Chapter 1
London, 1822
In retrospect, it may have been unwise to steal a duke’s quizzing glass at the Cliveley ball.
Lucy Ninepence was not typically so reckless. In Manchester, matrons considered her a girl of good sense. But when the coterie of debutantes who had previously shunned her for “reeking of mill money” excitedly gathered round, offering Lucy a way into their circle via a diverting game, she accepted immediately. And only then found out what the game entailed.
It hadn’t been difficult to locate the duke in question. The other girls had pointed out the new Duke of Cockesbrayne. Five minutes of observation revealed he was an officious fellow who had refused all suggestions to dance and then had the temerityalso to decline ratafia, a trip to the card room, and a perfectly amiable discussion of the weather. Did the man likeanything?
Lucy had expected little of the duke; throughout the evening, as she perched on a stool alongside the other wallflowers, she heard constant complaints about His Grace. Wilting in the shadows seemed a waste of her pretty new silk dress and training in manners, but whenever she worried at the lace on her gloves, her chaperone, Mrs. Easterling, slapped Lucy’s hand. Her father’s hopes and money were coming to naught. Lucy was about to return to the north, twenty-two years of age, unmarried, and humiliated by the sophisticates in the capital.
Thus, when a gaggle of girls from fine families scooped Lucy from her seat and offered her a way to become part of their faction, she was prepared to sacrifice a small toe to stay within their accepting embrace.
“You simply need to relieve the duke of his quizzing glass,” said Lady Maria Courtenay, bored and beautiful in a dress of emerald green despite expectations that debutantes wear white; she’d been on the marriage market long enough to earn some color. “It’s such a little thing. Just dangling there. He likely won’t even miss it.” The other girls dissolved into laughter at the double meaning.
Their fellow debutantes tittered behind their fans, and Lucy joined in, relieved at last to be invited to partake of a joke instead of being the subject of one.
“I’m certain that I can do it,” said Lucy earnestly, watching her prey, unaware that the girls were watching her in much the same fashion.
Lucy wasn’t so silly as to think that one quizzing glass would solve the problem of her social status or make these young ladies her friends. But what was the risk of borrowing a quizzing glass for just a few moments?
The Duke of Cockesbrayne was tall, she noted, with dark hair and an aristocratic profile that might have been handsome if he didn’t look so perpetually irritated. Lucy felt an unwelcome flutter when his gaze swept the room. He was cold and assessing behind that ridiculous quizzing glass. No, she was here for a purpose, not to swoon over disagreeable dukes.
Lucy slipped to the side, close enough to smell his delectable shaving soap. Her fingers brushed his as she eased the quizzing glass from his loose grip. It was warm from his hand. For a moment, neither moved. Then someone asked after his mother’s health, and the duke’s attention shifted. Lucy stepped away, the glass secure, her heart hammering belatedly in her chest.
When she arrived in the ladies’ retiring room to present her easily obtained prize to the other debutantes, it seemed only fitting that they reveal a second requirement. A far more scandalous demand.
***
The Duke of Cockesbrayne wondered if his hosts were just now preparing a medal for his forbearance in attending this most dreadful ball. He’d left his ailing mother to show his face at this disastrous event. Why, some fool had tried to discuss the weather with him!
As mere Lord Peter Sidwin, he’d supported himself and his mother on a modest, but adequate income. As the Duke of Cockesbrayne — and, yes, he knew exactly how ridiculous the title sounded — he faced an insurmountable challenge of debt tied to lands he’d never expected to inherit and an endless pile of correspondence that required missives sent with rhetorical flourishes else they might offend the wrong person. Peterhatedflourishes.
When Mrs. George Shakelance appeared bearing news of a shipment of fine Renaissance tapestries woven with gold and silver thread, Peter finally began to enjoy the evening. His eyebrow twitched as he thought of the cache of old fabric that had the potential to offer hours of diversion as he and otherparfilagehobbyists painstakingly removed the precious metal threads strand by strand. He could almost feel the tweezers in his fingers now.
Thus pleasurably distracted, Peter didn’t realize that his prized quizzing glass had gone missing from his very hand. He couldn’t think of where he’d misplaced the thing. It must be on a tray of ratafia, he reasoned. Awful stuff. He’d just have to go into the kitchens and recover it.
While following a waiter towards what was presumably the Cliveley kitchen, he felt a small hand on his arm.
“Oh my,” cried a voice altogether too rehearsed. “Do forgive me, Your Grace. It’s just that I seem to have sprained my ankle.”
Peter turned to look at the gel, wishing all the while that he had his quizzing glass so he might survey her with the appropriate amount of hauteur.
“I wonder if you might help me to the ladies’ retiring room?”
He squinted at her. She was Miss Clough, if he wasn’t mistaken. A pert, pretty little thing with a disdain for the fiber arts. He had to assist her — Peter was a gentleman, after all — but he had no plans to get caught in this one’s web.
Peter offered his arm but maintained a decorous distance while looking about for a mother or chaperone who could aid the girl. It wouldn’t do to get saddled with a silly debutante for a wife.
***
Just a bit earlier, in the ladies’ retiring room down the hall, Lucy had lifted the quizzing glass in triumph before her new friends. And then collapsed onto a divan shortly after in shock. In between, she’d discovered the extent to which she had misjudged the situation.
“You want me to…”
“We have all done it. The point of stealing an object from an eligible gentleman is to anoint it with our feminine essence,rendering us irresistible to him,” said Lady Maria as if Lucy was a dolt for not considering this.
There were two problems. Well, likely more, but two stood out glaringly. The first was that she didn’t consider the Duke of Cockesbrayne an eligible gentleman. He might smell delicious, but he was a boor!
