Valentine and Jemima exchanged looks of shared misery as they each took a sip of brandy to fortify themselves.
“Do you suppose there are any other dukes referred to as ‘child’ by their mothers?” Valentine asked dryly, and his sister laughed.
“Do you think if we sit here and say nothing, she will go without us?” Jemima asked hopefully, but Valentine shook his head.
“Never. She’s relentless.”
“She wasn't in the past,” Jemima said grimly. “Not about us, at any rate.”
“No,” Valentine said abruptly, all humor vanished, not caring to speak of their older brother at the moment. “She wasn’t.”
But things had changed. Everything had changed when Matthew was killed.
“Valentine! Jemima! Where in the name of— oh, there you are.”
“She found us,” Jemima sighed as their mother walked in the door.
“She was bound to eventually,” Valentine said out of the corner of his mouth. “Hurry and finish your drink. Let’s get this over with.”
Jemima downed the brandy in one gulp, impressing Valentine who quickly followed her, though he couldn’t help but grimace. His sister was apparently much heartier.
“When was the last time you were at Almack’s, Val?” Jemima asked as they donned their cloaks.
“Ages ago,” he said, careful with his words as his mother was within hearing. “After the one time, I decided never to go again.”
“Matthew would have loved Almack’s,” their mother said miserably. It had been a few years now since her eldest son’s death, but she frequently let it be known that she missed him like it had been yesterday. Every time she mentioned him, guilt laced through Valentine.
“Of course he would have, Mother,” Jemima said gently, placing a hand on her sleeve. “But we are happy to accompany you tonight.”
“Accompany me?” their mother responded with a sniff. “We are going so that the two of you can spend time with your peers. We must ensure our respectability among this set, my dears, and both of you will do your utmost to find partners who will help raise our status and make others forget our past.”
“I’m a duke, Mother,” Valentine said dryly. “What does status matter?”
“It just… it just… it matters,” she finally finished, and Valentine wondered whether she was going to stamp her foot to emphasize her point, so adamant she seemed. “I don’t want those women looking down on me as though I am less than worthy.”
“You could never be less worthy than anyone else, Mother,” Valentine said gently. “Title or not.”
“I am the mother of a duke,” she said, pointing a finger at him. “And I deserve to be treated as such.”
“Very well,” Valentine said wearily as they entered the carriage, unwilling to argue with her any longer. “We will show you respectability.”
As he climbed into the elaborate carriage with the beautiful pair of horses in front, all Val saw were the figures that all of this was costing him. The dresses his mother and sister wore were of the finest quality and all their visits to the most popular modiste were quickly eating into the funds Valentine had earned for himself. Not for the first time, he wished that he had the ability to ask one of the previous dukes just what he was supposed to do in order to keep the dukedom in its finest order.
A noble wife would help, he knew, as they pulled up to the plain brick building, light spilling out of the six second-story round-arched windows.
“What time is it?” Val’s mother fretted.
“Quarter past eleven, I’d say,” Jemima said, and Mrs. St. Vincent sat up so straight that Val wondered whether the ostrich feather on her hat would go right through the carriage roof.
“Quick! Hurry!” she said, waving a hand to shuffle them out of the carriage. “The doors will be closing soon, and we must be sure we gain entry.”
Val and Jemima exchanged another look as they followed their mother, understanding flowing between them. They would rather be anywhere but here, but they would do this for her. Their newfound status as the Duke of Wyndham and his family may have been unwelcomed by Valentine, but it had returned life to their mother following the deaths of first their brother, Mrs. St. Vincent’s beloved son, followed by their father shortly thereafter.
Valentine steeled his shoulders as they walked up to the door where they presented their vouchers.
“Very good, your grace, my ladies,” the doorman said as he allowed them entry.
Valentine nearly took a step back into the darkness upon their entry. Even down here on the ground floor, the foyer was filled with gowns of every color, of the chattering voices of ladies and the scents of floral, citrus, and musky perfumes and colognes intermingling.
Now all eyes turned upon them.
Val forced a smile as he led his mother and sister through the throng to deposit their cloaks and continue upstairs to the ballroom.
Jemima firmly settled herself in a chair in the corner of the room, where Val knew she would likely spend the evening studying the people present and their interactions as though they were specimens for her latest experiment.
His mother had other plans for him.
“Oh, Valentine, over there,” she said, pointing across the room, clearly not concerned with the fact that she might be spotted doing so. “That is Lady Rosthern. Her daughter is of marriageable age, and I believe she has quite a large dowry. And then over there…” She droned on and on, pointing out each woman in the room who might interest Valentine and restore their fortunes while he barely paid attention to anything she said. After she had made sure to consider each and every candidate, she slipped her arm through his and instructed him to take her for a turn about the room so that they might speak to some of the women.
Val looked longingly at the door to the corridor. He would far prefer to find himself a refreshment and enter the card room instead, but he wouldn’t disappoint his mother. Not tonight. He had disappointed his parents enough in his life. His father had died believing that his second son was nothing more than a no-good fighter who lacked the wit or intelligence to do anything with his life, whose actions had destroyed their family.
He hadn’t overly cared when he had known that Matthew was there to please his parents. But now all rested on his shoulders.
So he placed a smile on his face and greeted the first pretty young woman his mother introduced him to. She had pale blonde hair, blue eyes shining out of her angelic face.
But all Val could see was a woman with midnight hair and piercing hazel eyes.
He tried to make conversation as best he could, but he was distracted, his mind elsewhere. When, he wondered, would Albert Lambert have his drawings ready? Would Rebecca accompany him once more when he came to present them? Did the fact that she worked with her father mean that she was unattached? And why was he still thinking of her as Rebecca?
He was brought back to the present when his arm began to shake and he heard his mother’s voice in his ear.
“Valentine,” she hissed, and he turned his attention back to the conversation.
“My apologies,” he said, asking the young woman to repeat herself. After requesting a later dance, which he felt was his responsibility, particularly after he had ignored her so, his mother began to pester him as they walked away.