“You look worse than you did the other night,” her father said. “You’re not going to be of any use to me, Suzanne, if you don’t at least look the part. People are impressed to meet a duchess, but not if she looks like a chambermaid.”
She had heard it all before. Countless times, as a matter of fact. On so many occasions that whenever her father started on this tirade, she stopped listening.
Instead, she chose to think about Drummond. Drummond had protected her. He’d stood there, defying her father in a way no one else ever had. How odd that she could see him in a kilt, perhaps with a broadsword strapped across his chest.
She led her father into one of his favorite rooms, the Green Parlor, so called because of the predominant color. A mural of a forest had been painted on three walls, with the fourth wall being given over to three ceiling-to-floor windows. Despite the sensation of openness, she always felt closed in when she came here.
He hadn’t come to Marsley House to comment upon her appearance. Nor to criticize her in other ways, although that would surely come. No, her father wanted something.
Planning was what separated the successful man from the failure. Her father had imparted that bit of wisdom to her when she was a child. After she’d married, he’d used that axiom with George on numerous occasions. Although he hadn’t considered George a planner. More a quintessential example of failure, which of course he was.
George hadn’t added to the family coffers. Every attempt at investing had ended in ruin. Even his military career was speckled with rumors. Other men had been singled out for their courage or their brilliant tactical minds. Sometimes, George had been invited to those functions, only to return and pepper the air with oaths and questions she couldn’t possibly answer.
Didn’t the fools know what I did in India? I defeated the damn rebels, didn’t I? Did I ever get any credit for it?
Occasionally, they would get visitors, men who’d once reported to George. He would be in his element, the magnanimous duke in command of the troops. For days a glow would seem to surround him.
Her father sometimes had that same effect on George, his flattery not the least bit subtle. Yet George had been an easy pawn to manipulate, someone who could be called upon to attend any dinner or ball, thereby granting to her wealthy father the social standing he craved.
Since George’s death and after a suitable period of mourning—according to her father’s decree more than society’s—she’d been expected to attend all of her father’s gatherings as a hostess of sorts. In actuality, she was not permitted to do more than smile and make a few inane comments. She wandered from room to room in the palatial home her father had built, ensuring that people saw her and knew that she was the Duchess of Marsley. In other words, she was her father’s placard, an advertisement as glaring as those men who marched up and down the street selling something.
“Are you ailing?” her father asked now. “If so, I have an excellent physician you should see.”
“I’m fine, Father. Truly.”
He didn’t say anything out of any concern for her, not really. She’d always realized what kind of man he was. He wasn’t cruel as much as unaware. He was so driven that he didn’t understand that other people might not possess the same ambition or need.
She’d never liked riding, but as a child she’d been forced to learn because her father believed all proper gentlewomen were also good with horses. Once her mount had gotten spooked and raced down the lane at a terrifying speed. Everything was a blur until the mare finally stopped. Suzanne imagined that’s how her father went through life, at such a fast pace that he saw other people only as indistinguishable patterns.
She didn’t know anything about his past. He’d never discussed his childhood and refused to answer questions. She always thought it was because his upbringing embarrassed him, but that wasn’t a comment she’d ever make. If her father had his way, everyone would believe that he’d just appeared on the earth one day, fully formed and grown.
To the best of her knowledge she didn’t have any paternal grandparents. She didn’t know if he had any other relatives. Whenever she asked, which hadn’t been for years, he changed the subject. For that reason, she’d always suspected that he came from poor, if not desperate, conditions. He’d made himself wealthy, a fact that should have been an object of pride instead of shame.
After selling his shares of the East India Company, yet another topic she wasn’t supposed to discuss, he’d delved into politics, of all things. Her father had no political ambition for himself. In this he wasn’t lacking in self-knowledge. She’d once overheard him discussing the matter with one of his secretaries and his frankness had so surprised her that she hadn’t been able to forget his words.
“I’m too blunt,” he’d said. “I have a way of speaking that puts people off. And I don’t look the part. I’m too short and I’m not a pretty boy. It’s best if I become the power behind a candidate instead of being the candidate. That way we can win.”
Her father’s motives had always been shrouded in mystery, but she couldn’t help but wonder, after hearing his words, if the reason he was doing this—and had become so wealthy—was to prove to the world that he was just as good as anyone else.
That was another subject she could never discuss with him. He didn’t require her understanding, only her presence at the gatherings he arranged. Each one was designed to introduce one of his protégés, men he was sponsoring for public office.
He liked taking an ambitious young man, grooming him, ensuring that he became known, and doing everything within his power to help that individual win his first election.
So far he’d done that three times and, as his successes mounted, so did his resolve. Now he was concentrating his efforts on potential members of Parliament.
His power base might be growing, but Suzanne wished he would keep out of her life.
“I’m having a luncheon,” he said now. “Several highly placed personages will be there.”
She only nodded. He didn’t ask if she would attend. He merely informed her what time and what event and she was expected to dress accordingly and be there.
“I’m getting tired of seeing you in black, Suzanne. I think you should give some thought to another color.”
This was a conversation they had every time they met. Normally she remained silent, allowing him to rant without her participation. Today, however, she felt compelled to answer.
“It wouldn’t be proper, Father,” she said, moving to the end of the couch. As he did every time he came into this room, he chose the opposite chair. “People would talk.”
“I don’t think so. I’ve consulted experts on the subject, Suzanne. They concur with me. Two years is long enough for you to wear black.”
She shouldn’t have said anything, but silence was getting more difficult. She was not going to wear lavender simply because he didn’t want to remember. He’d done the same with her mother. Two weeks after her death he’d begun to distribute her belongings to her friends and the servants. He was so determined to erase every trace of her that it was as if she’d never existed.
“I don’t need trinkets,” he’d said when she confronted him about his actions. “I’ll never forget your mother. She’ll always remain in my heart.”
She wasn’t entirely certain her father had a heart, but maybe he’d been telling the truth. In the last ten years he hadn’t found another woman to take her mother’s place. To the best of her knowledge—and thanks to information parlayed by chatty servants—he didn’t entertain on his own. Every dinner party, every social event, was a result of a calculation. Who should attend? Who should be singled out for attention? Who was more valuable?
“I expect you to be there,” he said. “You need to get past your sorrow, not wallow in it.”
She stared at him. “Wallow in it?”
He nodded. “You need to devote yourself to a few good causes. If you like, I’ll have Martin send you a list of acceptable activities.”
She stood and looked down at her father. Anger surged through her, banishing the last of the gray haze from Ella’s tonic.
“How could you say such a thing?”
“Sit down, Suzanne. We have a great deal more to discuss.”
“No, we don’t,” she said. “I’m not one of your political cronies. I’m not a pawn on your chessboard.”
She was not going to stay here and listen to him berate her. Instead, she walked out of the room. Let him condemn her for being rude; she didn’t care.