tilted her Venetian headdress, searching the staircase without a change in expression, not once correcting the Duke’s false assumption.
Fran’s heart sank. This was not going according to plan! She had counted on her mother creating the sort of stir that would have kept the old society matrons chattering for weeks—the sort of stir that would cause the Duke to hesitate and not agree to the negotiated engagement. If Fran had more time, she knew she could convince the Duke she’d make an unsuitable wife. Duchesses don’t go to extraordinary lengths to avoid strangers. They certainly don’t spend their time translating myths and legends from ancient and foreign texts. And they don’t have hurtful names given to them by newspapers who don’t understand her fear of crowded places.
Yet her mother nodded her approval as the Duke placed Mary’s dyed-blue glove on top of his military sleeve and led her toward the gold ballroom. Fran had to admit, they did make an attractive couple. Mary’s smile broadcast her delight as they made their way to the crowded ballroom.
She glanced back toward her mother, who flagged down a footman. Alva whispered something in his ear. The man glanced up the staircase. Afraid she’d been spotted, Fran dashed down a hallway toward the servant’s stairs. Her hasty flight carried her down to the butler’s pantry and then out to the gardens through the delivery courtyard. It was time for her secondary plan, the one she was loathe to take, but under the circumstances, had no choice.
SWEAT STUNG HIS EYES AND TRICKLED DOWN WILLIAM’S temple within the closed confines of his papier-mâché prison. Although the open bottom of the frog head mask extended a good foot beyond his chin, the breeze stirring the ostrich feather of the lady before him never penetrated to soothe his heated cheeks. Even a glass of cool champagne, awkwardly manipulated under the bottom of the mask, couldn’t reduce his discomfort.
“Are you quite all right in there?” asked a lady dressed entirely in white feathers who purported to be a swan.
William nodded, finding that method of communication less painful than speaking. His vision, slightly obscured by a sheer mesh cloth covering the huge frog eyes, allowed him to observe Percy’s progress with the lady peacock from a distance. The girl possessed no semblance of grace or elegance and her irritating feathers flitted and fretted as much as those bloody bees who kept thinking his bulbous green head was some kind of exotic flower.
Still Percy seemed captivated by the chit, which offered some vague hope that she might eventually prove somewhat suitable as a duchess. He doubted she would measure up to his aunt’s rigid standards for the title. Even with her substantial dowry, she was nevertheless American.
He glanced about the room as much as the mask afforded with a bit of awe. The things he could do with the money spent on this room alone. The gold and the glitter, the artistry on the ceilings and in the statues tucked into the corners of the room, and all of it new. According to Percival, this was not the result of centuries of inheritance, one generation building upon the foundations laid by another. This was all newly purchased and placed, and this “cottage” only one of the family’s many newly purchased manors. Why, the money spent on this residence alone would save Deerfeld Abbey and all of its tenants.
Another breeze stirred the draperies near the open door to the gardens. The temptation to blend into the cool night and remove the tormenting frog mask proved too great a temptation. Enjoying a bit of his anonymity, William managed to walk around the edges of the ballroom without once encountering an ambitious young lady or a hovering matron. The novelty pleased him, though the thought of removing the head pleased him more.
The crowd inside had spilled out to the terrace, making it difficult to move without stepping on a lady’s skirts, or stumbling
Fran’s heart sank. This was not going according to plan! She had counted on her mother creating the sort of stir that would have kept the old society matrons chattering for weeks—the sort of stir that would cause the Duke to hesitate and not agree to the negotiated engagement. If Fran had more time, she knew she could convince the Duke she’d make an unsuitable wife. Duchesses don’t go to extraordinary lengths to avoid strangers. They certainly don’t spend their time translating myths and legends from ancient and foreign texts. And they don’t have hurtful names given to them by newspapers who don’t understand her fear of crowded places.
Yet her mother nodded her approval as the Duke placed Mary’s dyed-blue glove on top of his military sleeve and led her toward the gold ballroom. Fran had to admit, they did make an attractive couple. Mary’s smile broadcast her delight as they made their way to the crowded ballroom.
She glanced back toward her mother, who flagged down a footman. Alva whispered something in his ear. The man glanced up the staircase. Afraid she’d been spotted, Fran dashed down a hallway toward the servant’s stairs. Her hasty flight carried her down to the butler’s pantry and then out to the gardens through the delivery courtyard. It was time for her secondary plan, the one she was loathe to take, but under the circumstances, had no choice.
SWEAT STUNG HIS EYES AND TRICKLED DOWN WILLIAM’S temple within the closed confines of his papier-mâché prison. Although the open bottom of the frog head mask extended a good foot beyond his chin, the breeze stirring the ostrich feather of the lady before him never penetrated to soothe his heated cheeks. Even a glass of cool champagne, awkwardly manipulated under the bottom of the mask, couldn’t reduce his discomfort.
“Are you quite all right in there?” asked a lady dressed entirely in white feathers who purported to be a swan.
William nodded, finding that method of communication less painful than speaking. His vision, slightly obscured by a sheer mesh cloth covering the huge frog eyes, allowed him to observe Percy’s progress with the lady peacock from a distance. The girl possessed no semblance of grace or elegance and her irritating feathers flitted and fretted as much as those bloody bees who kept thinking his bulbous green head was some kind of exotic flower.
Still Percy seemed captivated by the chit, which offered some vague hope that she might eventually prove somewhat suitable as a duchess. He doubted she would measure up to his aunt’s rigid standards for the title. Even with her substantial dowry, she was nevertheless American.
He glanced about the room as much as the mask afforded with a bit of awe. The things he could do with the money spent on this room alone. The gold and the glitter, the artistry on the ceilings and in the statues tucked into the corners of the room, and all of it new. According to Percival, this was not the result of centuries of inheritance, one generation building upon the foundations laid by another. This was all newly purchased and placed, and this “cottage” only one of the family’s many newly purchased manors. Why, the money spent on this residence alone would save Deerfeld Abbey and all of its tenants.
Another breeze stirred the draperies near the open door to the gardens. The temptation to blend into the cool night and remove the tormenting frog mask proved too great a temptation. Enjoying a bit of his anonymity, William managed to walk around the edges of the ballroom without once encountering an ambitious young lady or a hovering matron. The novelty pleased him, though the thought of removing the head pleased him more.
The crowd inside had spilled out to the terrace, making it difficult to move without stepping on a lady’s skirts, or stumbling
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