The Compromised Duchess

The Compromised Duchess 2

Laurel smiled and curtsied again. “Very good my Lord, unfortunately, I have no idea of what I shall be wearing, but I shall look for you, be assured.”

He swept off his top hat and bowed, kissing her hand again. “I shall content myself with thoughts of your lovely countenance till then. Adieu my Lady.”

He spun round smartly and continued down the cobbled street, his cloak swinging behind him. Laurel watched, a slight flutter in her heart, until he disappeared round the corner into Easton street.

“Oh my!” She breathed, holding a hand to her bosom as if to still her racing heart. She could hardly wait to get home so she could call on her best friend and tell her everything.

“My lady?” A timid voice broke into her thoughts.

She tore her gaze from the street and looked to see a shy girl, head bowed, standing behind her.

“Yes?” She replied, shortly, offended at being addressed by a mere servant girl in the middle of the street.

“Forgive me My Lady,” The girl began, curtsying so low Laurel was afraid she would sink into the ground. “Her Grace, Lady Abbington, asked me to fetch you at once.”

“Oh yes, Mother must be frantic.” Laurel quickly gathered her skirts and hurried into the shop.

“Where have you been dearest?” The duchess demanded, rising from the elegant chaise. “I have been so worried.”

Laurel hurried forward and grasped her mother's outstretched hands “I'm so sorry Mama” She gushed, “but I was examining some of the lovely bolts of fabric outside the shop and I got carried away.”

The Duchess smiled at her only daughter and youngest child, “I quite forgot how easily enraptured you can become. Come now, Madame Devine assures me she has the perfect outfit for you.”

Laurel's eyes shone with excitement, “I can't wait to see her latest creation. I'm almost certain it will be wonderful.”

“Indeed my Lady, I can assure you the gown is perfect” Madame Devine, a petite, striking woman, with piercing blue eyes that shone with intelligence and good humor, replied. She clapped her hands briskly and two servant girls hurried near with a large covered box. They set it down on the floor and removed the lid.

The two women gasped in awe, as Madame Devine carefully unfolded the gown from the box. Ruby red with intricate pink lacework on the bodice and hem, the neck line was cut daringly low.

“Oh my!” Laurel gasped, fingering the skirt of the gown. “This gown is so perfect.”

“Well done Madame Devine” The Duchess clapped her hands in delight. “You have certainly outdone yourself”

“You are very flattering, Your Grace” Madame replied with a gracious bow. “And do not worry, I have taken away the fabric from the shelves so there will be no copy cats.”

“What about the mask?” Laurel asked still gazing at the gown. “You did make one. Didn't you”

The dressmaker drew herself up haughtily. “I can assure you, I do not forget such important details.” She reached back into the box and withdrew a sequined face mask that completely covered the face except for slits for the eyes, nose and mouth. “Here is the mask, and there are gloves and a fan to go with the gown.”

“Would you like to try it on here?”  The Duchess asked. “Or would you rather wait till we get home?”

“I'll try it on now, so I'll know if there are any adjustments to be made.” Laurel rose and followed a servant to the dressing rooms at the back of the shop.

                                      Chapter Two

Lord Thomas Grayson ST. Cyre, the Duke of Roxborough, read the invitation one more time, then slowly leaned back in his high backed leather chair, closed his eyes and sighed. His sister, Lady Worthington, countess of Sherbrook, had included a threat to come fetch him herself if he failed to show up for her masquerade.

He hated parties, especially masquerades. They were nothing but an excuse for normally respectable members of the aristocracy to prance about playing dress-up like school children. He shuddered at the thought of the amount of debauchery that would take place. Damnation, he had no desire to be pursued by eager mama's trying to place their equally eager female offspring in his path. He cursed again and leaped from his seat, to pace across his study, the plush crimson Indian carpet muffling the thud of his boots. The fire burned brightly, casting his shadow across the heavy, dark gold velvet drapes that were drawn tightly against the night.

He absently used his fingers to rake back the shock of thick dark hair that fell over his forehead. Damn Christy and her tenacity. It was not enough that she constantly bullied her besotted husband into doing her bidding, she had to meddle in his private affairs. Couldn't she turn her attention to breeding and preserving the family title like all good wives were supposed to? He wondered what the Earl was waiting for to get her pregnant. After all, they had been married for close to eight months.

The door to his study opened and his Everton, his butler peered in.

"Your horse has been saddled Your Grace, shall I bring your coat?" Everton asked, his tone low and well trained.

"Yes, and fetch me the wrapped package on my dressing table." He replied, still pacing furiously.

"Very good Your Grace" Everton withdrew as discreetly as he entered, shutting the door softly behind him.

Lord Thomas crossed back to his desk and took a piece of writing paper from the top drawer, dipped the quill into the ink pot and wrote: I shall be delighted to attend your ball, Christina, if you would do me one favour in return; NEVER ask me to attend another, even on the pain of death, or I shall be forced to disown you as my sister.

He signed his intials, slowly folded up the paper, and slid it into an envelop. He placed the letter on the silver platter that usually bore his outgoing mail.

The door opened again and Everton reappeared carrying his great coat and the little box that held his latest gift for his mistress, an exquistely crafted diamond brooch that was bound to make Cecil swoon in delight.

He smiled in anticipation of the pleasures that he would soon indulge in the arms of his mistress. Donning the coat and pocketing the box, he strode out the study, down the long corridor that was lined with portriats of his ancestors, down the grand staircase and out the front door. His throughbred Hunter was waiting by the entrance, his reins held by a liveried footman. He mounted the horse and the footman handed him the reins. With a well-practiced flick of the reins, he urged the horse to a gallop down the extensive driveway.