Page 10 of Tamed By a Duke
"So, you will do it?" Dubarry questioned, his eyes alive with hope.
"I shall," Hugh conceded, grudgingly. "Though mark my words, Dubarry, this shan't be a pleasant experience for either party."
"Why is it that this Miss Drew cannot secure a husband on her own?" Montague enquired, once Hugh had made his verbal commitment to the plan.
"Well," Dubarry cast Hugh a nervous glance, "As her sister tells it, she has a reputation as being something of a shrew. Though, Miss Bianca says that her reputation is quite unwarranted; she says that her sister is merely opinionated and headstrong and not shrewish in the least."
"An opinionated spinster—she sounds enchanting," Montague commented, offering Hugh a provocative smile, which he duly ignored. He would not rise to the bait, not this time.
Hugh took a deep sip of brandy, as his friends continued the conversation on to matters political. This project of Dubarry's might be an irritant, but at least it might distract him from obsessing over his red-haired enchantress from earlier. Or perhaps not, he thought, as he once again pictured how her hips had swayed, as she had walked away from him.
Chapter Three
"I can't find Aunt Phoebe's Fifi anywhere!"
Violet Havisham cast a despairing look around the cluttered drawing room of Havisham House. Her deep, blue eyes—so dark that they might almost have been the same violet of her name—scoured the room, in search of the elusive Fifi, but to no avail.
"I don't understand how a dog that has been dead for a decade can go missing so often," Julia Cavendish, also styled as Lady Julia, grumbled, as she assisted Violet in her search. Julia was down on all fours on the floor, as she peered under the sofa, hoping that the preserved pooch might somehow have found her way there.
"It's Sebastian," Violet replied, with a sigh of irritation, "He takes great delight in moving poor Fifi to this place or that, to add credence to Aunt Phoebe's ridiculous notion that the dog's spirit still lingers within her mottled remains."
Charlotte struggled to control the smile which tugged on her lips; though Sebastian's trick was rather juvenile, and a little bit cruel, she could well imagine Violet's eccentric aunt in raptures over the idea that poor Fifi's spirit still inhabited the moth-eaten piece of taxidermy.
"Oh," Charlotte gave a gasp, as she spotted a pair of glass eyes winking out at her from behind the leaves of a potted ficus, "There she is!"
Charlotte pointed and Violet pounced upon the plant, rummaging through the leaves until she managed to extract the tiny terrier.
"The intrepid explorer returns," Violet said affectionately, as she rubbed the inanimate dog's fur, "Thank goodness for that—and thank you Julia, for your efforts. I'm afraid that your dress has come out the worst of your search."
All three ladies glanced down at Julia's beautiful gown, a day dress of light blue material sprigged with a pattern of white blossoms, which was now covered in dust from her time on the floor.
"Oh, dear," Violet continued absently, "I'm certain that Dorothy said she had swept the rug yesterday."
Dorothy was the elderly Lady Havisham's lady's maid and was every bit as eccentric as her mistress.
"She's afraid that if she allows any of the younger maids in, that they will upset the ornaments and fiddle with the ambiance," Violet continued, apologetically, waving a careless hand around the room.
"The ambiance of chaos?" Charlotte asked delicately, as she crept her way through the muddle of furniture, ornaments and potted plants which littered the room. Interspersed between all the objects were piles upon piles of books, which Violet had informed them years ago could not be moved. Aunt Phoebe had a classification system for her collection of novels which, though mysterious to outsiders, Violet said was actually quite sensible.
"Or it would be sensible," she had corrected herself, many moons ago on Charlotte's first visit, "If she used shelves instead of the floor..."
Still, despite the disorder of the room, it had a homely feel. Aunt Phoebe was a fan of chintz, overstuffed cushions, and roaring fires, so one always felt comfortable, if not overwhelmed, by the clutter. One of Violet's half-finished paintings could always be found by the bay window, which overlooked the leafy square, while her harp stood sentry by the fireplace, gathering dust.
It felt, to Charlotte's mind at least, like a home. Unlike her own home, in which everything was grand, shiny and new, but lacked warmth. Perhaps, had her mother survived childbirth, there would be more feminine touches in Ashfield House, but as Brandon had chosen the decor alone, dark woods and paintings of battles abounded.
"Well," Charlotte said, as she finally reached the settee, "Shall we get down to business? What did you both think of Glenarvon?"
Charlotte glanced at her two friends; Violet, stood by the fireplace, still clutching Fifi, whilst Julia was seated in the Queen Anne chair, whose missing leg had been replaced with a stack of books. Two pairs of eyes, one violet, one blue, met hers, before they hastily looked away.
"Well," Violet began, nervously stroking Fifi's fur, "I did begin it, but then..."
"I had every intention," Julia added, sincerity written upon her beautiful face, "But then..."
Lud. Charlotte sighed deeply, though she was unsurprised by her friends' mumblings. Three seasons ago, they had arranged a weekly meeting—ostensibly for the discussion of books—but each week Charlotte often found that she was the only one who had bothered to read the prescribed text.
"Well," she said, throwing her copy of Lady Caroline Lamb's work onto the cushions, "If no one else has read it, I suppose there is no point in discussing it. Though, I will say that if Lady Lamb did base the character of Ruthven on Byron, then he is a most despicable creature indeed."
"Well said," Violet said, as she set Fifi down on the floor and tripped across the room to sit beside Charlotte, "Now, shall I call for tea and cake?"
