The maid trotted over to touch up Delilah’s hair and apply rouge to her cheeks, while Delilah forced herself to count to one hundred. She was wearing a light pink day dress that tightened at the waist with embroideredroses on the hem and matching slippers. It was a simple gown, but it would have to do. There was no time to change. When Amandine declared herself finished, Delilah stood and turned in a circle. “How do I look?”
The maid clasped her hands together next to her cheek. “Très enchanté,mademoiselle.”
“Wish me luck,” Delilah whispered, as she forced herself to walk slowly from the room. An image of Thomas popped unexpectedly to her mind. She always said,Wish me luck, to Thomas.
As she warned herself to take the stairs down to the foyer one at a time, she forced thoughts of him from her mind. Amandine had recently told her London’s gossip mills were also spouting the rumor that Thomas was courting Lady Emmaline. Of course, Delilah knew that wasn’t true. Thomas’s involvement with Emmaline had been entirely Lucy’s creation. But the rumor bothered Delilah nonetheless. Thomas had admitted he was in love with someone. What if that someone was Lady Emmaline? What if the courtship wasn’t a sham after all? Perhaps it had begun a sham, but then had turned quite real.
Oh, she’d think about Thomas another time. At the moment, she had another duke to worry about. The one waiting for her in the gold salon.
She entered the room and cleared her throat to catch his attention. The Duke of Branville stood near the window staring out at the road in front of the house. He wore impeccably tailored clothing as usual, black breeches, a blue overcoat, gray waistcoat, white shirtfront and cravat. He looked dashing and handsome, the epitome of what she’d always pictured a suitor would look like standing in the gold salon to visit her. A lump formed in her throat.
He turned with a wide smile on his handsome face. “Lady Delilah. Thank you for taking my call.”
“But of course, Your Grace. Thank you for your visit.”
“The mark on your forehead appears to be healing nicely,” he said next.
She absently rubbed at the remnants of the scab. Then she snatched her hand away. “It’s good to see you, Your Grace,” she said in as stately a voice as she could muster. She’d already decided to stay far away from him. She was less likely to ruin any of his clothing that way. The scab had been a timely reminder.
Branville frowned. “Are you quite all right, my lady?”
“Yes, perfectly fine. Why?” Her voice remained high and prim, while her hands remained serenely folded in front of her.
“I don’t know. You seem… unlike your usual self.”
He probably meant calm. Good. Her usual self was too loud and too quick and too nervous and too everything. “Please, have a seat.” She gestured to the settee. She lowered herself into a chair a comfortable distance away and concentrated on keeping her back ramrod straight and her eyes fixed on a spot above his head. Her back hurt and the fake smile she had plastered to her face was also painful. How did ladies like Emmaline Rochester manage to look this way all the time? Apparently, this is what it took to appear composed, to play the part of a well-behaved lady, one who would make a suitable future duchess. But it was uncomfortable, not to mention difficult.
“May I interest you in some tea, Your Grace?” she asked in the same pinched voice she’d affected since she’d first entered the room.
“No, thank you.”
Merci à Dieu. She nearly sagged in relief. Pouring teawhile keeping one’s back perfectly straightandnot spilling it was a far more difficult task than it should be. She’d broken more than one teapot over the years while her governess had tried to teach her to do the thing properly. “Good,” she breathed. “I, er, mean, very well.”
Branville turned to face her, his hands braced upon his knees. “I’ve come to ask you something, Lady Delilah.”
A trickle of sweat slid down her back. It tickled, and she tried not to squirm. Ask her something? Could it be? She held her breath. Was this the moment she would become engaged to a handsome, eligible duke? Good heavens, it had all been much simpler than she’d thought. She didn’t need that silly elixir. Why, she would pour it out the window the minute she made it back to her bedchamber. How had she read the situation so incorrectly these past weeks? Branville wasn’t put off by her. He liked her. Enough to come here and… ask her a question.
She tried to arrange her skirts perfectly so that she would be picturesque when accepting his proposal. But arranging skirts and keeping a straight back were incompatible tasks, and she quickly abandoned her efforts.
“Of course, Your Grace,” she intoned.
“I hear you’re a matchmaker, Lady Delilah,” he began.
“Who told you that?” she blurted. Very well,thathad been poorly done. She obviously needed more work on keeping her thoughts from springing from her mouth.
He smiled, and the dimple appeared in his cheek. “Lady Emmaline told me that you and Lucy are known for your penchant for matchmaking.”
Of course,Lady Emmalinehad told him, which only proved he’d been spending time with Lady Emmaline. The gossip mill was right. As usual. There was no usedenying it. “Yes, it’s true. I’ve made matches for several of my friends over the years.”
He bit his lip, looking slightly guilty. “Yes, well, I was hoping you’d… help me.”
She blinked. She had the awful suspicion that her face reflected her surprise. She was certain she looked as if she’d swallowed a bug.
“Help me… make a match,” he continued, as if reading her mind.
Delilah swallowed hard. The fake smile on her face made her cheeks ache. She kept her voice as proper as ever, however. “A match? With whom?” Oh,mon Dieu. That was a stupid question. Of course he meant with Lady Emmaline. “It seems as if you and Lady Emmaline are already off to a fine start, Your Grace,” she added, trying to keep the disappointment from sounding in her voice.
“Lady Emmaline? No.” He shook his head, confusion marring his fine features. “She’s not the lady upon whom I’ve set my sights.”
