Charlotte said. “The gentlemen seem to be fussing about something. Now Hawke has taken off his coat and thrown it off to one side. What is happening, I wonder?”
“Perhaps he is mad,” Lizzie said glumly, still not daring to look up and judge for herself. “I am doomed to wed a madman.”
“Oh, he’s not mad,” Charlotte said. “But faith, he is handsome, and tall, and very well made. Oh, Lizzie, you are most fortunate!”
“He is all those things?” Lizzie asked, her voice squeaking upward. “Truly?”
“He is,” Charlotte said, lowering her voice to a whisper as she sank into a curtsey. “And now he has come to greet us. Your Grace, let me welcome you to our home.”
At once Lizzie, too, dropped into a deep curtsey, staring down at the crushed white oyster shells of the path. Among three dukes and a duchess, her rank was so inferior that it was likely quite appropriate for her to remain bent over this way for minutes on end. Without lifting her head, she could just see the toes of a gentleman’s well-polished shoes with gleaming silver buckles. No, her future husband’s shoes, she thought with a small thrill—here, now, finally, before her.
A second pair of men’s shoes appeared, shoes that belonged to March, and a shadow that must belong to the third cousin, Brecon.
“Charlotte, my dear, may I present my cousin, Hawke,” March said. “Hawke, my wife Charlotte.”
“Duchess, I am most honored,” he said, and Lizzie saw his shadow as he bowed in reply to her curtsey. Herheart was beating so loudly in her ears that she scarcely heard his words—though she did hear that his voice was deep and manly.
“Good day to you, Duke,” Charlotte said, ever correct. “I am most honored to welcome you to our home.”
Lizzie knew she was next. There was no escaping now, and she prayed she’d not shame herself by doing or saying something regrettable. She felt her sister’s hand rest lightly on her shoulder, a gesture of both comfort and presentation.
“But I know this is the lady you are most eager to meet, Duke,” Charlotte continued. “May I present my younger sister Lady Elizabeth Wylder?”
“Lady Elizabeth,” he murmured, and she felt his fingers take her hand, strong and sure, to raise her up. She had practiced this with Charlotte. She knew what to do. Slowly she stood, with as much composure as could be managed when her knees felt like jelly. She straightened, made herself smile, and lifted her face to meet his gaze with what she hoped was the grace worthy of a duchess.
Her small shriek of bewilderment was not part of the plan.
He gasped, and barely bit back an oath.
Neither spoke. Neither looked away. Neither moved.
“Well, now,” Brecon said with satisfaction. “I’ve never seen a couple so instantly enchanted with each other that they were literally left without words. I should say we have a match, eh?”
“Indeed we do,” declared March, equally pleased. “I told you she was a beauty, Hawke.”
“That you did, March,” Hawke said slowly. Still he stared at Lizzie, almost as if he feared she might vanish if he looked away. “I doubt there could be another like her anywhere.”
Lizzie’s face burned, both with embarrassment and with confusion. She understood his double-edged remark,even if no one else did. How could her stranger from the opera and from Ranelagh turn out to be the Duke of Hawkesworth? Was this some sort of hideous jest, a humorless trick on her innocence?
But if it was a trick, then clearly neither Brecon nor March was party to it. They were too busy beaming and doting to have done anything so low. Swiftly Lizzie looked to her sister, hoping to find an explanation there. But Charlotte’s face showed only delight as well.
Clearly none of her family knew, and with growing frustration she turned back to the gentleman who still held her hand. Now that his first shock had faded, she read in his face the same confusion as she felt herself, and more than
“Perhaps he is mad,” Lizzie said glumly, still not daring to look up and judge for herself. “I am doomed to wed a madman.”
“Oh, he’s not mad,” Charlotte said. “But faith, he is handsome, and tall, and very well made. Oh, Lizzie, you are most fortunate!”
“He is all those things?” Lizzie asked, her voice squeaking upward. “Truly?”
“He is,” Charlotte said, lowering her voice to a whisper as she sank into a curtsey. “And now he has come to greet us. Your Grace, let me welcome you to our home.”
At once Lizzie, too, dropped into a deep curtsey, staring down at the crushed white oyster shells of the path. Among three dukes and a duchess, her rank was so inferior that it was likely quite appropriate for her to remain bent over this way for minutes on end. Without lifting her head, she could just see the toes of a gentleman’s well-polished shoes with gleaming silver buckles. No, her future husband’s shoes, she thought with a small thrill—here, now, finally, before her.
A second pair of men’s shoes appeared, shoes that belonged to March, and a shadow that must belong to the third cousin, Brecon.
“Charlotte, my dear, may I present my cousin, Hawke,” March said. “Hawke, my wife Charlotte.”
“Duchess, I am most honored,” he said, and Lizzie saw his shadow as he bowed in reply to her curtsey. Herheart was beating so loudly in her ears that she scarcely heard his words—though she did hear that his voice was deep and manly.
“Good day to you, Duke,” Charlotte said, ever correct. “I am most honored to welcome you to our home.”
Lizzie knew she was next. There was no escaping now, and she prayed she’d not shame herself by doing or saying something regrettable. She felt her sister’s hand rest lightly on her shoulder, a gesture of both comfort and presentation.
“But I know this is the lady you are most eager to meet, Duke,” Charlotte continued. “May I present my younger sister Lady Elizabeth Wylder?”
“Lady Elizabeth,” he murmured, and she felt his fingers take her hand, strong and sure, to raise her up. She had practiced this with Charlotte. She knew what to do. Slowly she stood, with as much composure as could be managed when her knees felt like jelly. She straightened, made herself smile, and lifted her face to meet his gaze with what she hoped was the grace worthy of a duchess.
Her small shriek of bewilderment was not part of the plan.
He gasped, and barely bit back an oath.
Neither spoke. Neither looked away. Neither moved.
“Well, now,” Brecon said with satisfaction. “I’ve never seen a couple so instantly enchanted with each other that they were literally left without words. I should say we have a match, eh?”
“Indeed we do,” declared March, equally pleased. “I told you she was a beauty, Hawke.”
“That you did, March,” Hawke said slowly. Still he stared at Lizzie, almost as if he feared she might vanish if he looked away. “I doubt there could be another like her anywhere.”
Lizzie’s face burned, both with embarrassment and with confusion. She understood his double-edged remark,even if no one else did. How could her stranger from the opera and from Ranelagh turn out to be the Duke of Hawkesworth? Was this some sort of hideous jest, a humorless trick on her innocence?
But if it was a trick, then clearly neither Brecon nor March was party to it. They were too busy beaming and doting to have done anything so low. Swiftly Lizzie looked to her sister, hoping to find an explanation there. But Charlotte’s face showed only delight as well.
Clearly none of her family knew, and with growing frustration she turned back to the gentleman who still held her hand. Now that his first shock had faded, she read in his face the same confusion as she felt herself, and more than
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