Delores handed the basket containing the tiny duke to Philpot. Given their reaction, it was a good thing she’d done, keeping the news of the other two infants from the solicitor. The man was so stricken. “He’s small, but healthy. Hungry. You’ll need a wet nurse.”
“Mrs. Philpot will make arrangements,” the solicitor assured her.
She nodded, hating that she cared for the little duke, though he was assuredly no longer her problem.
“She named him Alexander,” Delores thought to add.
“After the duchess’s father, Lord Manville,” Philpot murmured, fingers curling around the handle of the basket. “A good name. Lord Damon will be pleased.”
Sticking out her palm, Delores raised a brow. “My payment for services rendered. And Her Grace insisted I have a new rug. From Axminster.”
Disdain colored Philpot’s features, but he reached into his coat, producing a heavy bag of coins. “For your trouble, Mrs. Bean. And your care of the duchess. The rug will be delivered within the week.” He looked towards the bed, his eyes watery with emotion.
“Mr. Philpott,” she inclined her head as the footmen and Mr. Switch prepared the body of the duchess. “I bid you good evening.”
“Mrs. Bean.” He gave a short bow. “I thank you on behalf of the Duke of Roxboro.”
Chapter One
London, 1840
Lady Sophia Simmonshopped away in time to avoid having her toe crushed by one of the overly amorous suitors surrounding her sister, Lady Mara. There were always gentlemen swirling around Mara.
Ugh.
Sophia, as a general rule, didn’t care much for the cloud of simpering dandies surrounding her sister, or their overblown infatuation. She found their behavior intolerable. Pushing further into the wall, she pulled her skirts up, barely managing to escape one gentleman’s clumsy, overly large feet. Mama would have a fit if she tore the hem of this lovely blue gown or created any sort of what she deemed “a fashion incident.”
Mara let out a soft peal of laughter and swatted one young man playfully on the shoulder with her fan.
Artfully done. Mara has been practicing.
Sophia plucked at her pale blue skirts. Tugged at the bodice,discreetly. Tried not to frown at her sister, who looked over one creamy shoulder with a smug smile. It would only encourage further poor behavior.
Mara was often declared one of the great beauties of London. The very flower of English womanhood. Some whispered how the other apple, namely Sophia, could have fallen so far from the Canterbell tree.
Constantly being considered…inferior had a way of prompting Sophia to behave in the exactoppositemanner of her sister.Mara The Beautiful,who was permitted to be in her third Season because Lady Canterbell was holding out for a marquess or a duke.
I would be thrilled for you to attract any sort of attention, Sophia.
Unfortunately, Sophia did draw attention, though not the sort Mama approved of.
Another deep sigh came from her as she attempted to appear enthralled at the sight of the Perswick ballroom, watching half the men in London fawn around her sister. Sophia longed for…oh, an apple. A tiny pebble. Or one of those tiny cakes she’d seen at the refreshment table. Anything at all to throw at Mara’s inflated head. She’d once placed two beetles in her sister’s bonnet at a garden party because she’d been particularlyinsufferablethat day. Sophia had quite enjoyed the screeching while Mara danced about swatting at her head.
“Lord Wilde,” she heard Mara whisper, loudly, to the gentleman not two paces away. “I shall save my last dance for you, but first,” she shot Sophia a look of false sympathy. “Could you spin my sister about for the next set. She hasn’t danced at all this evening. Poor dear.”
I would give anything for some sort of flying insect to launch itself at Mara’s head.
Turning her eyes to the ceiling of the vast Perswick ballroom, Sophia begged for deliverance. Why not merely place a sign on her back announcing her inadequacy and lack of appeal to the entire crowd of London’s finest all gathered here tonight?
Wilde took her in with a weak smile and, as expected, murmured a polite excuse about returning later to dance with Lady Mara’s sister. He wouldn’t. They never did. Not that Sophia minded, overmuch. The sort of men Mara attracted were vastly uninteresting. Conversations limited to the weather, horses and who they’d seen walking in the park. Dreadfully dull. Overly polite. And Wilde had a loose thread on his coat, button dangling and about to fall off, something she would have ordinarily pointed out to him as a courtesy.
“I tried, Mama,” Mara said softly, sounding far too innocent.
“You did your best,” Mama replied.
Good grief.
It wasn’t as if Sophia was some sort of troll. Or possessed a horrid skin condition like Miss Andrews. She’d been told she was pretty. Slightly plump, but many gentlemen appreciated an overabundance of curves. True, her hair didn’t shine like bits of spun gold, as Mara’s did. Nor did she have her sister’s modest, demure manner and dulcet voice.
