Desperate Duchesses

by Eloisa James in stores May 29, 2007

Genres:

Fiction, Romance

Themes:

historical fiction

Book Excerpt

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A Prelude
November, 1781

Knowing precisely why no one wants to marry you is slim consolation for the truth of it.  In Lady Roberta St. Giles’s case, the evidence was all too clear – as was her lack of suitors.

The cartoon reproduced in The Rambler’s Magazine depicted Lady Roberta with a hunched back and a single brow across her bulging forehead.  Her father knelt beside her, imploring passers-by to find him a respectable spouse for his daughter.

At least that part was true.  Her father had fallen to his knees in the streets of Bath, precisely as depicted.  To Roberta’s mind, The Rambler’s label of Mad Marquess had a certain accuracy about it as well.

"Inbreeding," her father had said, when she flourished the magazine at him.  "They assume your physique is affected by the sort of inbreeding that produces these characteristics.  Interesting!  After all, you could have been dangerously mad, for example, or –"

"But Papa," she wailed, "couldn't you make them print a retraction?  I am notmisshapen.  Who would wish to marry me now?"

"Why, Sweetpea, you are entirely lovely," he said, knitting his brow.  "I shall write a paean on your beauty and publish it in Rambler’s.   I will explain precisely why I was so distraught, and include a commentary about the practices of hardened rakehells!"

Rambler’s Magazine printed the marquess's 818 lines of reproving verse, describing the nefarious gallant who had kissed Roberta in public without so much as a by-your-leave.  They resurrected the offensive print as well.  Buried somewhere in the marquess’s raging stanzas describing the peril of walking Bath's streets was a description of his daughter:  "Tell the blythe Graces as they bound, luxuriant in the buxom round, that they're not more elegantly free, than Roberta, only daughter of a Marquess!"  In vain did Roberta point out that "elegantly free" said little of the condition of her back, and that "buxom round" made her sound rather plump.

"It implies all that needs to be said," the marquess said serenely.  "Every man of sense will immediately ascertain that you have a charmingly luxurious figure, elegant features and a good dowry, not to mention your expectations from me.  I cleverly pointed to your inheritance, do you see?"

All Roberta could see was a line declaring that her dowry was a peach tree.

"That's for the rhyme," her father had said, looking a bit cross now.  "Dowry doesn't rhyme with many words, so I had to rhyme dowry and peach tree.  The tree is obviously a synecdoche."

When Roberta looked blank, he added impatiently, "A figure of speech in which something small stands for the whole.  The whole is the estate of Wharton and Malmesbury, and you know perfectly well that we have at least eleven peach trees.  My nephew will inherit the estate, but the orchards are unentailed and will go to you."

Perhaps there were clever men who deduced from the marquess's poem that his daughter had eleven peach trees and a slender figure; not a single one of those men turned up in Wiltshire to ascertain for himself.  The fact that the original cartoon remained on display in the windows of Humphrey’s Print Shop for many months may also have been a consideration.

But since the marquess refused to undertake another trip to the city wherein his daughter was accosted – "you'll thank me for that later," he added, rather obscurely – Lady Roberta Giles found herself heading quickly toward that undesirable stage of life known as "old maid."

Two years passed.  Every few months Roberta's future would pass before her eyes, a life spent copying and cataloguing her father's poems, when not alphabetizing rejection letters from publishers for use by the marquess's future biographers, and she would rebel.  In vain did she reason, implore or cry.  Even threatening to burn every poem in the house had no effect; it wasn’t until she snatched a copy of "For the Custards Mary Brought Me" and threw it in the fire that her father understood her seriousness.

And only by withholding the single remaining copy of the Custard poem did she gain permission to attend the New Year’s ball being held by Lady Cholmondelay.

"We'll have to stay overnight," her father said, his lower lip jutting out with disapproval.

"We'll go by ourselves," Roberta said.  "Without Mrs. Grope."

"Without Mrs. Grope!" He opened his mouth to bellow, but --

"Papa, you do want me to have some attention, don't you?  Mrs. Grope will cast me entirely in the shade."

"Humph."

"I shall need a new dress."

"An excellent thought.  I was in the village the other day and one of Mrs. Parthnell's children was running about the square looking blue with cold.  I've no doubt but that she could use your custom."

She barely opened her mouth before he lifted his hand.  "You wouldn't want a gown from some other mantua-maker, dearest.  You're not thinking of poor Mrs. Parthnell and her eight children."

"I am thinking," Roberta said, “of Mrs. Parthnell's bungled bodices."

But her father frowned at that, since he had strong views about the shallow nature of fashion and even stronger views about supporting the villagers, no matter how inferior their products.

Unfortunately, the New Year’s ball produced no suitors.

Papa could not forbear from bringing Mrs. Grope – "'twill hurt her feelings too much, my dear" – and consequently, Roberta spent the evening watching revelers titter at the presence of a notorious strumpet amongst them.  No one appeared to be interested in whether the Mad Marquess's daughter had a humped back or not; they were too busy peering at the Mad Marquess's courtesan.  Their hostess was incensed at her father's rudeness in bringing his chère-amie to her ball, and wasted none of her precious time introducing Roberta to young men.

Her father danced with Mrs. Grope; Roberta sat at the side of the room and watched.  Mrs. Grope's hair was adorned with ribbons, feathers, flowers, jewels and a bird made from papier mâché.  This made it easy for Roberta to pretend that she didn't know her own parent; when the said plumage headed in her direction, Roberta would slip away for a brisk stroll.  She visited the ladies’ retiring room so many times that the company likely thought she had a female complaint to match her invisible hump.

Around eleven o'clock, a gentleman finally asked her to dance.  But he turned out to be Lady Cholmondelay's curate, and he immediately launched into a confused lecture to do with notorious strumpets.  He seemed to be equating Mrs. Grope to Mary Magdalene, but the dance kept separating them before Roberta could grasp the connection.

Unfortunately, they came face-to-face with the marquess and Mrs. Grope just when the curate was detailing his feelings about trollops.

"I take your meaning, sirrah, and Mrs. Grope is no trollop!" the marquess snapped.  Roberta's heart sank and she tried vainly to turn her partner in the opposite direction.

But the plump little pigeon of a man dug in his heels, squared his shoulders and retorted, "Muse upon my comments at your leisure, or woe betide your eternal soul!"

Everyone in the immediate vicinity stopped dancing, grasping that a more interesting performance had begun.

The marquess did not disappoint them.  "Mrs. Grope is a lovely woman, kind enough to accept my adoration," Roberta’s father roared, loud enough so that no one in the room could miss a word.  "She is no more a trollop than is my own daughter, the treasure of my house!"

Predictably, the crowd turned as one to examine the signs of trollopdom, the first interest shown Roberta all evening.  With a gasp, she fled back to the ladies' retiring room.

Within a half hour, Roberta made several important decisions.  The first was that she’s had enough humiliation.  She wanted a husband who would never, under any circumstances, make a public display of himself or those around him.  And he should know nothing of poetry.  Second, her only chance of finding that husband was to make her way to London without her father or Mrs. Grope.  She would go there, pick an appropriate gentleman and arrange to marry him.  Somehow.

She returned to her seat in the corner with renewed interest and began surveying the company for the appropriate characteristics.

"Who is that gentleman?" she asked a passing footman, who had given her a few pitying glances during the evening.

He said, "Which one, miss?"  He had a nice smile and looked as if his wig itched.

"The man in the green coat."  To call it green was faint praise: it was a pale, pale green, embroidered with black flowers.  It was the most exquisite garment she had ever seen.  The man was tall and moved with the careless grace of an athlete.  He wore no wig, unlike the other perspiring gentlemen pacing through the dance.  His hair was a rumpled black, shot with two or three brilliant streaks of white, and tied at his neck with a pale green ribbon.  He was a dangerous mixture of carelessness and supreme elegance.

The footman handed her a glass in order to disguise the fact they were speaking.  "That’s His Grace, the Duke of Villiers.  He plays chess.  Hadn't you heard of him then?"

She shook her head and took the glass.

"They do say he's the best for chess in England," the footman said.  He leaned a bit closer and said, eyes dancing, "Lady Cholmondelay thinks he's the best at sport, if you'll forgive my presumption."

A snort of laughter escaped Roberta's mouth before she could stop herself.

"I've watched you this eve," he said.  "Tapping your foot.  We've our own ball below stairs.  And it seems no one knows you here.  Why don't you come back there and dance a round with me?"

"I couldn't!  Someone would –"  She looked around.  The room was crowded with laughing, dancing peers.  No one had paid any attention to her, or even spoken to her in over an hour.  Her papa had wandered off again with Mrs. Grope, content to think that she was "hunting prey," as he put it in the carriage.

"Below stairs, they won't know you're a lady," the footman said, "not in that dress, miss.  They'll think you're a lady's maid.  At least that way you can have a dance!"

"All right," she whispered.

For the first time all evening, young men bowed before her.  She invented an irascible mistress and had great fun describing her tribulations dressing her.  She danced twice with “her” footman and separately with three more.  Finally, she realized that there was a remote possibility that her father would miss her, and she headed back to the ball.

Then she realized there was also the possibility that he would have forgotten about her and left for the inn.

She ran down the corridor, slammed open the baize door that marked the servants' quarters – and knocked over the Duke of Villiers.

He stared at her from the ground, with eyes as cold as spring rainfall.  Then he said without stirring, in a husky, drawling voice that made her shiver all over, "You must tell the butler to train you in proper behavior."

She blushed and dropped a curtsy, dazed by the pure raw masculinity of him, by his hollowed cheeks and jaded look.  He was everything that her father was not.  There wasn't an ounce of sentiment in him.  A man like that would never embarrass himself.

Life with her father had taught her to be blunt about her own emotions, or risk having them dissected by a poet.  So she knew instantly what it was she felt: lust.  Her father's poetry on the subject filtered through her mind, confirming her sense.

He stood and then tipped up her chin.  "An astonishing beauty to find in such a dim squirrel's hole as the servants’ quarters."

Roberta felt a thrill of triumph.  Apparently he didn't think that she had a beetle brow or a humped back.  The lust was mutual.  "Ah –" she said, trying to think what to say other than a blunt proposal.

"Red hair," he said, rather dreamily.  "Extraordinary high arches of eyebrows, slightly tilted eyes.  A deep ruby for a lower lip.  I could paint you in water colors."

His catalog raised Roberta's hackles a little; she felt like a horse he was considering for purchase.  "I should prefer not to look blurry; could you not manage oils?" she asked.

He raised an eyebrow.  "No maid's apron, and the voice of a lady.  I fear I misjudged your station."

"As a matter of fact, I am rejoining my family in the ballroom."

His eyes skittered over the plain laced front of her gown, with its misshapen pleats that looked as if she had fashioned them herself.

He dropped his hand.  "That makes you altogether more delectable and forbidden fare, an impoverished noblewoman.  I would have you without delay if you had but a few pennies to your name, my dear, but even I have a few paltry morals.  Foibles, really."

"You assume a great deal," she had said.  She meant that he was assuming she was poor, although the supposition was fair enough, given her clothing.  But he jumped to the more obvious meaning.

"'Tis true you might not have me.  Though I'll tell you the secret to my success with women, and I won't charge you ha'pence since you haven't an extra one to your purse."

She waited, cataloguing the sheen of his coat and the rumpled perfection of his hair.

"I don't really give a damn whether I have you or not."

"You shan't have me," she said, stung.  "Because I feel precisely the same way about you."

"In that case, I will kiss your fingertips and retire."

As he made a leg before her, she watched the skirts of his coat fall into perfect pleats.  Not for nothing was she a wordsmith’s daughter.  Pale green wasn't descriptive enough; the silk taffeta of his coat was celadon, the green of the new leaves.  And its black embroidery, on close inspection, was mulberry-colored.

It was an exquisite combination.  Enough to change her mind entirely.  What she felt was entirely too deep for a flimsy emotion such as lust.

What she felt wasn't lust – it was love.  For the first time in her life. . . she was in love.

In love!

"I'm going to London," she told her father once they were home again.  “My heart is in chains and I must follow its call.”  Though such extravagant language was definitely not Roberta’s chosen mode of expression, she felt that quoting one of her father’s poems was a sound precaution.

"You most certainly are not!" he said, ignoring her literary reference.  "I will –"

"Without you," she said.  "And without Mrs. Grope."

"Absolutely not!"

They battled on for a month or so until March edition of The Rambler’s Magazine arrived in the post.

These etchings were no more accurate than those of two year earlier.  She was humped-backed and fiercely browed, on her knees before a man in livery, presumably praying for the footman's hand in marriage.  "Like father, like daughter," the inscription read.  "We always suspected that desperation was hereditary."

Roberta had no doubt that the image was selling briskly in Humphrey's Print Shop.

"My conscience is clear!” her father bellowed, once he understood the reference.  “Surely you could have guessed that servants are in the pay of gossip rags?  How could you not, given the fact that Mrs. Grope and myself make such frequent appearances in Town and Country?  Someone made a pretty penny from your folly.  It’s no good begging me to write another poem; the powers of my literature would be of no avail."

The marquess's rage was assuaged only after writing four hundred lines of iambic pentameter rhyming "serpent's tooth" and "daughter," which is no easy feat.

His daughter's distress was diminished only by repeating to herself that she was going to marry the Duke of Villiers, order clothes of celadon silk, and never listen to another poem again in her life.

She commandeered her father’s second-best coach and the second-upstairs housemaid to accompany her to London and left, clutching a valise filled with Mrs. Parthnell's unsightly clothing, a measured sum of money, and a poem from her father, which was the only introduction he would vouchsafe her.

“Oh, brave new world!” she whispered to herself.  And then wrinkled her nose.  No more poetry.  The Duke of Villiers had likely never heard of John Donne and probably couldn’t tell a roundelay from a rickshaw.

He was perfect.

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