Chapter One
“‘Lay on, Macduff, and damned be him that first cries, ‘Hold, enough!’”
Victoria Weston, nee Brighton, the Duchess of Hawksford, was the most unlikely in stature to play Macbeth, petite and dark blonde, but she gave the role her all. The tragedy might be inevitable, but she knew just how to give the death of an ill-fated Scottish king the drama it deserved.
She was deep into her role, with the dark blue breeches and loosely fitting doublet. Somehow, she made it work over her all-too-feminine body, slightly curvy, but still fit from activity.
Her nephew, Hector, proved to be a formidable opponent. He was now taller than she at age twelve, a younger version of his father, Gerard Langmirth, Duke of Talleystone. Gerard was the husband of Victoria’s older sister, Wilhelmina, and his son from his first marriage had become Victoria’s most favored nephew.
“Die, now, Macbeth,” he yelled, going off script.
Victoria could not help but chuckle as she fell on the polished mahogany floor of Hawksford House’s parlor. A peal of laughter burst from the family members gathered around their improvised stage. Applause quickly followed.
“Brava, Aunt Victoria!” cried seven-year-old Clara, her sister Elizabeth’s daughter.
The little girl clapped her hands so vigorously that her braids and ribbons shook. Her mother stood behind her, beaming proudly.
Victoria made a low, sweeping, and gallant bow that could almost pass for a lad trying to be magnanimous after a performance. However, when she removed her felt hat and tendrils of her hair escaped, a little bit of the fantasy was gone.
“It is not in the thrust of the blade but in the truth that lies behind it. The purpose!” Victoria declared, with her chin up, her eyes twinkling mischievously as she looked at her nephew.
Hector chuckled. The two of them had always gotten along, through the wrong lines and the good.
“Aunt, it was marvelous,” he breathed, looking satisfied with their performance.
“You do remember that I was supposed to be dead at that point, don’t you?” she teased.
“Of course, Aunt,” he said, looking only slightly disgruntled.
“Ah. But you decided to change Shakespeare’s lines,” she mused.
“I still feel like you have missed your true calling, Victoria,” Gerard said with a booming laugh. “Meanwhile, dear Hector here seems to have been consistently pursuing the craft since he was little.”
“Nonsense. I merely enjoy playing a man who is permitted to speak his mind, not to mention be able to fight with weapons,” Victoria replied, grinning at her audience. “However, I do wish that I did not always need a stage to make this happen.”
“Let us not forget Diana and Jamie,” she continued, sweeping an arm at Elizabeth’s ten-year-old daughter and Marianne’s ten-year-old son.
Her nieces and nephews were growing up too quickly. She could not help but look at them fondly.
Soon, the parlor began transforming back into what it was before the stage was set. Servants came in, gliding swiftly but silently, as they collected the stage props. Even members of Victoria’s family helped with the reassembling of armchairs. They were all family there.
Victoria sighed contentedly, tossing her hat onto a lounge. She had no plans to change into a gown, not right now. Not when she had a reason to wear breeches and enjoy her independence. She flung her body onto a sofa and rested her boots on a stool.
Daniel, the Marquess of Grisham and her only brother, shook his head in amusement as he passed her a glass of sherry, which she heartily accepted.
“Another brilliant performance, Vicky,” he said.
She looked up at him and grinned. Her brother was tall and lean, so different in looks from her, but they used to share the same charming recklessness. These days, though, the young marquess had been more serious, as the title’s responsibilities had taken a measure of his light.
“Thank you, brother,” she said lightly, then took a sip from her sherry.
Across the room, her eldest half-sister, Marianne, the Duchess of Oakmere, looked at her with gentle scrutiny. Victoria knew what her sister could see: a young woman who still craved her freedom and spoke her mind. Marianne was the same, but Victoria took it to a higher level.
The Duke of Oakmere leaned toward his wife, resting his hand on Marianne’s shoulder and squeezing. There were no words between the married couple, but the gesture was enough.
The casual affection struck something unfamiliar within Victoria.
Could that be loneliness she was feeling?
