* * *
‘But what if he is there?’ Verity said, for perhaps the sixth time that day. She was sitting in extreme discomfort on the backwards-facing seat of the Fairlies’ town coach, her hooped skirt tilting up at an absurd angle and forbidden by her aunt to hold it down in case she creased the fabric. Her head was bent forward to avoid bending the three ostrich plumes in her headdress and she had to keep them to one side to avoid them tangling with those of her aunt opposite. Her uncle was barely visible to one side, his wife’s bell-shaped skirt draped across the satin breeches of his Court suit. His dress sword and chapeau bras were held by straps in the roof of the coach and his expression beneath his powdered wig was one of stoical discomfort.
‘If the Duke is present, which no doubt he will be, he will behave with the utmost decorum. If he bows and exchanges a few words of greeting, that will be all,’ Lord Fairlie said, with rather more patience than his wife had been showing in response to the previous five queries. ‘You should curtsy and merely respond with some platitude.’
Will had given up on her, that was clear. It was three days since the incident in Chelsea and a short note from Mr Fitcham informing her that a gentleman of their acquaintance had taken ship for the West Indies was the closest thing to a message from the Duke that she had received.
He must have
finally accepted that it was futile, that his sense of honour—and his physical desires—weighed nothing in the balance against her complete unsuitability to be a duchess. And her declarations of love must have helped tip the balance, too, because what man wanted a wife pathetically loving him when he felt no such emotion for her?
The clock struck two as the crawling queue of carriages finally reached the door and there was the business of disentangling the ladies with their hoops and feathers, yards of train and fans without anyone treading on a hem, impaling themselves on the sword or knocking Lord Fairlie’s wig askew. One last chance to wish silently that one had paid a visit to the privy, to discreetly blow one’s nose and clear one’s throat—it was preferable to choke silently to death than to cough or sneeze, apparently—then the slow progress along the corridors, nodding carefully to acquaintances, everyone keeping their voices low, their expressions dignified.
At least there were no disapproving glances from the matrons and, if there were some sideways looks from the younger men, that was no more than they were giving any of the other young ladies. Will must have trodden very firmly on the salacious club gossip. Perhaps, next year, she would feel comfortable coming back to London. Next year seemed a very long way away.
Then they were through the double doors, their names announced. To the left were rows of tall windows, to the right, unlit fireplaces and paintings in heavy gilded frames and ahead the Cloth and Canopy of State rising to the high ceiling, marking the position of the empty throne. The Queen, invisible behind a wall of hoops, plumes and wigs, would be seated on a slightly less impressive chair a step below.
As they edged forward, marshalled into a receiving line by men in Court uniforms encrusted with silver lace, Verity did her best not to stare around her too obviously. There were a number of young ladies being presented, all looking as terrified as she had once felt in their place, a cluster of naval and army officers, be-medalled and in their dress uniforms, all waiting to be congratulated on some engagement or another, diplomats, laden with foreign honours and colourful sashes but no familiar tall figure looking down his perfect ducal nose at the common herd.
Only he doesn’t, she told herself. Will doesn’t look down on anyone, he merely holds himself to a higher standard as though an extra weight had been laid on his shoulders at birth and he is braced to bear it, convinced that if he relaxes for a moment it will all come crashing down and he will fail everyone whose welfare he holds himself responsible for.
‘Lord and Lady Fairlie, Miss Wingate, Your Majesty.’
Verity swept into a low Court curtsy, her back straight to balance the plumes, knees braced to support the weight of her skirts. She took a steadying breath to rise without a stumble and there, on the lowest step of the dais, was Will.
She had no idea how she managed to stand or how she kept her eyes fixed on the Queen, who spoke to her aunt as an old friend, smiled graciously at her uncle and then condescended to speak to Verity.
‘I understand that you are to leave us, Miss Wingate.’
‘Yes, Your Majesty. My father will be missing me.’
‘Do give the Bishop my good wishes for his health. One found his sermons very enlightening.’
‘Thank you, ma’am. He will be most gratified.’
‘I trust, ma’am, that Bishop Wingate will also be gratified by the news of his daughter’s betrothal, if I have your permission to put the question here and now.’ Will spoke as though interrupting the Queen in the middle of a Drawing Room was a mere trifle. Around them there was the sound of sharp indrawn breaths, the flutter of fans. Out of the corner of her eye Verity saw the Chamberlain’s head swivel to stare at Will.
‘“Put the question,” Your Grace?’ The Queen’s tone could have frozen the ratafia in the refreshment room.
‘I crave your indulgence, ma’am. But Miss Wingate believes that I am so wedded to correct behaviour that I will never allow my true sentiments to show. I hope to convince her that my desire to marry her is so heartfelt, so real and founded on my deep love and affection for her that I would risk dismissal from Court in order to express it.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
She was asleep and dreaming, of course, Verity reasoned. No one interrupted the Queen. No one even initiated a change of subject in her presence. This was one of those ghastly dreams where one was dancing naked at Almack’s or driving a curricle pulled by geese along Rotten Row at the fashionable promenade hour. Or perhaps she was ill, feverish. That must be it. She was in bed and this was a delirium.
‘Well, Miss Wingate?’ That could not be right. The Queen was addressing her. No one was naked and there were no geese to be seen, only Her Majesty looking at her, unsmiling, outwardly severe and yet with just the hint of a twinkle in those tired, faded, blue eyes. ‘The Duke can leave or you may retire to a private room with your aunt. Or you may give him your answer now.’
With an effort she dragged her gaze from the Queen and looked at Will. He was smiling at her; he seemed unconscious of the fact that every person in that crowded room was staring at him, agog, but what she could see, and they could not, was that William Xavier Cosmo de Whitham Calthorpe, Fourth Duke of Aylsham, was nervous, that her answer mattered to him, that the love and affection for her that he had just professed, without hesitation, were real.
Verity took a deep breath and looked back at the Queen. ‘Thank you, ma’am. You are very gracious. I have no need to withdraw because I have an answer for His Grace.’ She curtsied again, not the deep obeisance that Court etiquette required, but as low as her shaky legs would let her. Then she stepped to the side and held out her hand to Will. ‘Yes.’
She said it clearly, loud enough for everyone four ranks back to hear, but the room was suddenly filled with a buzz of conversation and shocked exclamations as he took her hand in his and raised it to his lips.
‘You have our permission to retire, Miss Wingate. Lord and Lady Fairlie will doubtless wish to accompany you. Aylsham, I suggest you also retire. Doubtless you will need time to prepare for an immediate journey.’ She inclined her head, a half-inch of cool acknowledgement. Will bowed, stepped down and backed away towards a side door. Verity and her aunt and uncle followed, made their way out as the throng parted to let them through.
‘This way, my lord, my lady.’ Someone, a very senior official by the weight of silver on his coat, ushered them into a room where Will was standing alone except for an elderly man with thinning hair who was speaking earnestly to him.
‘Yes, I know,’ Will said as they came in. ‘Most irregular, enough to have me clapped in the Tower, I have no doubt, Edgerton. I will write a grovelling apology to Her Majesty, but it appears she is letting me off without threat of the headsman’s axe. Now, if you will excuse us, I believe my betrothed wishes to have words with me.’