Page 22 of The Heiress Gets a Duke
From: Maxwell Crenshaw
August stepped into the foyer of Hereford’s townhome and was nearly overrun by a maid carrying an arrangement of lilies larger than she was.The poor girl wobbled and might very well have fallen over from the impact if the housekeeper had not swooped in behind her and steadied her.
“Apologies, miss.” The voice came from somewhere behind the lilies, and the girl tried to bob a quick curtsy, but the movement sent her wobbling again.
“No harm done,” said August as she took in the chaos around her.
The housekeeper shooed the maid away along with a trio of others who came trailing out of the front parlor, each of them bearing identical arrangements as they marched up the curved staircase. The ball was tomorrow night, so August had no doubt they were bound for the ballroom. The footman who had accompanied them to the fight, Henry, stood at the curve in the staircase tying garland to the banister, while another directed him in the proper draping from below. He had looked up when she first entered but now pretended absorption in his task.
“Well, everything looks marvelous,” August said to absolutely no one.
The butler appeared justifiably put out by her arrival in the midst of such chaos, while her chaperone—the Honorable Mrs. Harold Barnes—shook her head at the madness.
“Her Grace is expecting you.” Keeping his nose well in the air, the butler began to lead them to the drawing room, but a voice from above stopped him.
“August! August, is that you?” Camille appeared at the first-floor landing, her face alight with happiness. Upon seeing August, she hurried down the stairs far too quickly to be considered proper for a duchess.
Mrs. Barnes sniffed in disapproval, but August hurried over to meet her friend at the bottom step. Camille had all but disappeared since the Ashcroft dinner, and that had been days ago. “I came as soon as I received your note. I hope I’m not interrupting.”
Camille took her hands once she reached the bottom and said, “Of course you’re not. I am so glad you’re here.”
It was only now that Camille was close that August could see that her friend’s eyes were almost unnaturally bright, and her grip was hard. Desperate. Her gaze was so fixed on August that she had yet to even acknowledge Mrs. Barnes. “Camille, are—?”
The question was destined to go unasked as another voice screeched, “Lilies? Who ordered lilies? I specifically requested roses!”
Footsteps warned of an approach seconds before two women appeared at the landing. August immediately recognized Lady Russell, Hereford’s sister, and her friend Lady Fawly. She had met them both at dinner her first week in London and had found them very similar in disposition to Hereford. Self-important and vaguely condescending.
“Miss Crenshaw. I did not hear your arrival,” said Lady Russell, her lips pursed in disapproval.
“I invited her for tea.” Camille took her arm and practically dragged her toward the drawing room, calling over her shoulder, “And it was I who ordered the lilies. Roses are so overdone, don’t you think?”
A silence colder than the bitterest New York winter descended from the upper floor. August tried to ignore it, but the glacial stillness followed them into the depths of the house. She felt that she should call out a greeting, but it seemed disloyal to Camille, so she kept quiet and let her friend lead her away.
Camille was all smiles again as she opened the door to her private drawing room. The tea service was already set up near the sofa and matching chair. “Mrs. Barnes, I presume?” Camille asked as the woman followed August into the room.
In the chaos, August realized that she had forgotten to properly introduce them. “My apologies. This is Mrs. Barnes. Mrs. Barnes, please forgive my error. Her Grace, the Duchess of Hereford.”
After pleasantries were exchanged, Camille went to close the door. However, the butler stood there in theopening and gently pushed it back so that she was forced to let go. “His Grace prefers the door open.”
Camille stiffened, her shoulders held firm. Instead of saying a word to him, she addressed Mrs. Barnes. “Would you care for tea?”
August only barely kept her jaw from dropping open at the impertinence of the servant. To be fair, he had been courteous, but she could not imagine any of her own servants in New York or London contradicting her wishes so openly.
“Thank you, Your Grace, but if you do not mind, I shall set myself up over here by the window.” She indicated the carpetbag she carried, which held her knitting. As chaperones went, August had to admit Mrs. Barnes wasn’t intolerable. She typically kept out of the way.
The butler’s footfalls could be heard retreating as she settled herself. Camille took a seat on the sofa beside August and served them both tea. August stole glances at her friend’s face, but it was impassive as she focused on the task. Shifting in her seat, she noted the accompanying tray was practically bare, holding only a scone for each of them with the tiniest pots of clotted cream and jam she had ever seen. The room itself was comfortable enough, done in what was once a tasteful lemon and gold scheme, but the colors had faded until they were nearly indistinguishable from the other. The front rooms with their fresh wallpaper and new furnishings were ostentatious by comparison. Evidence of the fortune Hereford had needed to restore his estates.
An awkward silence heavy with all the things they longed to say but couldn’t in the presence of others filled the space between them. It was only broken by the clacking of knitting needles and the clink of the cups against their saucers.
“I am sorry your mother and Violet were unable to come.”
August tried to ferret out Camille’s mood, but she kept her gaze focused on the china. “They send their regrets. Mother insisted on yet another fitting for Violet. Despite the fact that all of our ball gowns are new, she wanted to make absolutely certain the gown was perfect for tomorrow night.”
“And how is Violet feeling about...” Camille glanced at Mrs. Barnes, who appeared happily absorbed in her task. It seemed she was making a scarf with the questionable color choices of an alternating pattern of brown, mustard yellow, and puce. Lowering her voice, she continued. “You-know-who and the likely proposal?” She mouthed the last word.
“As you would expect. She has vowed to not go through with it.”
“And your parents?”
