Miss Delacourt Has Her Day (2 page)

“So, you are saying we can’t be married?”

“So, you are saying we can’t be married?”

“No, Ginny,” her Grandaunt Regina, the Dowager Duchess of Marcross, insisted. “You will be married. I will see to that. …Only not yet.”

Ginny began to pace the confines of her grandaunt’s favored room, the study where she had exchanged barbs with Sir Anthony less than three weeks ago. One momentous trip into the country and suddenly they were back at Wembley House to order her wedding gown made up by the best modiste in London. Now this!

“It’s Anthony’s mother, Lady Crenshaw, isn’t it? I am more than perfectly aware she does not like me. Last night after supper she begged me not to give her son’s new status as Lord Crenshaw, heir to a duchy, a moment’s thought. `Why,’ she said, `everyone knows that heirs to dukedoms marry nobody vicar’s daughters every day of the week!’ “Ginny felt hot tears sting her eyes. “She all but said I am not fit for her son, the next Duke of Marcross”

“Do let me handle Deborah,” Grandaunt snapped. “She is too much for the likes of you. And sit! Your pacing about has my brain feeling scrambled like two eggs in a pan!”

As it was pointless to cross Grandaunt regardless of one’s personal convictions, Ginny obeyed. “It’s only that I was hoping to find in her a mother after so long without my own. She makes it more than clear I am not what she wants for her son. Doubtless I am far and wide of the mark of what she desires in a daughter, as well.”

“This is not a fate reserved only for connections through marriage, Ginerva. Anthony’s dearly departed father was all I could wish in a son, but James, his needle-nosed, hardheaded, black-hearted brother, was born first! And may God rest his soul,” Grandaunt muttered, “should he ever have the good sense to die and be done with it.”

Ginny tried not to stare at her grandaunt’s own needled proboscis, but, alas, it was all she could see. Clearly, apples did not fall far from the tree. Not for the first time, Ginny sighed a prayer of gratitude she had inherited her mother’s chestnut curls, large gray-green eyes, and pleasantly snub nose. As ugly thoughts had a way of spilling out via the tongue, she placed hers firmly between her teeth, determined to dwell on how kind Grandaunt Regina had been to her, even if only mostly, since the death of Ginny’s sharp-nosed father three years prior.

Grandaunt drew a deep sigh. “It is not Reed’s widow, Roxanne, who worries me; it is my son, the duke! Heaven knows he adores Roxanne as his own daughter. Now that Reed is gone and all Roxanne’s hopes with him, I fear no one will ever be good enough to be mistress of Haven Hall.”

Ginny sprang to her feet. “Grandaunt! Say it is not so! You have said over and over there is nothing with which to be concerned” She resumed her pacing. “That we would be married in the rose garden at Dunsmere come June-that all the preparations, save my gown, were already under way!” Ginny was aware she was beginning to babble, but ‘twas better than outright weeping. Grandaunt could not abide weeping, so babble Ginny must. “I am fully aware of Lady Crenshaw’s objections, but if you can’t handle her, Anthony will!” At least she hoped so. The Anthony of three weeks ago would no doubt bow to his mother’s wishes, but the Anthony of today-her Anthony-would never forsake her.

“Ginerva, that is beyond the pale. Of course I can handle Deborah! I wish Anthony’s father had never married her, but I have no one but myself to blame for that unfortunate miscalculation,” Grandaunt said with a sad little shake of her head. “But that is neither here nor there. She knows better than any one who butters her bread. She will trouble you no furtheryou can count on that!”

Turning to the window, Ginny shut out everything but the wished-for sound of Anthony’s carriage wheels striking the cobbled street below and thought on Grandaunt Regina’s words. Ginny knew Regina Crenshaw, the wife and mother of a duke, to be most formidable, but could she make a woman love her daughter-in-law if she had not the inclination? Somehow Ginny rather doubted even Grandaunt could manage that. Suddenly her stomach clenched, and she turned to the dowager duchess in dismay.

“What did you say?” she demanded, then recovered her manners just in time. “That is, I beg your pardon, Grandaunt, I was not properly attending.”

Her grandaunt frowned. “Come away from there. I won’t have you seen gazing out the window like some lovelorn maiden. What I said was,” she continued, though she did not meet Ginny’s eyes, “is that there is one obstacle even I have not the power to overcome”

Ginny felt her mouth go dry. “What? Tell me quickly, I do beg of you!” She must know before she lost her composure. Worse, before she lost her newly found tether on her still-unruly tongue.

“You are young, Ginny. There is no hurry to wed. At least, I trust not. A wedding next spring will do as well as this. In fact, I daresay it will make smooth the path”

Now Grandaunt was the one babbling.

“I do not understand you,” Ginny said as calmly as she was able, though her heart pounded in her chest with trepidation. “What are you saying? Why should we wait?”

Grandaunt rustled over to her desk and sat down. Taking her quill from its stand, she bent her head to her work and said, “It is my son, the duke. He does not approve the match. I would make him see how wrong he is, but he never listened to me as a child and, I daresay, never will.”

Ginny thought perhaps she had gone blind, so quickly did the tears rush to her eyes at her sense of betrayal. “Grandaunt, not you too?”

Grandaunt slammed down her quill with such force, the parchment skipped and upset the bottle of ink, nearly spilling it all over the large gold-leafed desk. “Of course not! How can you ask? I wish you to marry Anthony as much as do you. More, if it were possible! However, there are the duke’s objections to overcome. And even should I accomplish that, he will insist on having his finger in every pie. Better to wait until he is dead.”

But what of Lady Crenshaw? Ginny had a sinking feeling that Anthony’s mother would be as much an obstacle as his uncle, the duke. As she was a youngish woman who appeared to be in the best of health, there was little hope she would be carried off anytime soon. “Can we not be married secretly? We shall be out in the country. No one need ever know.”

“Not in the garden, Ginny!”

“Why not?” she retorted, tears of anger now spilling freely. “I can’t see how it is anybody’s business but our own!”

“That kind of talk, my girl, will not help your case! The Crenshaws are a religious family. Neither the duke nor Deborah would forgive Anthony for marrying outside of church. His father married in church, his grandfather, his uncle the duke, and even I to his father. First, the banns must be properly read, guests invited, and preparations made for the wedding breakfast afterward. The Crenshaws do nothing by halves, and now that Anthony is to be the next duke, his wedding will be a grand affair-mark my words”

“But, Grandaunt, it is so old-fashioned! Anthony doesn’t care for such things. I don’t care for such things!” Ginny insisted.

“I can see I have sadly neglected portions of your education,” Grandaunt said in an ominous tone. “When you marry Anthony, you will become a Crenshaw in word and deed. You will be expected to do things in the manner they always have. It is simply the way it is done. My dear, I am sorry, but this is not a decision that is yours to make”

As Ginny wandered from the room and to her own bedchamber where she might weep in peace, she felt as if all her happiness was slipping between her fingers. For the first time in her life she regretted her upbringing, contented as it was. It was an unworthy thought but no worse than her fervent wish that the duke would find it within himself to die of whatever ailed him. He was said to be on his deathbed, but so was Henry the Eighth before he married wife number five. And six. Even if the duke surprised them all and was carried off quickly and with uncharacteristic good grace, there were still Lady Crenshaw’s objections to overcome. Ginny knew Anthony’s mother to be an impediment to her happiness even if Grandaunt did not.

Unless Ginny could prove that she would make a splendid duchess, all was lost.

Anthony stared into the eyes of one of the appalling wooden jackals that leered over his uncle’s hoary head and contemplated what should be done about the duke’s aversion to his chosen bride. He could hardly credit that this was happening, not to the flawlessly correct Sir Anthony. Surely it was far from flawlessly correct to contemplate, however briefly, doing away with the patriarch of one’s own family. Why, he hardly recognized himself, and all for a slip of a girl with whom he was barely acquainted three weeks ago. A girl who had thought him a bigot, a bore, and a beast. A girl who had turned him so upside down, he nearly didn’t recognize his own life. A girl he couldn’t live without, not for a year, not for a week, not even for one more day! He would go this very minute to the office of the Archbishop of Canterbury and obtain a special license. With luck, they could be wed tomorrow.

“Crenshaw!”

Anthony leaped to his feet. “Not now, Your Grace. I must go.

A sinister rasping sound came from the eerie bed. It was more than a few moments before Anthony realized it was his uncle’s laughter.

“I can see I have landed you a facer, my boy! So, let us cry pax. Put off announcing your betrothal until the end of mourning for my son. In fact, tell no one. If your Miss Delacourt waits for you and you still wish to marry her after I am dead, I will be powerless to stop you”

Anthony did not want to wait. He did not want to mourn. He did not want to be a duke. He wanted to marry Ginny and take her off on a grand tour of Europe. He wanted to show her Romeo and Juliet’s Venice, Caesar’s Rome, and Hamlet’s Denmark. Most of all, he wanted to give Ginny her wedding in the garden at Dunsmere in June when all the roses were in full bloom. Anything could happen between now and next summer. He had almost lost Ginny in the space of a fortnight, and that was when he was a mere baronet. Young, unmarried, and, dare he add, exquisitely dressed dukes hardly littered the ground, even in London. He shuddered to think of the force of nature unleashed against him by the matchmaking mamas of the world if he failed to marry Ginny forthwith.

“Your Grace, I hope you never doubt my deep respect for yourself and for my dear departed cousin. However, I find I cannot oblige you in this.”

“Come, come! If the chit truly loves you, she won’t mind. Needless to say, she has much to do in preparing her trousseau. No doubt she is plying her needle even now. The daughters of vicars are required to be good with a needle, are they not?” the duke said with a cackle.

No matter how determined Anthony’s attempt, a picture of Ginny sitting meekly by the fire, her flashing needle leaving perfectly neat stitches in its wake while she listened to her father rehearse his latest sermon could not, would not, come to mind. “I really couldn’t say,” Anthony ground out. “Miss Delacourt is not your ordinary, everyday daughter of a vicar. Blast it all, Uncle!” he said, nearly gripping his already much abused hair. “You know this is neither here nor there. Miss Delacourt is perfectly unexceptionable. Why, her lineage is as proud as my own!”

“Ah! Tut-tut, boy, your lines are noble on both sides, while your vicar’s daughter has only m’mother’s less than sterling ancestry on which to hang her hat. Perhaps you did not know; her grandauntyour grandmother-is descended from a long line of street vendors from Swansea!”

Anthony gazed down at his uncle with revulsion. “Whether she was descended from cits or not, my grandmother is a true lady. My affianced bride is under her care, under her roof, and under her tutelage. If that is not enough for you, I wouldn’t deign to know what is.” Turning on his heel, he strode toward the door.

“Wait!”

Anthony stopped dead in his tracks and turned halfway about. His uncle was a duke, after all. “Your Grace?” he asked, relieved he still remembered how to hide his ire.

“I hadn’t realized you were possessed of so much spirit,” the duke mused aloud. “You have changed”

Anthony turned to face his uncle, gave him his most disarming smile, and said, “In that, Your Grace, you are most correct” Then he turned and quit the room, slamming the door behind him. He moved as quickly as possible through the hall and down the stairs in order to avoid everyone from his cousin’s widow down through his uncle’s butler, the upstairs maid, the matched pair of footmen, and on through to the boot boy, most of whom knew him from boyhood, when Crenshaw House on Hanover Square in London had been his favorite haunt. The servants had known him first as Tony, then Anthony, then Sir Anthony, and now the blasted Crenshaw. However, all he wanted at the moment was to be called “my love” and to be with his.

He was relieved when he encountered no one but the butler and that all he handed Anthony with his hat and gloves was a simple “M’lord.” He was safely out the door and down the front stair with his foot upon the carriage step when he heard it.

.‘Tony!”

That voice. How did it have the power to slide into his heart like a shaft of ice after all this time? Slowly he turned, the space between his shoulder blades itching as if he were expecting a bullet in his back at any moment, until, finally, there she was. Rebecca.