Bess took a deep breath and shoved down her own misgivings. “Of course, I’ll stay. It won’t be so very bad, Lucy—there will be balls and outings now, all sorts of invitations to interesting things to see and do, I’ll warrant. We shall have fun, in spite of the duke, if need be!”
Disappointed, Lucy shook her head. “You don’t really believe that. I wish you’d say how you really feel.”
“Oh, dear. It is a lot to ask.” Having secured Bess’s cooperation, Henrietta began to fret.
“It’s nothing. Not for friends such as we,” Bess said firmly, setting down her teacup and reaching across the table to the two ladies. Henrietta clasped her hand at once, tears springing quickly to her eyes, and after a moment, Lucy grabbed ahold too.
“Ah yes,” Lucy sighed. “What are friends for, if not to impose on them and take advantage of their affection!”
She smiled a bit as she said it though, and Bess grinned back at her while Henrietta finally untwisted her handkerchief and used it to dab at her eyes.
It’s nothing, Bess repeated to herself. A few months out of your life. And if playing chaperone isn’t quite the adventure you hoped for, well, life is full of these little disappointments. You’ll do your part, and Lucy will be launched into Society, and then you’ll go home and that will be the end of it.
Just keep your head down and don’t put a toe out of line to ruin Lucy’s chances, and everything will be fine.
But as the women began to pack and make preparations for Henrietta’s journey back to Wiltshire, and Lucy and Bess’s move to Mayfair, Bess was uncomfortably aware that there was a small, foolish part of her heart that thrilled to the knowledge that soon she’d be living under the same roof as the Duke of Ashbourn.
Dinner the first night was nothing short of a disaster.
Nathaniel had introduced Lucy and her chaperone to his housekeeper that afternoon and made himself scarce, but he couldn’t in good conscience avoid seeing his houseguests at table.
Now they sat in thick, tense silence as the footmen served the main course.
His half-sister had a mulish set to her mouth and chin which boded ill for polite conversation, but Nathaniel felt it his duty to make the attempt.
“I hope you are settling in well.”
No reply from Lucy save a tightening of her fingers around the handle of the silver knife she was using to methodically dissect her roasted squab. Darting a quick look at her charge, Mrs. Pickford cleared her throat and answered, “Very well, thank you. The rooms are lovely.”
He’d asked Mrs. Drummond to put Lucy in her old room, with Mrs. Pickford across the hall for convenience.
Nathaniel would have liked to be able to say he’d given no thought to the fact that he’d placed Mrs. Pickford in the room beside his own bedchamber, but he could not. He would not permit himself to do more than think of it, however.
He had controlled himself in the carriage; he would continue to do so.
“I am glad,” he said calmly, taking a bite.
Silence blanketed the table once more. Nathaniel applied himself grimly to his meal and very carefully did not stare at Mrs. Pickford, luminous and lovely in the flickering candlelight.
“I do hope Mama has stopped for the night at a good coaching inn,” Lucy said, her voice overly loud as she sawed at her food. “It is awful that she had to travel home unaccompanied.”
“I lent her a carriage,” Nathaniel pointed out. “She will be perfectly safe and well cared for on her journey.”
“She’ll be alone.” Lucy scowled.
A state of affairs to be envied, Nathaniel thought, but didn’t say. He attempted to change the subject instead. “I’ve arranged for you to visit a modiste tomorrow, and your deportment lessons will commence after that. The Season has already begun, and we will have some catching up to do.”
“Deportment! What, as in which fork to use and how to curtsey? I’m nineteen years old, Ashbourn, not an infant. I know how to behave in company.”
If Lucy’s parents had ever troubled to instruct her on how to behave properly, Nathaniel would eat his napkin.
“Think of it as a refresher course,” he said blandly.
“I won’t do it.” Lucy’s silverware clattered as she threw it down on her porcelain plate.
A headache began to throb behind Nathaniel’s eyes. “I wasn’t asking.”
“What time should we be ready to go to the dressmaker’s tomorrow?” Mrs. Pickford put in hurriedly.
