“You are not as fearsome as you believe,” Amelia said.
“Please?” Christiana asked. Her hand moved as though she wanted to untie his mask herself, but she held herself back.
He grunted. “Fine.” Feeling as though he was making the best or worst decision of his life, he removed the mask and left it on the carriage seat. His gloves, he kept.
“Perfect,” she said.
The coachman opened the carriage door, and he stepped down. The night air was cool on his face—autumn was well on its way—and pleasant across his burns. Christiana slipped her hand through his arm, and they entered the house. The butler took them through to the drawing room, where several people, including Mrs. Barnaby, already gathered. Questioning eyes stared at him, and his back stiffened under their scrutiny.
“Hugh! Dearest!” Mrs. Barnaby spread her hands in welcome as she came to greet them both. “Christiana. Darling Amelia! I am so glad you could make it on such a chilly evening.”
“It’s our pleasure,” Hugh said.
“You remember Miss Delacourt, of course?” Mrs. Barnaby waved her hand at a tall spinster sitting bolt upright on the sofa. She had been what he would have described as “middle-aged” when he had been a boy, and she seemed to have defied the passage of time, appearing just the same now as she had then. From what Hugh could remember, she had been fortunate enough to inherit her father’s estate and had thus not needed to marry. As a child, Hugh had never known if that had been her choice or circumstance.
Now, looking at the rigid sternness of her expression, he felt quite certain it had been her choice.
Mrs. Barnaby introduced the other members of the group—all strangers—and to his surprise, none seemed inclined to run screaming from the room at the sight of him. To be sure, a rotund, dandy of a young man named Sir Ronald Blake did keep sending him glances, but seemingly more out of curiosity than anything else. And Amelia, consummate flirt that she was,immediately placed herself beside Blake and demanded his full attention.
Out of both politeness and deference, Hugh sat beside Miss Delacourt, easily the oldest person in the room. As she offered him a thin smile, he remembered the final piece of information about her: she was perhaps the greatest gossip west of London. “Sit, Duke,” she said. “You have come to grace us with your presence, I see.”
Hugh inclined his head. “It’s about time I introduced my wife to the wider community.”
“Who is she?”
“The only daughter of Viscount Barnsley.”
Miss Delacourt gave a rather violent snort. “That old buffoon? I wouldn’t have thought him capable of siring a future duchess.”
“I assure you she is.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it. She has drawing-room manners. Educated well, I take it?”
“I believe so.”
“Good. A duchess ought to be able to behave well when necessary—and behaving badly when the occasion calls for it.” Her face split into a rare grin. “I’m glad you finally decided to marry. Poor Mrs. Barnaby has been going near out of her mind with worry for you.”
Hugh glanced across at Mrs. Barnaby, whose serenity had always impressed upon him the certainty of her calm mind. Not someone to lose her head. Still, he knew she cared, and he couldn’t suppress his guilt, once again, over throwing her out of his life so abruptly. “I’m sorry for that.”
“I hope you will continue to make your presence known here,” Miss Delacourt said. “After all, you own half the county; the least you could do is show your face once in a while.”
Show his face—just as he was doing now, free of the mask. “I’ll consider it,” he said.
“London could do with a little shaking up, too. A duke—he has responsibilities. What of the House of Lords?”
Hugh sighed. “I dislike long journeys.”
“Then go to London for the Season. Heaven knows that sister of yours is more than ready to make a splash.”
“And what,” he asked with a raised brow, “do you know of making a splash in London, Miss Delacourt?”
She cackled. “Oh, you don’t think I’ve always been closeted here, do you know? Oh, no, my dear duke. I have been known tomake a splashonce or twice in my time. London always has a fondness for a pretty face and large fortune.”
Hugh looked at Amelia, too occupied in making Sir Ronald Blake blush to notice his attention. “That is precisely what I’m afraid of.”
“Oh, she’ll keep you on your toes, all right. That’s half the fun of it. Just wait until you have children of your own. That’ll scare you like no tomorrow.”
Having a sister on the verge of London Society was bad enough, but a child of his own? A daughter? No sooner had the unpleasant thought lodged in the back of his throat than he imagined a child with Christiana’s silvery eyes and clever mind.