Five
Devonworth drew the woman who would be his wife into his arms. Couples shuffled into place around them, confusion plainly written on their faces. Why was he here? Devonworth made certain to keep his expression one of polite interest. Once they were betrothed, rumors of this night would spread like a midnight fire through the city. He wanted the story to be that the young couple was happy and affectionate.
With that in mind, he kept his attention focused on Miss Dove as they began to dance. Her hair appeared more russet and less red in the gaslight than it had outdoors. Her skin was as pale as he remembered, with a very light sprinkling of freckles dusted across her nose and cheeks. Her eyes were blue-gray and wide, her nose was straight if a bit pronounced at the bridge, and she had a perfect flower bud mouth. All told, she was pretty if not conventionally beautiful. It would be no hardship to call her wife.
He relaxed a little at that. The days since their first meeting had left him questioning if she was as he remembered her. She was, thankfully, complete with spark. It was only then that he noticed she was holding herself a bit stiff. It made her movements wooden and less fluid. Without breaking stride, he reached over and closed her fingers down over his hand. They had been standing up like tiny soldiers at attention.
“You’re not a dancer, Miss Dove?” he asked, replacing his hand on her back.
Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly before a tiny furrow appeared between her brows. “Not usually, no. Is it obvious?”
“I only mention it because you seem tense.” He could almost see her counting the steps in her head.
“Forgive me. Perhaps I’m merely hoping you don’t tackle me to the ground this time.”
A laugh escaped him before he could catch it. Several pairs of eyes turned toward them. “You do remember me.”
She glanced up from their feet, her eyes smiling. “I had given up that you would come.”
So she was happy to see him. “I suppose I should ask forgiveness. I startled you and then whisked you away to dance.”
She was quiet for a moment as they took a turn around the floor. He looked away only briefly to see her sister Jenny watching them as David tried in vain to talk to her. He couldn’t help but smile. Women usually fell over one another to talk to David. By the looks of things, she was not at all impressed that David’s brother was a duke. For that matter, the Miss Dove in his arms didn’t seem entirely impressed by his own title.
He glanced back at her, looking beyond the facade she presented. There was an intelligence in her eyes that he quite liked, but there was something fiery burning in their depths.
“You knew who I was . . . that day at the football match?” she asked.
“I assumed, yes. There aren’t that many Yanks roaming the countryside, despite what the papers would have you believe about an American invasion of heiresses.”
She smiled at that. Good, let people see that they genuinely liked each other, whether or not that turned out to be true.
“I assume you knew my identity?” he asked.
She nodded. “Not at first, but after. Camille thought it best to see as many of you as possible before the actual party. She thought we would get a better idea of your character.”
“Ah, a scientific exploration; to see us in our natural habitat is to see us as we really are.”
She laughed softly. “Something like that.”
“Well, I am sorry to tell you, but the football pitch is not my natural habitat.”
“No?”
“No. I enjoy the game and have played it since my days in school, but it’s not who I am. I should arrange for you to come see me in Parliament. It will give you a better idea of my character if you are looking to make your decision based on that alone.”
She stiffened, not enough to draw attention but enough to let him know that he had revealed his hand. “What decision would that be?” she finally asked.
He gave her a rueful grin. “The decision we all know you are here to make, Miss Dove.”
“Am I mistaken, or should there be a question asked before a decision can be made?” she asked.
“Isn’t the question a foregone conclusion?”
“Not at all. What if you don’t like what you see?”
He laughed. “You forget, I already saw you once. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t like what I see.”
She blushed red to the roots of her hair. It wasn’t fashionable in the least, but he found himself oddly fascinated. He liked the honesty and lack of contrivance it conveyed.
After a moment, she said, “But you haven’t heard the terms.”
“True enough, but I figure you wouldn’t be here title-hunting if you weren’t in possession of a reasonable exchange.” As he waited for the pointed tip of that pronouncement to land, he held his breath.
She processed it slowly, her gaze searching his face. He didn’t know what she hoped to find there, but finally, she gave a brief nod. “You’re correct, my lord. I think you’ll be pleased.”
“Good.” He tried to sound as unaffected as usual. He kept the expression of benign interest on his face, but his tongue felt thick and he couldn’t have spoken another word. It wasn’t precisely a marriage proposal but it was enough. His fingers pressed into the silk of her gown toward the warmth of her body beneath. This woman would be his wife. No matter how many times the thought repeated itself in his head, he couldn’t hold on to it. It was unfathomable, but true.
Barring no unforeseen complications, obviously.
“Could we talk later tonight . . . privately about the matter?” he asked.
“Of course.” Her chin lifted a notch in confidence.
He nodded, taking comfort in her assurance. “Good. After the party, then. I’ll ask Her Grace to arrange a meeting place.”
After their dance ended, Lord Devonworth went on to dutifully take a turn with both Jenny and Eliza. Cora danced with other gentlemen, but if pressed, she wouldn’t have been able to remember which ones. She had been floating in a cloud of what could most accurately be described as euphoria. She had left the Hathaway mansion months ago feeling vaguely despondent and wary of her ability to carry out her plan.
Their dresses and gowns had all been a few years out of fashion. The few social events they were invited to attend in New York were all because of the esteem held for their late stepfather Mr. Dove. These events were inevitably hosted by older matrons who themselves were out of fashion. Any that they might have been invited to because of Mr. Hathaway’s influence had long since died away when it had become known that his esteem for her mother had died. To host the mistress of a well-known gentleman was to court intrigue. To host the ex-mistress of a well-known gentleman only brought scorn. As a result, the sisters’ social skills were good, but not English ballroom ready.
They had bought new clothes and first-class passage with the sale of their shabby brownstone. Located off Bond Street, it was too close to the Bowery to be fashionable. Most respectable families had left the area years earlier. The roof was on the verge of collapse, which had forced them to close off the top floor several years back when the number of leaks had outpaced their ability to repair them. The expense of first class had hurt, but Cora had reasoned they could not have it known they had traveled second- or third-class. Any hint of scandal could ruin their chances for decent matches, and the Dove sisters came with enough scandal without courting more.
The past week had been less than ideal as the reality of what she was about to do set in. Then the earl arrived and everything seemed possible again. A genuine smile burst out of her as she looked over the ballroom. The women wore gowns in all shades of colors in glossy and fine satins and ruffles. People were chatting and laughing, their discussions ranging from art to family to politics. This might be their world from now on. The world they were meant to inhabit. If they could but cross this last hurdle.
A rustle of fabric interrupted her reverie. Eliza walked up beside her. She wore a satin gown in lilac trimmed with black lace. It was one of the few they’d had made before setting off from New York. Her dark hair was curled and pinned in an elaborate updo that reminded Cora how little they had had the opportunity to dress up over the years. The costume made her look older and more worldly than her nineteen years.
Eliza was beaming as she opened her fan to cover her words before she said, “I can’t believe he came.”
“Me neither. When Camille never heard back from him, I assumed he wasn’t interested.”
“He apparently is interested. I’m glad. He’s charming and a very good dancer.” There was a poignancy in her voice that had Cora looking over at her.
“Do you want him?” Cora was aware that she had spearheaded this entire idea of marriage. Her mother and sisters had seemed to readily agree, but now she wondered if she had pushed them into it without properly considering their feelings on the matter. The decent thing to do would be to give her little sister first choice of suitor. “If you do, I can stand aside.”
Eliza smiled again and shook her head. “No, I don’t want him. It’s obvious he’s here for you anyway.”
Elation rose inside her again, but she forced herself to stay calm.
“You know I am happy to go along with this scheme of yours,” Eliza continued, “but I do not intend to marry a country bumpkin old enough to be my father.”
“I promise that won’t happen.” Cora ran a hand down her sister’s back. “Viscount Mainwaring seems taken with you.” He had been sulking as she had danced with the earl.
Eliza nodded, but she didn’t seem particularly thrilled by the idea. “I think so.”
“Are we divvying up the suitors?” Jenny hurried over to them, leaving the arm of Sir Barnaby, who did not appear pleased to lose her company.
Cora avoided the searching look he gave her. He was clearly hoping for an answer to his proposal. Instead, she turned her attention to Jenny, who could easily have any one of the men. She was an undisputed beauty with shining sable hair and a perfectly oval face that gained admirers wherever she went. So far, she hadn’t indicated an interest in any one man. Cora found herself hoping she wouldn’t choose Devonworth.
Cora shushed her. They weren’t that far away from the groups of people around them. “Not now, no.”
“At least your footballer came.” Jenny grinned. “I’m still so sorry that I missed that particular outing, but he’s here and he is every bit as handsome as Eliza claimed.”
“He is.” He might very well be the most handsome man she had ever seen.
“What is his name again?” Jenny asked. “His real name, not Devonworth.”
“Leopold Brendon,” Cora answered, her gaze automatically finding him in the crowd where he spoke with one of the local gentry couples. It was well past dark, but the gas lighting gave him a golden hour sunset glow.
“Leopold?” Jenny made a face. “He’s much more a Leonidas, don’t you think? An ancient Greek king rather than a . . . Wasn’t there a Leopold from somewhere?”
She silently agreed. He might have been Apollo come to life, but it would have been foolish to admit to such fancies aloud. He looked up then, meeting her gaze across the room. A flush climbed up Cora’s face. Taking both her sisters by the arm, she hurried them to the other side of a copse of potted palms. “I think he might have proposed.”
They both gasped. “You think? You mean you don’t know?” Jenny asked.
Cora felt giddy as she explained what had happened between them during their dance. Her eyes found him again through the leaves of the palms. He seemed to be in the midst of a deep discussion. His brows drew together as he listened intently, nodding occasionally before replying. She was struck by how a couple more men joined the group, surrounding him as he talked. They seemed to be listening to him, concerned with whatever it was he had to say. It was obvious he had their respect.
Eliza giggled when she finished the story. Jenny didn’t seem quite as pleased. In fact, she said, “You can never trust the handsome ones. He’s too handsome to make a good husband.”
This wasn’t the first time her sister had warned against this, so it was getting tedious. She sighed. “Why don’t handsome men make good husbands?”
“You don’t want to spend your entire marriage worried about his whereabouts. He’ll almost certainly be a philanderer.”
She said it so matter-of-factly that Cora’s stomach churned. Jenny wasn’t usually cruel, but this hit too close to her own insecurities. Cora knew she wasn’t a great beauty, but she was happy with what she saw in the mirror. “That’s hardly a certainty.”
Correctly interpreting how she felt, Jenny leaned in. “It’s nothing to do with you. Look.” She discreetly pointed across the room opposite where Lord Devonworth stood with the men. Several of the younger women had gathered and were doing what could best be described as gawking in his direction. “They won’t stop doing that just because you’re married. Most men in a privileged position like his aren’t able to turn them down.”
“Fortunately, I don’t plan to be intimate with him.” They both knew her plan to keep their marriage one of convenience only, for as long as she could.
“Just make certain that you keep telling yourself that and don’t let yourself get too close to him.”
Cora glanced back at him, wondering if she was already too far gone for that. “Well, the alternative is Sir Barnaby.”
“Did he offer, too?” Eliza asked.
“On the terrace before Lord Devonworth arrived.”
“Between the two of them, the decision is obvious.” Eliza leaned forward to whisper. “At least it will be no hardship to consummate your relationship, if you ever change your mind about intimacy.”
They all laughed at that, drawing attention to themselves. Fanny floated over carrying a crystal coupe of champagne. “What’s so funny, girls?”
Eliza giggled. “Nothing, Mama, we’re simply looking over the selection . . . as it were.”
Their mother frowned. “Ah yes, I’d rather hoped the men would be younger. The later husband can be staid and boring, but you want your first husband to be young and robust. Like the duke’s brother and the earl. Now those two are worth considering.”
Fanny privately claimed to have been married and divorced before she met the man whose name they carried, Mr. Dove. She had been a fifteen-year-old struggling actress in Chicago when she had married a handsome young actor. The marriage had only lasted a handful of months before he’d run off and she’d been granted a divorce for desertion. Cora was never sure if it was her mother’s upbringing in an orphanage or her time on the stage that had given her such a nontraditional view of marriage. Either way, such views would not be looked upon kindly in British Society.
“Mother.” Cora gave her a look that urged discretion. “Not here.”
Fanny smiled serenely, but her words were a bit sharper. “Fine, I will continue to play along, but I will not stand by and have my darlings sacrificed like virginal offerings.” She patted her on her cheek like she was five years old. “He shall be younger than me or you won’t wed.”
With that, she hurried away as a new song started. She had been out there for every dance so far and would likely be the last one on the dance floor. She was all energy, and Cora couldn’t figure out where she stored it all.
“How long do you think she’ll be able to play the role of genteel mother?” Eliza asked.
Cora’s stomach twisted with a sickening anxiety. Their mother had agreed that it was best to keep her years as an actress a secret. If someone went looking, they would find the rare mention of her stage name, Fanny Fairchild, but there were no definitive sources tying her to that name. Mr. Dove’s extended family believed she came from a well-bred Southern family named Smith that had fallen on hard times and died off long before the Civil War. The few times his relatives had come for short visits, she had played the part flawlessly.
“She knows our futures are at stake. I believe she can play it for as long as necessary.”
Even as Cora said it, she didn’t quite believe it. Their mother and their illegitimacy were the loose threads in this tightly woven tapestry. Certainly, her own history of writing for a forward-thinking feminist publication would never come up. She’d used a pseudonym.