Page 93 of A Bride for the Forbidden Duke
“I am sure the rumors about me have been vicious,” he’d said. “While it will begood to set them right and be a part of society again, I am rather nervous. I do not want thetonto find me lacking.”
But Veronica was very confident that the ball would be a success, and by the end of the night, the Earl of Grantham would be reinstated as one of the most eligible bachelors, rich with tales from Europe. Perhaps they could tailor the stories to make him look like a warrior who had fought his way out of battle with the pirates.
She hugged her brother goodbye, and he shook hands with the Duke. Thomas was already waiting in the carriage and would see Robert back to London. Entering the manor once again with Henry, she paused, looking up at the entrance hall.
“I would like to begin my planning today,” she said. “I shall organize invitations shortly.”
Henry nodded at her. “Then I shall definitely leave you to it. Should you need anything, I will be in my study.”
He leaned down and kissed her briefly as a farewell, and only as he pulled away did they both hesitate, realizing how naturally it had happened outside of their bedroom. As if… as if he had kissed her out a true desire to simply show affection rather than a sexual intimacy.
He cleared his throat, stepping back. “I shall be in my study.”
Before he went, Veronica blurted out, “Would you like to have a luncheon together? I have always been fond of tea rooms, and I noticed there was one in the village.”
“Miss Hettie’s?” he asked.
“That is the one.”
Henry did not answer her for a moment, and she prepared herself for disappointment, but then he glanced at her over his shoulder, having walked a few paces before stopping. “Yes.”
And then he was gone, his boots clicking on the marble floor, and Veronica was left wondering at the swoop in her stomach watching his retreating figure.
Veronica drifted from room to room, assessing where to host different parts of the ball.
“Of course, there shall be the main ballroom for dancing,” she told Mrs. Nelson. “And we shall dine in the dining hall. But I wish for something else. Something… different. Perhaps Robert could host a space in the manor to recount his stories at intervals.”
“That would be lovely,” the housekeeper told her as they walked through the halls.
“I am very familiar with Westley Manor, but do you have any suggestions?” Veronica asked. “I feel as though the drawing room might present too casual of a space. After all, he has been gone for a year. I wish for him to feel truly welcomed back to theton.”
“How about the library?”
Veronica shook her head.
“The music room?”
“It is too crowded,” she explained. “I am hoping for an open space where he can present his stories quite theatrically if he wishes.”
Mrs. Nelson considered for a moment before her face lit up. “There is always the gallery room. His Grace never uses it, but it is open, would project his voice wonderfully, and many guests can space out in there.”
“Perfect!” Veronica said. “Lead the way.”
Mrs. Nelson produced a set of keys and took her to a white door on the ground level of the manor, further back than she usually frequented. She unlocked it and pushed the door open, and Veronica entered the tall space filled with dozens of frames, all bearing paintings of different kinds.
“This is incredible,” she gasped. “My father had something similar in Grantham House, but it was nowhere near the size of this.”
“Most of the landscape collections are His Grace’s,” Mrs. Nelson said. “But the family portraits are the forefathers of the former Duke of Westley. Of course, he also brought the abstract paintings into the manor.”
She gave a small laugh at that, as Veronica’s eyes landed on a strange-looking flamingo whose feathers burst out like a peacock. She was suspecting a pattern.
“And who is this?” she asked, drifting to a cluster of family portraits.
A couple posed behind a young boy. The woman clasped the boy’s shoulder gently while the man’s hand on the boy’s other shoulder looked heavy. The boy’s face looked positively miserable, even against the unsmiling expressions of the couple.
“That is His Grace,” Mrs. Nelson told her. “He was merely six and ten when the portrait was painted. His mother, Francesca Banfield, the former Viscountess of Kemble.” She gestured to the woman in the portrait, her long, dark hair pinned back elegantly to expose a soft face. “And the former Viscount of Kemble, Dominic Banfield.”
Her voice curled around the man’s name, and it was only then that Veronica recalled Lady Sheridan’s words.
