The way Hereford looked at her, almost admiringly, made Tiffany feel warm from the inside out. Would it be so bad to pretend that perhaps he was truly interested in her? If only for a moment, to dream a little?

“Unfortunately, we must take our leave of you and make our rounds,” her mother said, gripping Tiffany’s arm tightly, so she did not protest. She was enjoying being surrounded by her brother’s handsome friends, especially because they were being so kind, but it was not worth upsetting her mother over. “Come along, Tiffany.”

“I will see you for our dance,” Hereford said, smiling widely at her again as the others nodded their farewells. Tiffany glanced over her shoulder as her mother dragged her away. The dukes had already closed ranks, bending their heads together in some kind of discussion while also glancing surreptitiously around the room. She also spotted several determined-looking mamas—very reminiscent of her own mother—pulling their daughters along behind them, headed toward her brother and the others.

Then the crowd swallowed them up, and she could not see them anymore, leaving her surrounded by strangers once again.

“Why were you so quiet?” her mother demanded to know in a hushed undertone that, hopefully, only Tiffany could hear. “You must make interesting conversation to engage the gentlemen. Your brother’s friends would have made perfect practice, as there is no need to actually impress any of them.”

“I should not try to impress dukes?” She was confused because she did not think her mother would be calm if she had said something or done something incorrectly in front of them, her brother’s friends or not.

Her mother gave her arm a hard pinch, and Tiffany bit her lip against a squeal as tears sprang to her eyes.

“Do not be glib,” her mother said sharply. “You cannot make a fool of yourself, of course, but a duke is hardly going to marry you. Did you not see all the beauties converging on them? They have their choice among the crowd. They are perfect for practice because if you make a fool of yourself, it will not matter since you could never win one of them, regardless.”

The stabbing sensation in her chest came from knowing that even her mother did not believe she could marry a duke. She knew that. She knew that her brother likely agreed with her, but it still hurt to hear her mother state it so baldly.

“Yes, Mother,” she said quietly.

“They likely think you a dullard for not being able to speak a word.” Her mother sighed heavily. “At least it does not truly matter, as I said. But do not just stand there like a stump when I introduce you to this next gentleman. Now, smile.” Her mother pinched her again to accentuate her order, and Tiffany’s smile felt more like a grimace, but she did her best.

They stopped in front of a rather startled-looking gentleman, who did not appear to have expected her mother. He was not as handsome as her brother’s friends, but he was certainly not plain. Tall, broad-shouldered, with blond hair that waved back from his face and pale blue eyes that looked like a cloudless sky, she would have thought him far beyond her reach by looks alone. Tiffany felt her trepidation rise.

“Baron Grimaldi, may I introduce you to my daughter, Lady Tiffany,” her mother said, stepping back with a sincerely pleased smile on her face.

“Lady Tiffany.” Baron Grimaldi smiled so kindly and took her hand the same way the dukes had, bending over it. “A pleasure to meet you. You know, my favorite great-aunt’s name was Tiffany, so I have always liked it as a name.”

The kind way he looked at her combined with her mother’s admonition to speak more, made her feel bolder than she might have been otherwise.

“Did you know that it comes from the Greek name ‘Theophania’?” she asked because it was the first thing she thought of to say.

“I did.” His smile widened. “Dare I guess that your birthday is January sixth?”

“It is!” She was delighted, not just because he clearly knew the roots of her name and its connection to Epiphany and the naming tradition of children born on that day, but because he seemed happy with her response.

“It was also my great-aunt’s birthday,” he confessed. “She was also proud of her name, though she liked to harken back to Empress Theodora rather than Theophania.”

“I was always fascinated by Empress Theodora!” Tiffany was delighted to find a commonality between them.

Unfortunately, before she could say anything more or ask him about his own interest in the Roman empress, her mother interrupted. The smile on her face had disappeared at some point while Tiffany and Baron Grimaldi had been talking, and she had not even noticed. Her heart sank. What had she done wrong this time?

“My apologies, Baron Grimaldi, but Lady Jersey is summoning us. You must excuse us.”

“Of course. May I put my name on your card for a dance?” Baron Grimaldi asked.

“Yes, please.” Tiffany held up her hand with the card, despite being extremely aware of her mother’s impatience. Anyone else in the ballroom, at a glance, would not realize that her mother was simmering, but Tiffany knew the signs.

Still, she did not think her mother would approve of her passing up a dance with a nobleman once he’d asked, and it would have been extremely rude to tell him no.

“Thank you,” she said to him before her mother pulled her away. This time, her grip pressed on the spots she’d already pinched, and the pain of her fingers digging into Tiffany’s flesh stung up the length of her arm, from elbow to shoulder.

Her mother did not say anything right away, which did not bode well for her. When her mother pulled her into a small alcove rather than to Lady Jersey, her heart sank even further. She truly did not know what she had done to displease her mother this time. She should have been watching her more closely to gauge her reactions, but she’d been so pleased and excited when Baron Grimaldi had been interested in what she had to say that she had forgotten herself.

“What were you doing?” her mother demanded to know as soon as they were tucked away from the main ballroom. The alcove had two sconces on the wall providing light, drapes at the columns that made up the entrance, and a bench with cushions for people to sit and talk, but Tiffany did not dare try to do something so audacious as sit while her mother was upset with her.

“I… I was trying to talk to him.”

Her mother rolled her eyes, putting her hands on her hips.

“About your own name? He is likely to think you incredibly self-centered. And if you must talk to a gentleman about history or anything so unladylike, you must ask him questions. Do not present yourself as some sort of expert. Gentlemen do not find overly knowledgeable ladies attractive, and they certainly do not enjoy being educated by them.” Her mother shook her head, sighing heavily for the second time since they’d arrived at the ball, causing the little bit of confidence Tiffany had managed to garner to shrivel back to nothing.

“You are lucky he was mannerly enough to ask you to dance despite that. When you do so, you must repair the damage you have done. Ask him questions, listen to what he has to say, and, for goodness sake, keep any of your own conversation to appropriate topics. How well you can sew, your music lessons, that you are trained to run a household. Now, come along. There are more gentlemen to introduce you to. Next time, do as I have told you.”

Shaking her head, her mother swept out of the alcove, and Tiffany meekly followed behind her, hoping that no one had been able to hear the set down she’d been given. Yet she could not look up to see if anyone was watching them emerge because she was too busy trying to push away the tears that had gathered in her eyes.