Page 32 of A Most Improper Duchess
‘I have something for you.’ He pulled a small, folded booklet from his coat pocket. ‘It’s an etiquette guide, to help you with your presentation at court next week. It lists everything you need to do, and what to expect.’
‘You are lucky the queen’s throne is empty. I would not bow if she sat in it. Why must I do this again? Can’t I just marry you?’
‘Being a duchess has certain expectations, and one is that you have been presented at court. And the people want to see you. Be impressed by you. They want to make you their star.’ He waved the booklet. ‘Do you need to rehearse?’
Vivianne pushed his hand away, then gave his cheek a playful tap. ‘I can hold an audience. I can curtsy. Do not worry. Everything will be perfect.’
Chapter Fifteen
Sweaty,thickandstagnant—Arleycould not recall the air in the corridor of St James’s Palace being so stiff when he had attended his levee and been presented at court. But then, that had been over ten years ago, and only men attended the presentations of their male peers. The presentation of the debutantes and newly noble wives took place at Buckingham Palace, and not only did the families attend, but also every austere nobleman seeking a rich wife from the merchant class, and the more comfortable titles looking for an equal, in status and wealth.
‘Pardon me,’ he grunted as a woman wearing a skirt as wide as the hallway pushed past, and her mountain of ribbons and ruffles sent him clinging to the wall. He’d never get to the drawing room in time if he had to battle through all of this.
‘Your Grace! This way.’
Hamish Dalton, dressed in perfect court dress except for a hideous waistcoat, stood at the end of a corridor, munching on a biscuit. A few crumbs landed on his coat, and he flicked them away with a frown. Arley pushed through the press to join his neighbour.
‘Do you use the same tailor as your friend? That Algernon chap?’ Arley asked.
‘Not usually. This is old. I wanted to look all perfect for Iris, and then this morning, she dared me to wear it. I think she was battling nerves when she said it, but I couldn’t back down from a challenge.’ Hamish snickered. ‘Met Algernon, did you? I haven’t seen him in weeks.’ His hand disappeared into his coat pocket, then reemerged holding another biscuit.
‘Given he’s travelling on my purse, I imagine you might not see him for a few weeks more.’ Arley nodded at Hamish’s hand. ‘I didn’t realise they’d started serving refreshments at these things.’
‘Bertie, pay for food? Unlikely. Gena was worried I’d get hungry. She made me take provisions.’ He tipped his head. ‘I think it’s this way. Iris and your fiancé are in the same group. We should be able to sneak in a side door and find somewhere to watch.’
For all the world looking in, the presentation at court was a grand spectacle, a moment of triumph, an arrival. Its reality was crowded corridors, sniping parents and bored princesses who pretended to care. Arley had attended some out of a sense of duty his first few years in London but had quickly shrunk from the spectacle when he found himself as much on display as the women in white.
And that hadn’t changed. As he and Dalton moved down the hall, heads turned, while hands and fans raised to conceal gossip.
‘Have you been to one of these before?’ Arley asked.
‘Never. Iris is one part incensed, three parts terrified that, as a newly noble wife, she has to be presented. If she’d known what she’d have to take on, I’m not sure she’d have married me.’ He chuckled. ‘And everyone seems to have forgotten that my father never bothered to have me presented. Poor Iris. It’s like she’s carrying the burden for both of us.’
The three of them were practically of an age, Arley perhaps a year older, but how different their childhoods had been. Hamish had been the forgotten spare heir. Iris, as the adopted daughter of the unconventional Albert Abberton, had been both doted upon and given an extraordinary amount of freedom. Iris and Hamish had spent their childhood sneaking about the street, seeking mischief and making it when it could not be found. Arley, already a duke at six years of age, had spent his brief visits to the street inside Number 10, toiling at lessons, learning politics, and becoming equipped to manage all the structures of his future. By the time he had come to London at twenty-one, ready to step out in his own right and fulfil his father’s legacy, Hamish was sequestered in the country and Iris was abroad with her father more often than she was at home.
They reached the drawing room and jostled their way into the crowd. Across from them, on a dais, Prince Albert sat beside his mother’s vacant throne, while on the opposite side of the empty chair, sat his wife, the Princess Alexandra. A scarlet carpet runner stretched the length of the room, disappearing through an archway at either end, like a train track, shuttling debutantes from innocent obscurity through to station marital availability.
Hamish tapped Arley’s arm. ‘Here they come.’
They started as a blur of white. Fluff, feathers, lace and flounces, they formed a long glowing line that disappeared into the darkened distance. Iris led the group and took a visibly nervous inhalation as she stepped beneath the archway. A few visible curls of auburn hair burnished against the white of the three feathers that sat atop her head, the simple crown of a woman married and being presented as such. As an unmarried woman, Vivianne would have two.
Iris paused, looked up and perhaps caught sight of Hamish, as a grin tugged one corner of her lips. Beside him, Hamish took half a step forward, craning his neck to better see his wife.
Once, he would have felt a bitter jealousy at such subtle affection, but now, he almost glowed at seeing it. Like he was part of some club.
As Iris reached the space before the royal couple, a page dressed in red with a singular tall ostrich feather atop a tall black fur bonnet, moved to stand beside her. He extended his arm. Another page lifted the edge of her long, white train. Together, the trio walked to stand before the throne. Iris dropped into a curtsy and lowered herself until her feathers brushed the floor. She held the pose until the page draped her train over her arm, and then she rose to standing. With a confident half turn and a wink at her husband, she continued along the red-carpet runner and out into the adjacent reception room.
Hamish retrieved another biscuit from his pocket. ‘I’m going to find Iris,’ he said, then took a hearty bite. ‘She did well, didn’t she?’ and before Arley could reply, his neighbour wove between the other onlookers and was gone.
Arley tapped at his side with his fist. This was how he always wound up. Surrounded by people, yet alone.
He scanned the line of debutantes and wives waiting to be presented until he caught sight of a familiar stance, and the slight fidget of a poised, gloved hand. As the group moved a little further along, the delicate, perfect profile that squeezed his chest and turned his ankles to jam flashed into view, then disappeared behind a much taller debutante’s puffed sleeve. He shifted his position to try to spot her again. Her gaze found his for just a moment. Sunshine and storm in a look, the brief connection sparked a fire inside and he let the realisation settle that now, he wouldn’t be alone. He would have someone who loved him, just as he was.
How he missed the closeness of those days in Paris. Missed her lips, the yield of her body when he pressed against her, missed how she arched as she climaxed, and how she dug her nails into his back. He missed her giggle when she made some joke and he finally caught on. He missed her hand around his elbow.
Duty, propriety, all the structures of his life had filled the week since they’d returned, and that combined with the watchful eye of Mrs Crofts meant that moments together were brief and observed. But boxes for her new wardrobe had been delivered, some to her rooms, others, to her temporary lodging across the street. Soon she would be just a panel of wood away from him. His wife. His duchess. His forever.
The line of debutantes moved forward. Now he could make out the sleek cut of her bodice, and the fullness of her skirts. More ostentatious than what he thought she’d pick, her skirts half swallowed her, and she resembled a doll, set atop a puff of cream. She stroked the embroidery and smiled to herself. He’d made her happy. And that made him happy, too.
