For her new husband, this house and gathering would be somewhat commonplace, boring even. At least, that was what his expression communicated. It wasn’t lost on her that the circumstances of this job had entirely flipped on its head. No longer were they navigating her world, but his.
As they followed the footman down one corridor, then another, they passed dozens of curious eyes. A few gentlemen nodded at the Marquess of Clare and their ladies offered up bright, flirtatious smiles before directing their attention toward the new marchioness. Then it was a quick narrowing of the eyes, an arch, assessing cant of the head. They couldn’t yet place her in Society, but tonight they would.
They entered a room with twenty-foot ceilings and red-and-white striped sofas and benches, the walls filled with gilt-framed paintings of but one subject: the military glory of the Duke of Wellington and his generals. It was a room intent on inspiring awe in its occupants, and she would be damned if it didn’t succeed.
The butler’s voice rang out, “The Marquess and Marchioness of Clare.”
For the space of three heartbeats, all fifty sets of eyes turned in a single, unified direction. As in the corridors, they widened with surprise before narrowing in assessment. Clare placed his hand on top of hers and squeezed. “Are you ready,wife?” he murmured.
Those were the words she needed to snap into her role. She was the Marchioness of Clare, the bride the besotted Marquess of Clare wanted so badly, so intensely, he had to obtain a special license to have her. Now, it was up to her to show thetonexactly the sort of notorious marchioness it had on its hands.
She gave the room a perfectly calibrated, saucy smile, and it burst into a buzzing hive of gossip in an instant, which was precisely the stir Clare had predicted. He knew these people. And why wouldn’t he? He was one of them, through and through.
That last bit rang untrue, even unfair. He was one of them, but more, too. He was a man who would do anything to save a guttersnipe son about whom most men in this room wouldn’t give two tosses.He’s better than the lot of them, came an unbidden thought.
The spy in her took the lead as her gaze roved the room. “Do you see Rothesbury?”
Clare scanned the crowd. “There.”
She followed his eye line and landed upon a lean man of middling height and sixty-something years with a head of thick, dark-brown hair, which appeared incongruous with the deep lines of his face. “Is he wearing—” She couldn’t finish the question around the sudden giggle that had bubbled up.
“A wig?” Clare finished for her, his face impassive. “The man’s vanity is boundless.”
Information she would certainly use and exploit.
“He was a close companion of my father’s.”
Clare’s jaw tightened, and she knew he would speak no more on the matter. She resisted the urge to give his arm a reassuring squeeze. She was his wife in name only. She wasn’t here to offer him comfort. She was here to help him recover his son. Why was she finding it so difficult to keep the two separate?
As parted the Red Sea for Moses, so did the assembled for the couple making a direct line for them. The identity of the man was unmistakable, as various versions of his visage littered the four impressive walls surrounding them. “Clare,” said the Duke of Wellington on a nod. “Good of you to make it out. It has been some time since you’ve graced Society with your presence, but”—his hawkish gaze landed on Hortense—“rumor has it you’ve been busy.”
“Duke,” said Clare, “may I introduce my bride, Lady Clare, to you?”
“You may, indeed.” Wellington bowed over Hortense’s hand. She felt not quite in her body. TheDuke of Wellingtonwas kissing the back of her fingers. “And, Lady Clare,” he said, “may I introduce my friend, Mrs. Arbuthnot, to you?”
A small woman with chestnut hair and lovely dark eyes stepped forward and offered a curtsy. “Lady Clare, I am most pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Unsure of the proper etiquette, Hortense gave a small curtsy in return.
“Please avail yourselves of the Duke’s hospitality,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot as she snatched two champagne coupes off a passing tray and offered them to Hortense and Clare. He refused. She accepted.
So, the whispers were true. Mrs. Arbuthnot was the mistress of the Duke of Wellington. A de facto wife, it appeared, as Wellington’s true wife preferred the bucolic joys of the countryside to Town entertainments.
“Now,” the woman continued, her authority clear, “it simply isn’t done for a husband and wife to remain tied to one another for the duration of a supper party, so speak your farewells here,” she finished on a tinkling laugh, her arm winding through Hortense’s.
“Can you manage without me, dear husband?” Hortense asked, all flirtatious delight.
“Certain parts of me cannot, I’m afraid.”
Mrs. Arbuthnot gave a giggle of faux shock and swatted Clare with her closed fan. “Oh, you are very bad, I fear. Lady Clare, you must divulge all your secrets for having harnessed him to the straight and narrow path. Many a lady had given him up for a lost cause.”
“Oh, the straight and narrow was never for me,” Hortense said, tossing Clare a parting glance over her shoulder. “I rather like the twists and bends.”
Although she and Mrs. Arbuthnot walked side by side, Hortense understood she was being led through the drawing room as a curiosity on display. She’d only ever been in the presence of such a gathering oftonluminaries in the role of servant. Sparkling jewels—draped around pale necks, wrapped around delicate wrists, dripping from attentive ears—winked their combined brilliance as their owners cast alternately shy, bold, hard, or giggling glances her way.
“Let us take a rest,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot. They approached a centrally located sofa upholstered in the same distinctive red and white fabric as the wall hangings and the benches lining the walls. Mrs. Arbuthnot chose the place strategically as any lady could observe or approach the new Marchioness of Clare. “Now, my dear, your time has come to run the gauntlet.” She shot Hortense a shrewd glance. “I sense a bit of steel about you. Now would be the time to employ it.”
As if a subtle cue had been dropped, the ladies began to approach, sometimes singly, sometimes in pairs, to make the acquaintance of and goggle at this mysterious woman who had managed to capture the elusive Marquess of Clare. It wasn’t long before Hortense found herself abandoned by Mrs. Arbuthnot to the horde of inquisitive ladies who had no intention of holding their curiosity at bay. She also found that yet another full coupe of champagne had appeared in her hand. Her third.
