Page 1 of A Duke Makes a Deal
Chapter One
London, 1822
“Do not beanxious, my dear,” Joseph Woodvine whispered to his daughter, his white mustache twitching with trepidation. “All will be well.”
Clara Woodvine smiled tightly at her papa as she held onto his coat sleeve. She tried her best to appear as if she wasn’t nervous, even though there was a slight ringing in her ears as they climbed the stone steps. This was to be the most exciting night of her life. Not only was it her first ball in society, but if everything went according to plan, she would be engaged before the night was over, praised and congratulated by every guest in attendance tonight. This night was meant to be a triumph.
What did she possibly have to be anxious about?
Swallowing hard, Clara ignored the erratic beating of her heart. She felt like she had eaten too many sugary treats. She was jittery and nauseous all at once, and no amount of steady breathing seemed to calm her nerves. She wasn’t usually prone to worrying. She had always had a healthy dose of self-assurance, but this was well outside her usual realm of experience.
They entered the foyer of the Earl of Trembley’s Mayfair home as a footman directed them to a queue that led into the ballroom. Clara turned to face her mother, Mary, who tried togive her an encouraging nod but appeared rather pale herself. They walked through the bright, vaulted entranceway where hundreds, if not thousands, of white flowers decorated every spare inch. It was the definition of elegance, Clara mused as they were shepherded to the front of a receiving line.
“I’m not sure if this was the right gown to wear,” Clara whispered to her mother as she tried tugging up the neckline.
Her mother had insisted that she wear the latest fashion London had to offer. While Clara quite liked the pale green color of the fabric, which brought out the green in her eyes, she hadn’t been sure the low, square neckline her mother had chosen was appropriate. Nor was she particularly pleased with all the embellishments the seamstress had insisted upon. As Clara glanced around the room, she half suspected her dressmaker had added the extra beading simply for cost’s sake rather than fashion. While all the other ladies in attendance wore gowns adorned with satin braided piping or silk laces, Clara’s dress was heavily decorated with gold-colored glass beads, stitched in tiny, individual star-like patterns that covered the gown from hem to hem. On a figure like hers, which was far rounder and plumper compared to the narrow hips that were so popular among young ladies these days, she was sure she stuck out like a particularly gaudy sore thumb.
“It’s divine, dear. Now stop tugging at it,” her mother whispered back, her hand coming up to tuck a flyaway strand of Clara’s frizzy ash blonde hair behind her ear. “We should have used oil of neroli on your hair to keep it tamed.”
Clara gently batted her mother’s hand away.
“I’m quite happy without it. I don’t like smelling like an orange grove.”
“Yes, but it would have made it smoother. More pleasant to look at.”
Clara did her very best not to roll her eyes. She knew her mother was only trying to help and that her hair was unfashionable. Unmanageable even, but it wasn’t as if she could do anything about it. It had been that way all her life, and she had long since come to terms with it, and with the other so-called flaws in her appearance. Unusual though it was, she had always liked her countenance and had never wished to change it. It was only now, with the pressures of their family coming out in proper society, that she was becoming aware of how unsatisfactory she appeared, at least compared to the fashion pamphlets. Part of her wanted to fit in, wanted to be accepted, but at the same time, she didn’t particularly care for the way that the need to be fashionable was making her doubt herself.
Clara and her mother had spent hours preparing themselves for the Earl of Trembley’s ball. While Clara had initially been happy at their invitation, believing it would be similar to the country dances she had attended before coming to London, she soon learned the soirées of first society were vastly different from the ones she was used to. While Clara had always believed herself a brave person, she found that joining the ranks of the peerage unsettled her greatly.
She inhaled and exhaled slowly, noting the scent of roses and wisteria in the air. This was the first formal ball that any of the Woodvines had ever attended, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last, so she needed to get a handle on her emotions. Clara’s cheek muscles stiffly pulled up as she tried to smile. Had she forgotten how to smile? Bringing up her free hand, she pressed her gloved fingers into her cheek as a footman approached to announce their arrival.
“Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Woodvine and Miss Clara Woodvine,” the footman’s voice boomed as they came into the ballroom.
Few heads turned, and only one or two ladies’ eyebrows raised in vague curiosity, barely sparing Clara an up-and-downglance. For the most part, no one seemed particularly interested in Clara or her parents. For that, she was grateful. Although they were wealthy, nearly obscenely so due to her father’s latest invention—a self-raking reaping machine that was set to revolutionize how grain was harvested—the Woodvines were commoners and relatively unknown in first society. There were only a handful of progressive peers who invested their monies in new technologies and who kept track of who was making waves. It had been enough to score Clara some invitations upon their arrival in London—but only a very few. Socially, they were largely overlooked, though that particular tide seemed to be turning.
It remained to be seen whether becoming known would make themaccepted.After all, monied or not, Clara’s mother, Mary, had even been a maid in her youth for a wealthy, titled family. There were sure to be some in the upper echelon who would baulk at the idea of welcoming her as an equal. Clara could only hope that her own marriage would help cement her family’s position. It was why she was so eager to find Hubert. The expected proposal could not come soon enough.
Craning her neck as they walked, arm in arm as if they were entering a battlefield, Clara watched for Viscount Dilworth, Hubert Jenkins. In truth, they had only met a handful of times, but for Clara’s part, that had been enough. She was sure they would be a love match, and, tonight, he would make their engagement official.
It had been a serendipitous meeting the day she and Hubert had come together. She had been invited to a salon held by Lady Kelsey, wife of banker Sir Alfred Kelsey. It had been a somewhat scandalous topic, considering Lady Kelsey had rounded up several professional men to speak about financial independence and the need for heiresses to protect their fortunes. Clara’s father, a practical man at heart, had encouraged his daughterto accept Lady Kelsey’s invitation and attend since she was the sole heir and set to inherit the family fortune one day. Clara’s mother had thought the entire thing was macabre and, being a conservative woman, hoped that her daughter would find a good husband who would manage the family finances for her.
As it turned out, the viscount had arrived just as the salon was ending and Lady Kelsey had seemed somewhat annoyed by the young lord’s unannounced arrival. There seemed to be some disagreement between Lady Kelsey and the viscount about a lost invitation, but as they were both too well-mannered to cause a scene, Lady Kelsey graciously allowed Dilworth to stay. Soon enough, his charisma soon had many of the ladies in attendance smiling. Clara herself had found his quick wit charming, not to mention how attractive his mouth appeared when he would grin at her. She felt herself blush just thinking about his smile. His light brown eyes shined with friendly acceptance, and Clara had found it difficult not to be instantly smitten with the handsome young lord.
It had happened so fast, Clara remembered fondly as she moved through the ballroom. She had only met him for a moment’s introduction, but he had called on her twice the following week and three times after that before he had finally declared his undying love for her. Clara had been surprised and somewhat taken aback by his eagerness. She had never been the object of a declaration of undying love before, and while it was rather startling, it was also flattering. At twenty-four years old, she had started to believe that perhaps she just wasn’t destined to fall in love. Until she met Hubert. He had seemed to be just the sort of man a lady should fall in love with. She wasn’tquitethere yet, but surely she would be soon. She had no objection to marrying first and falling in love with her husband afterward. After all, they had a whole lifetime ahead of them to spend together—and there was nothing to be gained by waiting.
She was several years older than most debutantes, and Clara understood her chances at marriage were growing smaller every year. The shift in their family’s social-economical standing in recent years had been a bit of a whirlwind, and Clara barely had time to maintain her friendships, let alone explore her marital options. It was rather lucky for her to have met Hubert when she did. Her mother could barely contain her excitement at the prospect of her daughter becoming a viscountess. Her father, on the other hand, had been the one whose opinion seemed the most steadfast.
“I must confess, I don’t believe this courtship of yours has lasted long enough for you to be certain in your choice,” her father said as he led Clara and his wife through the crush.
“Papa, it has been several weeks, and I’ve learned quite a lot about his lordship,” Clara said, her tone hushed so that others could not overhear them, even if no one seemed particularly interested.
“Yes, well, if you are certain that you wish to marry the viscount, my dear, I shan’t stand in your way,” he said, as his hand came up to his face and he twirled his whiskers with his forefinger, something he only did so when he was uneasy about something. “I would never wish to be an obstacle to your happiness.”
“Oh!” her mother whispered-exclaimed. “What greater happiness could there be than a wedding? This is wonderful! Imagine. My daughter! A viscountess!”
“Mother, please. Someone might hear you,” Clara said, keeping her voice low. “And thank you, Father.”
“Although, one wonders about his intentions,” her father said, causing Mary’s steps to falter.
