“It says here that the title of duke and duchess is often reserved for members of the royal family,” Lucy read from the book as Eleanor nodded in agreement.
“That’s correct, and ducal lands and extensions are often gifted by the crown.”
“A marquess is lesser than a duke but higher a title than an earl, count, or baron.” Lucy sighed again dramatically. “I don’t understand why you have to attend a silly ball at all, Eleanor. Why can’t you simply marry the marquis?!”
She didn’t bother offering a reply. The question has been asked and answered a dozen times an hour, or at least, that was how it felt. That she would sooner marry the horse seemed not an appropriate answer to give her impressionable sisters.
“Does the marquis know you lived in Paris, Eleanor? Perhaps you’ll be able to have a conversation in French since he uses the French designation of his title?” Lucy sighed again, each time a bit more high-pitched than the last. “How romantic that would be!”
“I’m quite certain his designation is from some ancient land treaty and has nothing to do with his own linguistic talent,” Eleanor muttered. “He has the same upper-class accent all of the other lords and ladies have; I’m sorry to disappoint.”
The girls returned to their studies, and Eleanor returned to focusing on her meal. Dismissing the longtime cook had been a terrible blow. She’d never needed to prepare her own meals before, and learning to do so now, at this stage in life, produced mixed results several times a week on the nights she was forced to do so.
Hettie had turned out to be goddess-sent. A no-nonsense matron from some tiny village in the South, she had filled in the gaps where the other servants were now missing. She picked up light housekeeping duties in addition to her main charge, Eleanor’s aged grandmother, and had tacitly given her the name of a part-time cook in another home she visited, a younger girl who would be willing to work for a few shillings several days a week. Between Hettie herself and keeping their carriage, a few shillings was all Eleanor could bring herself to spend, and so the girls had to suffer her lack of culinary skill the other days of the week.
“I can’t even begin to tell you how much I appreciate your assistance and discretion, Hettie,” Eleanor admitted to the nurse one morning, near tears at having let the fire go out overnight the same week the governess had departed. The older woman had the kindling box smoking in no time, placing the embers in a protective circle until they caught.
“The way I sees it, I’m protecting my interests, miss. It’s only a matter of time before you’re married off to some rich lordling. Then we’ll all be living in a grand house with beautiful scenery and an excellent cook, and I know your character, miss. You won’t forget the ones who helped you along the way. So as far as I’m concerned, I’m only ensuring my own retirement plan. If it eases your burden a bit at the same time, maybe it scrubs a bit of soot off my soul.”
It was Hettie who came bustling in then, practically dancing across the room to Eleanor, holding out a letter. “Just arrived, miss.”
The sight of the wax seal made her stomach flip. The seal bore a snarling gargoyle and was an unusual shade of blue, instantly reminding her of the flashing sapphire of his eyes. Her neck heated as she sliced open the missive. The Marquis of Basingstone requests the company of Miss Eleanor Eastwick for dinner at his home. Her eyes scanned the details of when and where, realizing he meant the following night. A carriage shall arrive to collect you with an appropriate chaperone for the evening.
Eleanor sagged, feeling dizzy with the emotions crowding her. She was elated that he was helping her and terrified at the prospect of having to endure his company for him to be able to do so. She was shocked that he was at all concerned about preserving her reputation and modesty and blessedly relieved that he was taking the precaution in the first place.
That was, until the following evening.
The chaperone in question was an exhausted-looking mothwoman. Fluffy antennae framed her face, and Eleanor wasn’t certain where the fur collar on her pelisse ended, and the thick mantle of fluff around her neck began. A great show was made of the woman coming to the Eastwick’s door with the assistance of a footman, her wings a tawny shade of brown, with eyes like an owl’s. A bevy of servants descended once they arrived at the marquis’s London address, a butler opening the door with a bow, another servant appearing at her elbow to take her coat. She was offered a seat, offered refreshment, and had her every care accounted for before she had even taken five steps beyond the threshold, but there was no sign of Lord Stride in sight.
“His lordship is waiting for you in the conservatory, miss.” The mothwoman gestured to another servant, a young woman with huge dark eyes and wings like a dragonfly, leading Eleanor down a long corridor and away from the alleged chaperone who was meant to be protecting her virtue. A glance over her shoulder showed Eleanor the sight of the mothwoman dropping into a chair exhaustedly in the room they had just left, her chaperoning duties evidently fulfilled.
He was standing before the glass conservatory walls, overlooking a lovely stone garden. It had begun to drizzle shortly after the carriage had dropped away from the curb in front of her own home, and now the rain came down in a steady patter. The room was lit with candlelight, and between the wavering glow and the syncopation of the rain upon the glass, it lent the conservatory an almost cozy air. Or at least it would have with any other partner.
“Miss Eastwick, you’re looking lovely this evening. Truly ravishing.”
Her breath caught as he turned to address her, just as striking as he’d been the first time he greeted her. She wasn’t sure if he was actually more handsome or if she was being unduly influenced by the fancies of a pre-teen girl, but Eleanor couldn’t deny that the Marquis of Basingstone was very easy to look upon. He was tall and slender, despite the breadth of his shoulders and well-formed chest, his form better appreciated in a room of great size like the one they were in. His trousers were just as tightly tailored as they’d been the first night he’d visited, she couldn’t help but notice, even though she did try. Once again tucked into high, polished Hessians, the tight fit emphasised the strength in his legs. She had a brief vision of another outline the snug fabric might show her, and her fingers tightened over the top of her beaded reticule in response. Just remember what a charlatan he is. Easier said than done as he took her hand to his lips, gazing up from beneath his arched brows in a way that caused a most unladylike swoop in her belly.
“Thank you, my lord. It was most generous of you to send your own carriage to fetch me this evening.” She had fretted endlessly over what to wear, choosing a beaded gown of dusty rose, her hair curled and pinned, uncertain if she was overdressed or underdressed or if it even mattered. Still, the complement was mollifying. “I will confess myself a bit confused as to how my chaperone can chaperone from a different room, but I am under your tutelage now, my lord.
The sound of his laughter made her spine shiver, icy white satin against her skin.
“Well, I suppose shedding the inhibitions held by the human gentry is the first step in finding yourself a monstrous mate, my dear. It’s very rare that you will find young ladies under such similar constraints amongst the nonhuman population.”