Miracle (46 page)

Salterdon looked past her to Ellie and nodded.

"Lesson two! It is bad form to be favorably inclined toward
everyone.
As the duchess, you'll be forced to carefully choose your associates and friends. Those choices will be based on equality of rank. There will be a great many who will, of course, try their best to negotiate their way into your good graces by whatever means they can possibly employ. Invitations to teas, soirees, hunts. They will fawn and flatter. They'll send gifts and pen you the most pretentiously florid letters you are apt to read outside of William Shakespeare. Lesson three! Never believe a word of it or you are likely to become as bone-headed as they are."

Miracle laughed brightly. "Then what should I do? How does one gracefully decline a person's requirement for friendship?"

"It's known as
the cut direct
, a social technique designed to express disapproval, reinforce superiority, and demonstrate exclusivity. You must choose the most public place available—"

"Whatever for?" Miracle asked, astonished and appalled by the blatant cruelty of such an act.

"Witnesses, of course. Were you to snub them in private, they would simply play ignorant and at some point, try again. However, once the cut is executed say, in a ballroom or the opera house, when every eye in the place immediately goes directly to the duke and his wife upon their entrance, then the
cuttee
has little choice but to acknowledge the slight and, as gracefully as possible, fade into the woodwork.

"First, you must make certain your intended victim sees you; establish eye contact, if possible, wait for a sign of acknowledgement—a nod, a raised hand, a smile—very important, you see, because if the victim suspects what is about to take place, she might well ignore
you,
and therefore feel she has been the
cuttor
and
you
the
cuttee
. Once you have his or her attention, you approach—and sail past, stony-faced, as if the individual were not there. Do not look back to revel in their discomfiture, however. That would be abominably rude."

Sitting back in the seat, Miracle looked from Ellie to Salterdon, who reposed in the corner of the carriage, his perusal of her sleepy-eyed, his mouth curled in amusement. "Your Grace," she said firmly. "Must I truly be so deficient in feelings? And how will I know who to cut, and when?"

"You'll know,
Meri
Mine. I promise you."

The etiquette lessons continued. Clayton listened to Ellie's patient tutoring with half an ear. He nodded and spoke when asked to, his gaze shifting occasionally to Miracle, who continued to struggle to keep her mind on Ellie and not the buzzing, bustling activity on the street.

He'd slept only a few short hours after Ellie had bid him good night and retired to her own room, and that had been sitting up in a chair by the window, his long legs stretched out with his boot heels propped upon the windowsill. He'd awakened to discover Miracle in the garden amid rain-kissed flowers, a cat on her lap, another lapping cream from a cup near her foot. The canary, of course, balanced on her head and warbled to the heavens. The noise of traffic beyond her seemed incongruous to the serene picture she made with her doe eyes, child's freckles, and unbound hair. Not for the first time since bringing her to the city, he was tempted to sweep her up and take her back to Cavisbrooke. To save her from her future. To save her from his brother. To save her from his own betrayal.

Their first stop was to a tiny but elite shop on Bond Street, where Clayton bid the ladies a pleasant morning with the dressmaker, and made his way down the street to the outrageously expensive Marcel Swift, "custom clothier to His Majesty and the Most Distinguished Noblemen and Gents." The duke of Salterdon and his peers did indeed shop here. Clayton didn't, choosing instead to purchase his simpler togs away from the heart of the West End, where the labor was less expensive and the tailors were more appreciative of his business.

But today, and tomorrow, and the day after that, until his brother returned to the city, he was the duke of Salterdon, and as his brother had mentioned not so long ago, it behooved Clay to dress the part, especially since he intended to introduce the future duchess to the entirety of London.

Ah, but His Grace was going to be greeted with such a pleasant surprise when he returned to London.

By the time the duke and his
fiancée
attended the opera three nights later, word was out, as Clayton knew it would be, of Trey's impending marriage. As the Red Sea did for Moses, the crush of nobility parted before them, allowing them access to His Grace's balcony box with its heavy red velvet curtains and swags and cushioned chairs emblazoned with the family crest.

As usual, Miracle seemed unaware of the commotion she caused, caught up as she was in the excitement of attending her first performance. While her change of hairstyle and the addition of the newest Parisian gown altered her appearance somewhat, there was no modifying the vivacity with which she tackled each new experience.

Settling into the chair behind Clayton, Ellie leaned forward and said in his ear, "Seems our Miracle has caused quite a sensation . . . Your Grace. But then, you knew she would. I suspect that word of the impending marriage should be reaching the duchess any day, if it hasn't already."

He crossed his long legs and glanced toward Miracle. Her dark red curls framing her face, she leaned slightly over the balustrade to study the elaborately carved motif decorating the outside of the box, which caused a ripple of excited conversation below.

Ellie whispered, "I thought you hated the opera, my lord."

"I do, but Trey enjoys it."

"I must admit, I never believed you would be able to pull off such a ruse in public. You're quite good at being pompous, not to mention cavalier and insolent. And you look smashing in his clothes. How much did they cost the duke?"

"A small fortune. As did Miracle's wardrobe and the ruby and sapphire necklace he purchased her as a wedding gift. There were the earrings to match, of course. And the
tiara
that's
de rigueur
for any and all self-respecting
duchesses.
Have I forgotten anything?"

Touching his shoulder in a concerned way, Ellie asked, "How are you holding up, darling? Are you certain you want to continue?"

His gaze again going to Miracle, where she squirmed in her chair and tapped her foot in impatience as she waited for the performance to begin, Clayton nodded. "Very certain," he finally replied.

They arrived back at Park House at just after midnight. Miracle had fallen to sleep with her head on Salterdon's shoulder. He roused her with a light kiss on her cheek.

She blinked and raised her head.

Ellie had already quit the coach and stood in the dark near the house, waiting. Salterdon, upon exiting, offered his hand, and accepting it, Miracle stepped to the ground, swaying a little.

With a soft laugh, he caught her.
"Meri
Mine, I've never known a woman who could fall asleep so deeply so quickly, then have such a devilish time waking up."

"I suppose you've awakened a great many women with a kiss?" she asked sleepily and rubbed her eyes.

He smiled.

Miracle turned away, moved along the picket fence, her silken pelisse lightly brushing against the top-heavy roses cascading over their trellises. Clayton watched her curiously. Her mood seemed . . . reflective. In truth, she had said very little throughout the evening. Her face during the performance had exhibited little of her previous enthusiasm. Her smile had been strained when greeting well- wishers.

Pausing, fingering a particularly large yellow bloom with her gloved fingers, she said, "I see how they watch you, you know. The women. They look at you wherever we go. I see the yearning in their eyes. And the envy when they look at me. They're wondering, Why her? What could he possibly love and admire in her? Sometimes," she said softly, tipping her head and looking at him askance, "I feel like such a fool. I feel as if I don't deserve you. I wake up in the mornings believing this will all end—that it's some sort of perverse trick; that you'll suddenly disappear from my life, like everyone else, and I'll be alone . . .again. And I become frightened."

Taking an unsteady breath, she said, "It's been a very long time since you last kissed me, Your Grace."

Clayton walked to her, took her face in his hands, and gently kissed her forehead.

"That's not what I had in mind," she murmured.

"No doubt. But it'll have to do, for now."

"Until we're married?"

"Yes."

Miracle pulled away. "My, haven't we become proper since coming to London? In truth, sir, you hardly seem like the same man who pursued me so adamantly at Cavisbrooke. Even the way you dress is different. So formal—like one of
them.
You seemed so much more natural in your shirt and breeches, with your hair wild with wind and your mood as mercurial as the weather."

"Miracle," Clayton said, "aren't you happy?"

"Oh my, yes!" she exclaimed, suddenly smiling. "How could I not be happy? I feel like a princess. I have a wealth of clothes, and my hair— Do you care for it, curled and coiled atop my head?"

"Very pretty."

"It itches a bit," she admitted as she scratched her scalp. "But as long as it pleases you." Laughing, she danced to him and kissed him on the cheek. "You must think me terrible, sir, awfully ungrateful."

"Not at all."

"I'm so very fortunate to have you. Imagine your choosing me, above all others, to be your wife. I promise to do everything in my power to make you happy, and above all, proud." Backing away, she smiled and blew him a kiss. "Good night then. Will I see you tomorrow?"

He nodded.

Turning on her toes, she hurried up the walk, passed Ellie who continued to stand near the door in the shadows, and disappeared into the house.

"Good night," Clayton called softly.

Miracle took the stairs to her room two at a time. Once inside, she slammed the door and fell back against it, covered her face with her hands and tried to breathe.

What was she going to do?

Angrily, she pulled at the ribbons and pins in her hair and flung them to the floor. Then Ethel came in.

Without a word, the maid hurried to her aid, caught her shoulders, ushered her to the chair before the dresser, and forced her to sit in it. Carefully, Ethel searched through the coils and curls, plucking out pins, uncoiling braids, while Miracle stared at her reflection in the mirror and did her best to swallow back her emotions.

"Did
ya
enjoy the opera, milady?" Ethel finally asked.

"No," she spurted. "I couldn't understand a bloody word they screamed. Nor could anyone else, I'm certain, but it didn't matter to them because they weren't watching the performance, anyway. They were all looking at me, or rather His Grace. I wager even the performers were more interested in what, or who, was watching them from the duke's box than they were on delivering their melodious tragedy. What shall I do, Ethel? I fear the longer I remain here, the more I realize I'm not cut out for this life. I'll be a miserable failure as the duchess. I don't like opera or tea parties or long hours spent in idle gossip."

Twisting in her chair, Miracle stared up into Ethel's
mouselike
features. "Do you realize it's unsuitable for a 'lady' to read? The fact that I know how would no doubt send London society into a fit of vapors. And as far as physical activity—heaven forbid. As Mistress Ellie explained it: 'The hallmark of a lady is to be idle—except for dancing, of which there can never be a sufficient amount of waltzing to make her ladyship's face glow with warmth and exercise.' Oh, I am an ungrateful miss."