“I have not had the opportunity to study the latest trends, Your Grace. Your efforts here are most inspiring though, I shall have to research further.” She seemed appeased with that compliment.
“What interests do you have, Lady Juliet?” His Grace questioned.
I opened my mouth to answer, but my father interjected. “She’s quite proficient on the pianoforte, Your Grace.”
My mouth dropped, hanging open a beat longer than appropriate, before I remembered myself and closed it with a tentative nod. I was fond of the pianoforte. Until he informed me that my efforts, when combined with my inferior singing voice, were in vain. From that moment, I only played when he was away from home. I had not exhibited in company since. Finally, some three years ago he sold our instrument entirely. I prayed his comment would not result in a request to play; I was quite out of practice, and it would surely end in disaster.
“That’s a wonderful talent my dear. Lady Davina was sure to become a master in her youth but the instrument was ill suited to her talents,” the Dowager Duchess added.
Lady Davina scoffed out an embarrassed, “Mother!” in response.
“Well, if you’d ever practiced you wouldn’t have to be ashamed of your failings,” His Grace shot at his sister.
I watched in horrified fascination as she let out an angry, “Ugh, Xander!”
He merely raised a sardonic brow in response. The girl actually crossed her arms and, pouting, turned back to us. My chest tightened, as I awaited his answering ire at her poor manners, but he turned back to us, unaffected by her display.
Equally unruffled, his mother questioned, “Do you have an interest in art Lady Juliet? My son is an impeccable curator of the most fashionable painters.” She gestured toward an exquisite landscape framed in a recess above the fireplace. I was saved from having to offer any substantive comment about the piece by the announcement that supper was ready.
What followed was the most excruciating dinner of my entire existence. His Grace, though kind to me, continued to snipe at his sister and vice versa. The entire evening I waited for his patience to end, prepared for second-hand shame at the inevitable check on her behavior, which never came. His mother continued to use five words where one would suffice. My father was no help, speaking only to offer up accomplishments I did not possess. The food was more plentiful than flavorful. The dining room decor was no less intimidating and impractical than that of the drawing room.
I waited, anticipating the inevitable distress. My utter failure to secure a suitor should vex me. It was not forthcoming. It was so evident that His Grace and I were ill-suited. I could not think even my father would be disappointed when no courtship was formed.
I thought wrong. The dressing down I received in the carriage had no equal. I thought I had seen my father angry before, but this, this was something else entirely. His fists beat the carriage walls, he screamed himself hoarse, his face turned a purplish red color for which I had no name, and the vein in his neck made a valiant attempt at escaping his flesh.
Instead of the usual combination of guilt, nausea, and terror I felt at his rages, I was numb. There was absolutely no situation in which His Grace could have found me an appropriate match. Perhaps if I had weeks to study current trends in interior decorating, learn the latest London gossip, research fashionable painters; then I could have proved an acceptable conversationalist. Maybe if I had hundreds of pounds to order the finest gowns from Paris I could have impressed. But I had only a few hours’ notice and no warning.
Absolutely nothing I could have done with the resources I had available could have salvaged the evening. The absurdity of the situation left me indifferent and exhausted to his ravings for the first time in my life.
When we arrived home, my father remained in the carriage, breathing heavily. The footman was more gentle and attentive than usual as he escorted me to the door. I realized with shame that everyone within half a mile of the carriage had heard my father’s every word. The footman handed me over to Hannah at the door, and she guided me, still dazed, through the house to my room, where she undressed me and readied me for bed without a word. At some point I must have fallen asleep, but I don’t remember falling nor waking.
In the morning, the numbness remained, right up until I was summoned to my father’s study once more.
Four
DALTON PLACE, LONDON - FEBRUARY 11, 1814
JULIET
“I’m to bewhat?”The numbness was gone now, as if it had never been there at all.
“Honestly, Juliet, it is a wonder anyone wants anything to do with you with manners such as those.” My father followed that statement with a nonchalant sip of wine and a turn of the page. Apparently, this conversation was unworthy of eye contact. As if the subject at hand was no more interesting than the weather. As though he had not just offhandedly informed me of my impending nuptials.
My chest tightened as the air trapped in my lungs. There was a paralysis spreading to my fingers.Not now. Please, not now. I beat back the rising panic with everything I had. I fought to bring the numbers forth in my mind. One, I tried to inhale only for my chest to hitch on intake. I tried the reverse, one… two… three… four… five… on the exhale. Again on inhale. Exhale. My lungs reluctantly obeyed my commands again. Not without thought, that would take time, but they responded once more. Now, I was glad of my father’s inattention; he had not noticed my distress.
“Apologies, father, my mouth ran away from me again.” My voice was raised and raspy with panic, and I prayed he would not hear it. He detested conversing with hysterical women. “It’s just… I had not thought to find a match so quickly, with so little effort—”
“So little effort?”Oh no!My heart sank, and blood froze in my veins. Practice ensured my expression kept my terror in confidence. One… two… “So little effort? Do you think it was a simple matter to bring about? That unmarried dukes wander aimlessly around London looking for insipid, ill-mannered, ungrateful, dull-witted women to wed?” Here he paused, face reddening with ire.
“No, Father, of—”
“I’m not finished.” The pause had been a trap. “So little effort! Ungrateful, spoiled, selfish girl. So little effort! Can’t even let a man finish his thought before interrupting. You’ll be married less than a fortnight before His Grace sends you back to me. Ashamed of your manners and countenance, to be sure. Mark my words, I won’t have you then. Once I’ve rid myself of your burden, I won’t take it back.” The blood vessel under his starched collar was straining the confines of his shirt. I stared at it while I counted.
It would be some time before he tired himself out. I struggled to keep my countenance suitably contrite. The tears that burned could come later, when I was alone. Few things incurred my father’s fury the way that being interrupted did. Tears were one of them. My blood was rushing through my ears, and it made hearing him difficult. I desperately hoped I didn’t miss a comment that required acknowledgment.
“…worked tirelessly to find a man who would have you. Odds are good you have the same condition your mother had, and you’ll never provide a man with an heir. Still, I managed to find a gentleman who would accept you. A duke, no less! And you’re nothing but ungrateful.” He paused for breath again here; I would not fall for it this time. “You have nothing to say? Of course, you’re not even the slightest bit remorseful for the shameful way you’ve treated me…” I guessed wrong, then. The vein was making itself even more noticeable. What would happen if it ever gave way?
Married. To a man I met only the night before. I had not been out in society, not truly. But I could not imagine a pair less suited than His Grace and myself. The rest of my life… My breath hitched again at that thought, one… two…. three…
