Page 13 of Destined to be a Duchess
“I only meant to say,” he spoke over her before she could get the wrong idea, “that my mother likes it when everyone gets along.” He extended his arm to her, forcing down his panic. “So, come with me down to dinner. She may just fall off her chair at the sight of us.”
*
Marianne forced a smile as a liveried footman placed a bowl of white soup in front of her. She had been dreading dinner all day. It had been easy enough to pick at her breakfast that morning, with the duchess concentrating on her correspondence. Now, it seemed inevitable that someone would notice her lack of appetite and make a scene.
The problem was twofold. She was nervous beyond belief at the table; her palms were sweating now that she had removed her gloves, which she had only known to do because of Miss Barclay’s primer on dinner etiquette early that afternoon. She might have been able to conquer her nerves long enough to enjoy a proper meal, but all the food served at Moorhaven had been overly sweet or salty or too complicated for her palette.
Marianne was even still adjusting to the taste of the Colline tea. Miss Barclay had described it as an inoffensive blend of bergamot, black tea, and orange blossom, as though Marianne was supposed to care about that sort of thing now that her grandfather was an earl.
She looked dubiously at the soup. Fat floated on the top, along with an herb she guessed was parsley. It smelled sweet and nutty, and Marianne suddenly panicked as she glanced at her spoons, her mind going blank as she tried to recall which one she was supposed to use.
Something prodded her ribs beneath the table. She whipped around to find Patrick smiling at her. He had insisted that she stop calling him Mr Bowers while they waited for dinner to be served, now that Marianne’s real heritage had been revealed. He had found it endlessly funny that she now outranked him.
At present, he seemed more interested in trying to help her over making an undeserved mockery of himself. He nodded discreetly at the spoon he was holding, and Marianne understood, mouthing her thanks as she reached for the correct utensil.
The white soup wasn’t nearly as unpalatable as she had expected it to be from how it looked. She could have done without the gamey aftertaste, preferring not to know what meat had gone into it. Her stomach grumbled as the soup made its way down her throat. She was hungrier than she had thought, and her nerves quickly subsided to her returning appetite.
“You should ask Marianne what she thinks,” she heard suddenly from across her, peering up now that her name had been spoken. Catherine was smiling, holding her spoon aloft. She looked at the duke with whom she’d been speaking.
“We were discussing whether it was worth travelling to London before the summer is over. The heat was unbearable last time, and the country exodus becomes more pronounced every year.There was hardly anything to do. No, you’d be bored out of your mind—wouldn’t he be, Marianne?”
“I shouldn’t care if it was a thousand degrees and completely abandoned. I’m not going for pleasure,” the duke replied.
He had been so friendly earlier when he asked Marianne down to dinner. The feeling of his fingers against her ear had made her blush, completely surprising her. Now, in the dining hall, he had returned to the sober gentleman she had met the day prior.
Like his mother, he addressed Marianne directly. “I have to request a writ of summons to Parliament to petition the title—merely a formality. I expect the Prince will anticipate an audience as well. The sooner the matter is dealt with, the better, so I see no reason to delay my trip until autumntime.”
Marianne didn’t see what say she had in the duke’s affairs, even though the thought of him leaving so soon made her inexplicably sad. Too much was changing. She stalled for time, taking another spoonful of soup. They were still waiting for her contribution once she was done.
“I couldn’t say either way,” she replied, keeping her eyes on her bowl. “I only really knew Lambeth, and that’s quite different from Westminster, I’m sure.”
“You mean to say that you never visited the other parts of London?” Patrick asked beside her, making a face. “But you lived so close.”
The room fell silent as though Marianne had made a terrible faux-pas. “Well, I …” She floundered, feeling suddenly uncomfortable in her new gown. “There was no reason to visit. We were too busy with the shop most days to consider enjoying an outing, and what friends we had were all in the nearby area, so …” She puffed out her cheeks. “No, I know next to nothing about the rest of London.”
Catherine widened her eyes, grabbing the duke’s free hand where it rested on the table. “Well, that’s even more reason to delay your visit,” she exclaimed. “When you go down to London, you could take Patrick and Marianne with you. It would do you some good to have some company on the road, and when you’re not busy with the lords, you can introduce Marianne to some of our acquaintances and help her make some friends.”
The duke shook his head. “You forget that we … I mean to say that we should …”
He cut himself off, and Marianne could only guess what he was going to say. The family was in mourning. It might have looked strange for him to be gadding about London with friends—especially a curiosity like Marianne. He clearly wanted to spare his mother the embarrassment of correcting her behaviour. Hehad helped Marianne earlier. It seemed only right to return the favour now.
“That might be a bit premature,” Marianne interjected, raising her eyes defiantly. The duke looked shocked by her interruption until gratitude washed over his face. “I have yet to decide what I will do with this news. Until that happens …” She turned to the duke. “I think you should go alone, whenever you want. Don’t let me detain you.”
It was only a half-lie. Mariannewasclueless about her future. She had spent all day trying not to think of the duchess’ confession. Her mother’s letters were still sitting unopened on the desk in her assigned room. She could barely stomach the idea of meeting her estranged relatives if any existed, let alone confronting unknown aristocrats in London.
Becoming Lady Marianne Chambers seemed like a monumental, maybe even redundant task. The only person it might have mattered to meet from her family was dead. And from how she had struggled so far, with the clothes, rules, language, and tastes, there was a good chance a lady’s life just wasn’t meant for her.
“If that’s how you feel, sweet Marianne, then we will set the matter to rest for now,” Catherine declared. “But it’s important that you reconnect with your acquaintances quickly,” she said to Anthony. “I’ve received countless letters about you since it was announced that you’d be returning home.”
The duke looked like he wanted to discuss anything else. It was Patrick’s turn to leap to his aid now, saying:
“I thought we gained some good ground this afternoon. The fellows in Norwich couldn’t get enough of your son, and that’s to say nothing of the praises they were heaping on you, Duchess. It seems you’ve done a tremendous job keeping interest alive for Anthony while he’s been gone. My own mother could learn a thing or two from you, no doubt. The moment I am out of sight, it is as though there are only two Bowers brothers, not three.”
His comment hit its mark, making Catherine burst out laughing. She covered her mouth with her napkin, and the mood at the table improved immediately. The duchess graciously refused the compliment, engaging Patrick in a lengthy discussion about his parents instead.
Marianne was grateful for a moment to herself as the footmen began clearing away the soup. They returned not three minutes later with a spread of roast potatoes, sweetbreads in a creamy sauce, fillets of mystery meat, pies that looked like works of art, curious-looking vegetables they called artichokes, and so many more dishes that Marianne wondered when the rest of the guests would be arriving.
The duke began serving himself first, passing the artichokes to Marianne once he was done. When she tried to take them, he held onto the tureen.
