LONDON, 1817
Thalia squinted through the dust mites floating on the brightly-lit air, rising on tiptoe to reach the shelf nearly a foot over her head. The step-stool adding a few inches to her height wobbled, making her heart lurch into her throat. She tightened one hand around the heavy book, and the other on the edge of a shelf, regaining her precarious balance.
Where was her assistant when she needed him? Joseph Hyde stood an impressive five feet and ten inches, and could reach every shelf without trouble. Thalia could shelve and procure books with her stool, but only with a great deal of effort for the top shelves—something she wasn’t forced to do when Joseph was about. With a decidedly un-ladylike grunt, she heaved the book onto the shelf, one leg kicking out like a ballerina as she gave it a little shove, wedging it between two others.
Thalia’s grin of satisfaction lasted until she tried to step down, her foot catching in the hem of her skirts. Arms wheeling, Thalia went backward with a startled yelp, her back hitting the shelves opposite before she slumped in a graceless heap on the floor.
“Bloody hell,” she muttered, swiping a dark, loose coil of hair out of her eyes.
“Tsk, tsk, Miss Ramsey,” chided a deep, masculine voice from the top of the aisle.
Humiliation heated Thalia’s face as she glanced up to discover the last person she would have wanted to catch her in such a position. His Grace Stephen Dryden, Duke of Westerfield, stood before her with an amused grin curving the corners of his sumptuous mouth. Thalia’s ribs constricted around her lungs, robbing her of breath at the sight of one of her most dedicated customers. As well, he was the one man who made her heart flutter madly in her chest and her stomach turn wild somersaults.
The duke was immaculately dressed, a bottle-green coat and stark white cravat accentuating the burnished bronze hue of his skin—which he had inherited from an Indian mother. His hair was as black as pitch, gleaming in the sunlight filtering through the large front windows. At first glance his eyes appeared just as black, but when one stood close enough, shades of amber and cognac could be found within the prisms of soft brown eyes fringed by heavy, sooty lashes. Not that Thalia had been close to the man very often. There had only been the one time—as she’d opened a particular book to display the lovely frontispiece—only for His Grace to lean in to study it. The light had touched his eyes in the exact right spot to display the variegated hues, and the circulating spring air coming through the open door had sent the scents of sandalwood and bergamot up her nostrils.
There was no spring breeze today, and her door was closed against the humidity of a summer afternoon. Adding insult to injury, she was heaped on the floor like a rag doll, her skirts hiked up to bare her calves. One of her slippers had fallen off and her fichu was knocked askew, displaying far more skin than was appropriate.
“Your Grace!” Thalia exclaimed, pushing down her skirts and righting her fichu—both of which seemed of more importance than her foul language or her position on the floor. “I beg your pardon, I … took a little tumble, but …”
Her stammering trailed off as Westerfield approached, crouching along the way to retrieve her slipper. “Think nothing of it, Miss Ramsey. Are you hurt?”
Thalia’s tongue refused to move, her mouth gaping like that of a fish out of water as she stared at the duke, experiencing the heady fragrance of him—both woodsy and citrusy at once. “N-No,” she managed. “Only my pride has been injured.”
The duke chuckled, gently retrieving her foot and replacing her slipper. Thalia’s skin came alive with gooseflesh and shivers, and a dozen other sensations she could not name. All too soon, his hand was gone, leaving her bereft.
“Well, thank goodness no one was here to witness it,” he murmured.
“Except you,” she pointed out as he offered her a hand up.
“Except for me,” he agreed. “And I swear upon my honor that I will never breathe a word to anyone.”
As if anyone who ran in the same lofty circles as a duke would care about a nobody bookshop owner who had fallen off a stool. Yet, there was no teasing in Westerfield’s voice or on his face—only an earnestness she found as charming as his smiles.
Clearing her throat, Thalia smoothed both hands over her skirts and then adjusted her spectacles. “I had not expected to see you today,” she remarked, resuming her place behind the polished oak counter.
Instead of moving on to peruse the shelves, the duke followed, casually leaning against the edge of the counter. “Really? Why is that?”
Thalia busied herself tidying her surroundings—even though the remaining books to be shelved were already efficiently sorted and stacked. She needed to do something with her hands to keep from making a cake of herself. “The Vauxhall masquerade is tonight. I would have thought you’d be too busy preparing to visit today.”
“It is Saturday, is it not?” he said, shrugging one shoulder. “Besides, there is very little for a man to do in preparation for a masquerade. At least, in comparison to the efforts of a lady.”
“Especially when said man is a duke with a valet at his disposal,” Thalia said.
Westerfield laughed, and the sound warmed Thalia’s belly. “Miss Ramsey, are you teasing me?”
Her throat clenched as she realized she might have gone too far, even given their cordial and amiable acquaintance. The man visited her shop every Saturday and was always friendly. But he was still a duke, which placed him so far above her in the social hierarchy that he might as well live in the clouds.
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” she mumbled, lowering her eyes.
The duke leaned in over the counter, drawing her gaze to one of his winning smiles. “Please, don’t beg my pardon. Everyone is too afraid of a duke to tease him properly. I quite enjoy it.”
Thalia couldn’t help returning his smile, though she was certain hers was nauseatingly simpering, showing her infatuation. “Very well. Then I suppose I ought to ask why a man of your importance makes use of only one valet. I would have assumed you had at least two.”
The duke gave her a look that said ‘that’s the spirit,’ before replying. “In truth, Miss Ramsey, I do not have only one valet, or two. No self-respecting duke would go about life with any less than six.”
“Please tell me one of them is solely responsible for getting Your Royal Dukeness into his stockings.”
A twinkle of humor sparked in his eyes. “But of course. The ducal feet are very important, after all.”
They laughed together, his deep baritone combining with her giggle like the strike of drum beneath stringed instruments. Harmony. Perfection.
No.
She couldn’t allow herself to grow fanciful, not even when she was alone, but especially when in Westerfield’s presence. It wouldn’t do to delude herself into thinking the man had any interest in her. He was simply easygoing and companionable—the complete opposite of what she expected a duke to be. The thought of a duke conjured the image of a stodgy old man with fuzzy gray side-whiskers and perhaps a portly belly. Tall, strong, and devilishly handsome did not fit into the equation, unless that duke happened to be Westerfield.
However, no matter how handsome or charming he was, Thalia couldn’t forget that he was as far out of her reach as the moon was from the sun. If she wasn’t careful, she’d find herself chasing him across the sky, endlessly longing for what she could never have.
“What can I do for you today, Your Grace?” she said, adopting her most placid, professional tones. “Have you finished with Sense and Sensibility already?”
“I positively devoured it. The author is a most gifted lady.”
Thalia pressed her lips together to contain a smile. The duke was not so full of himself that he shunned the enjoyment of novels as many other men did. Westerfield was a voracious reader who delighted in everything from poetry, philosophy and fiction, to science, botany and farming. The latter seemed wise, as he was responsible for one of the largest holdings in the realm, along with several smaller estates. It delighted her to know that he did not shun the work of the author of some of Thalia’s favorite books. The anonymous pseudonym, ‘A Lady,’ graced the title pages of such works as Sense and Sensibility, and Emma. While many of her male patrons scoffed at the mere mention of ‘A Lady,’ Westerfield had shown an interest in the novels, and Thalia had been happy to present him with a new, pristine copy of Sense and Sensibility a few weeks ago.
“I am glad you enjoyed it,” she said, skimming her fingers down the stack of books at her side. “If you would like to explore more of A Lady’s works, I recommend Mansfield Park. I found it rather diverting. And … it appears I only have one copy left. I was just about to place it on the shelf.”
“There is no need,” he insisted. “I’ll take it. As well, I had wondered if you have any copies of Robinson Crusoe? My own was irreparably damaged and I need a replacement.”
Biting her lip, Thalia gazed down one of the aisles, mentally thumbing through the contents of the shelves. “I believe I do … if you would give me a moment to search, Your Grace.”
“Of course.”
Thalia used the time it took to retrieve the book to take a few deep breaths and calm her overwrought nerves. She could do this. She could wrap the duke’s purchases and send him off with a cheerful farewell before returning to her mundane life. Oh, Thalia was happy enough and more fortunate than most women like herself. She was lucky that her father’s improved circumstances had offered her a life of comfort, if not outright luxury. They hadn’t had riches or lofty titles, but they’d been a family—him, her mother, Thalia, and her little sister Theodosia. Ramsey’s Books had been left in Thalia’s hands, ensuring she would have the means to care for herself and those who depended on her. If there was a lack of excitement in her life, it seemed a small price to pay for security and a full belly. Many women living in London with her dark skin and African features were relegated to deep poverty, most selling their bodies for lack of other means of making money.
It was wrong for her to be ungrateful and long for more. Thalia told herself this over and over as she located the duke’s requested book and walked it back to the front of the shop.
“You are in luck,” she told him, lifting the copy of Robinson Crusoe.
“Excellent. You are a godsend, Miss Ramsey.”
Despite his flattery, Thalia managed to keep a straight face as she began bundling both books together in shop paper and twine.
“Will you attend Vauxhall this evening, Miss Ramsey?”
“Oh, goodness … I hadn’t planned to … that is …”
“Whyever not? I hear there are to be fireworks and a hot air balloon ascent. I am not one for stuffy soirées held in ballrooms, but never miss an evening at Vauxhall.”
In truth, the event that was being hailed as the grandest of the summer sounded like a wonderful time. People from all walks of life were excited to enjoy the gardens and the fine weather, especially after the dreary Year Without a Summer.
“I must confess to never having visited Vauxhall at night,” she said, while snipping at the twine and arranging a perfect bow. “I have heard that it isn’t particularly safe after dark—particularly for a lone woman.”
“That is true enough, if one veers off the lighted paths. Vauxhall is lit with thousands of lanterns, except for the dark walk. As long as you steer clear of the place, I should think you would be safe enough. Or, perhaps you have a friend or a beau to escort you?”
This time, she couldn’t help the little smile that made her left cheek itch. “Your Grace, while I have any number of friends and acquaintances, there is no beau.”
Westerfield fell silent a moment, his gaze becoming intent as he stared at her. Thalia fought not to squirm under his perusal, finding it disconcerting.
“That’s a shame,” he said, his voice so low Thalia had nearly missed what he’d said. Blinking, he looked away and straightened. “At any rate, I do hope you will change your mind. You must experience a night at Vauxhall at least once in your life.”
“I will consider it. Thank you, Your Grace.”
“Thank you,” he replied. “You know where to send the receipt.”
“Of course.”
“I will see you next week … or tonight, perhaps?”
“Perhaps,” she hedged. “Although, it is a masked affair, is it not? You might set eyes on me and not recognize me at all.”
“A fair point. Regardless, I hope you have a pleasant evening, Miss Ramsey. Good day.”
“Good day, Your Grace.”
Thalia slumped once Westerfield was gone, letting out a sigh. She was always on edge following an encounter with the duke, but this felt different. There had been a glimmer of something in his eyes as he’d remarked that it was a shame Thalia had no beau to escort her.
What had it meant?
Nothing, she decided. She was ridiculous for even thinking it. He was being kind, as he always was. Still, Thalia allowed herself a moment to think of a night of revelry and fun under the stars, surrounded by entertainments of all kinds. She hadn’t been to a dance in ages, and itched to be partnered on the dance floor—though she wasn’t certain the opportunity would present itself. If she wasn’t careful, someone might mistake her for a Haymarket strumpet and make untoward advances. It was one of the reasons she had shunned such affairs in the past. Among people like herself—shopkeepers and merchants and such—she was known, she was safe. Many had been acquainted with her father before his death, and were cordial to Thalia and her mother. But mixing with high society was a risk—one that could see her night ruined.
With a shake of her head, Thalia decided it was a decision best saved for later. It wasn’t as if there were numerous options for her in regards to costume—her clothing was well made and adequate, but by no means fine.
One thing was for certain; entertaining the idea of encountering Westerfield at Vauxhall was the height of madness. Thalia would do well to cure herself of such insanity before this evening.
Stephen leaned against the back of his chair, eyes closed as he latched onto the soothing sound of a razor scraping a strop. It reminded him of the waves of the ocean, producing pangs of longing for his estate off the coast of Devon. If it weren’t for the need to attend Parliament sessions, he would be there now, walking along the rocky shore and breathing in the salty air. Instead, he was forced to inhabit one of his London residences and endure the filth and smog along with the stifling humidity of summer.
He supposed he ought not complain, even in his own mind. Last year, the unusual temperatures had subjected all of England to an endless winter. Besides, being in London was worth it for the chance to step foot in Vauxhall again. He hadn’t attended a masquerade there in years, and was determined not to miss this one. Ever since his ascension to the title, duty and responsibility had steered his every move, forming the majority of his decisions. Attending the revel tonight would be the first time Stephen had chosen personal enjoyment over the needs of the dukedom. It would all be waiting for him in the morning and he deserved a respite, however short it might be. He had been in earnest when telling Miss Ramsey that attending a Vauxhall affair was a wondrous experience.
Stephen chuckled at the thought of the witty bookshop owner, snatches of their earlier conversation coming back to him.
“Is something funny, Sahib?”
Stephen cracked an eye open to find his valet standing over him. Pavan was a tall, wiry Indian man with a severe face and piercing eyes as black as the night. He dressed in traditional kurta and jodhpur breeches, his silk, beaded slippers a match for a rich, royal purple turban. The man had been brought to England along with a newborn Stephen by his father the duke, and his mother—an Indian noblewoman—on their return from Delhi. At the time he had served as valet for the former duke. Upon his death, Stephen had inherited Pavan along with everything else connected to the Westerfield title.
“I was only thinking, Pavan,” Stephen replied as the valet began preparing a hot towel. “Perhaps I ought to enlist more valets … five more, I think. And one could be dedicated solely to getting me into my stockings.”
Stephen’s shoulders quivered with laughter, snorts and chuckles slipped out from between his lips. Meanwhile, Pavan’s only change in expression came in the slight narrowing of his eyes.
“What is this talk of stockings?” Pavan replied, his accent thickened by irritability. “Does Sahib not approve of the way I tend to his feet?”
Stephen was hopeless, rocking in his chair as he gave in to belly-quivering laughter. “Of course, Pavan … but if someone else tends the ducal feet, it will free you to pay better attention to my hair.”
Pavan pushed him—not gently—against the back of the chair and draped his face in the hot towel. “Perhaps I should merely shave your head and cut out the need for another valet.”
Stephen could well imagine Pavan shearing him of his dark, silken locks, and it only made him laugh harder. “Forget I said anything. You have the ingenuity of ten valets, and I value you.”
Pavan made a low sound in the back of his throat but said nothing else. Stephen knew him well enough. Just now, Pavan was beaming with pride. The man had been not only a servant to Stephen’s father, but a friend and adviser. Pavan had spent his youth in the royal courts of Indian nobility. The machinations of ruling were known to him, and he’d helped the former Westerfield make a number of important decisions. Now that his father was gone, Stephen had come to rely on Pavan as a fatherly figure.
“All is in readiness for your costume, Sahib. I added a bit more beadwork on the lapels. You will look like the nobleman that you are.”
Stephen had selected opulent Indian garb for the evening, complete with headwear and a matching mask. It wasn’t often he was able to don the dress of his mother’s homeland. “Very good, Pavan.”
“How long will we remain in Westerfield House, Sahib?” Pavan asked, quickly changing the subject. He was always shy about basking in praise.
“A few more days,” Stephen replied. “Mother craves my company, and I owe her that. I’ve spent so much time in sessions and debating politics at my club that I haven’t had much time for her. My time in London is dear, but I will always find some to spare for her.”
“You are a good son.”
Stephen grinned as the towel was removed from his face. “I like to think I am. I look forward to taking her to Vauxhall tonight. She seems to get along better when she’s been out.”
“Yes,” Pavan agreed. “It is good for her to be social again. To leave this house.”
His mother had eschewed English standards of mourning, only recently shedding her black widow’s weeds. Four years was a long time to close oneself away from the world, but Stephen’s parents had loved one another dearly. Having never been in love, he couldn’t fathom feeling so intensely about another person. He loved his family dearly, small as it was, but knew nothing of passionate love. The pain still lingered in his mother’s eyes, but she’d begun to smile again and ask him to escort her about. He would attend a ball every night if only to see her take in the beauty of marble floors and crystal chandeliers and smile.
“She will enjoy the evening, I think,” Stephen mused. “That is, if I can keep her and Uncle Philip from murdering one another.”
Pavan issued a low snort. “I will pray for you, Sahib.”
Stephen pinched his lips to keep from laughing as Pavan coated his jaw in shaving balm. His father’s brother, Philip, had become a resident of Westerfield House following the death of his wife. The man was loved by all who knew him for his quick wit, easy smiles, and engaging personality. Only the dowager duchess seemed none-too-amused by him. Yet, when at home they were often in each other’s company—griping at one another in a way that only old friends could.
“Perhaps you should be glad for your mother to be occupied with Mr. Dryden, for then she will forget to pester you about selecting a duchess.”
Stephen groaned as Pavan began meticulously scraping the stubble from his face. “Don’t remind me. I am not averse to the idea of marriage. On the contrary, I look forward to being wed—but to the woman of my choosing, at the right time. Mother means well, but her idea of what constitutes the perfect bride differ from my own.”
“She simply wishes for your duchess to live up to the Westerfield legacy. One scandalous marriage in the line of succession is quite enough, to her mind.”
Annoyance lanced through Stephen at Pavan’s reminder of what was at stake in his choice of bride. Since becoming a duchess and carrying one of the oldest and most illustrious titles in the empire, Sunita Dryden had made it her mission to represent her new name well. She dressed as an Englishwoman always, save for the opulent gold and gems passed down through generations of Indian royalty. Over the years, her accent had grown less noticeable, thanks to the efforts of a tutor through elocution lessons. She had borne her husband an heir, as required, though lamented she had been unable to provide the duke with more children.
Stephen’s childhood and education had been rigorous, his mother determined for him to become the perfect English gentleman—one worthy of carrying on the Westerfield title and living up to his father’s legacy.
And now, it was his turn to do what was necessary for the sake of the dukedom. Only, Stephen was of the opinion the one thing that ought to be decided with no thought to the title was his choice of bride. He had already been asked to give so much of himself to crown and country. Sacrifices must be made, and Stephen had made his peace with that.
However, a man’s wife wasn’t a polished gem to be flaunted on his arm, or a broodmare for the sake of an heir. His duchess would be a constant companion, as he had no desire to live a separate life from his wife. Stephen wanted someone he could laugh with and feel comfortable being himself around. He wanted no stiff formality—no lady bowing her head and calling him ‘Your Grace.’ With her—whoever she might be—he would simply be Stephen, and she would know him like no one else did.
In essence, he wanted what his parents had shared. He wanted love and passion, and for that Stephen must be allowed to choose on his own terms. No matter how many young, pale debutantes his mother paraded before him, Stephen would not have his hand forced.
“She only wants the best for you, Sahib,” Pavan murmured, as if having read Stephen’s thoughts.
“I know,” Stephen said with a sigh. “Perhaps I could apply myself a bit more to the wife hunt. It will please her.”
“Indeed.”
They fell into companionable silence through the rest of his toilette—their years together having attuned them well to one another. Within the hour, he was dressed in a heavily beaded and embroidered sherwani coat of yellow-gold silk. Pavan’s beadwork added dimension to the piece, enlivening the silk with shades of crimson, purple, and royal blue. His churidars trousers were a matching shade to the jacket, while his turban was a contrasting shade of blood red. His mask seemed an unnecessary accoutrement—as no one in London could mistake him for anyone else due to his coloring and mode of dress. Still, it felt good to get into the spirit of the evening, tying the ribbons of a golden half-mask over his face.
He suffered through Pavan’s fussing—a loose thread snipped here, an imaginary wrinkle smoothed there. Once his valet was satisfied, Stephen was free to go downstairs, where he found his mother and uncle awaiting him.
His mother was a small woman, slender and short of stature. Her coppery skin had begun to show the signs of her age, yet she was as lovely as the portrait of her youthful self which hung in the gallery. Her thick, waist-length hair was arranged in an elegant knot—strands of silver entwining with ebony black. Her eyes were lighter than his own—like warmed honey, and her features were severe yet somehow all the more beautiful because of it.
Uncle Philip offered a sharp contrast to the dowager duchess—with a ruddy complexion, frazzled gray side-whiskers, and a balding pate. The paunch of his belly pressed at the front of his waistcoat, one button threatening to pop free at any moment.
They had shunned the fanciful costumes preferred by the younger crowd, opting for black dominoes with masks.
His mother smiled at the sight of Stephen, coming toward him with her arms outstretched. “My son … you look splendid. Does he not look splendid, Philip?”
His uncle raised a quizzing glass to one eye and made a sound of approval at the back of his throat. “Hmm, quite fine indeed. You cut a dashing figure, nephew.”
His mother cut her narrowed eyes at Philip and scowled. “You must not address him so informally. Nephew … I cannot believe … it is Your Grace!”
Stephen cut off Philip’s coming tirade with a hand his uncle’s shoulder. “We are family and in private. I see no need for formality. How do you fare this evening, Uncle? Looking forward to the fireworks?”
Philip’s pale blue eyes glimmered with the glee of a young boy as he tugged on one of his whiskers. “Fireworks are all well and good, but I was hoping you might arrange an ascent in the balloon for an old chap. I’d like to know what it’s like to taste the air from such a height at least once before I die.”
Stephen opened his mouth to respond that of course he would make the arrangements, but his mother was already taking Philip to task.
“He is to enjoy his evening without feeling beholden to either of us,” she admonished, with a click of her tongue. “You will survive just fine without setting foot in a hot air balloon. Besides, they are frightfully dangerous things. I’ve no idea why one would ever wish—”
“Enjoy his evening—bah!” Philip countered, hands on hips. “You aren’t fooling me, Sunita. You will do your best to shove every eligible lady into his path!”
Placing a slender hand over her bosom, his mother conjured her best affronted expression. “How dare you imply—”
“Uncle,” Stephen cut in, before the spat escalated any further. “I will do my best to ensure you are able to enjoy an ascension in the balloon. Mother, there are sure to be any number of eligible ladies in attendance. I shall arrange introductions to a few of them myself. Who knows? Perhaps the future Duchess of Westerfield is striding through the gates of Vauxhall at this very moment.”
Accepting his arm, Stephen’s mother offered him a beaming smile. “From your lips to God’s ears.”