My Dear Duchess by M.C. Beaton Read Free Book Online

along much the same lines as her daughter. Of Frederica she barely thought at all except to be relieved that the brat had been taken off her hands by the nutty Mrs. Cholmley and so far showed no signs of appearing on the social scene.
    The Cotillion came to a breathless end and, as the couples separated to find their new partners, a stentorian voice from the top of the curving staircase announced, “His Grace, The Duke of Westerland.”
    All heads turned. Everyone stared. Clarissa glared as if she could not believe her eyes. It was only Captain Wright and that little pest, Frederica. The Duke must be behind them. Where on earth had Frederica found the money to buy that gown?
    The pair descended the staircase in stately silence. The Duke was dressed in impeccable black and white with rubies flashing on his cravat and fingers. Frederica wore a flame-red gown of deceptive simplicity cut by the hand of a master to reveal her small and exquisite figure. A thin collar of rubies blazed like fire around her slender throat and her black hair was worn in a coronet.
    The waltz was announced, the fiddlers struck up and still Clarissa craned her head. Where was the Duke?
    “Magnificent pair, aren’t they?” murmured a voice at her elbow. Mrs. Bannington was standing beside her, her eyes alight with mischief. “I think Captain Wright looks every inch the Duke.”
    “Pooh!” said Clarissa rudely. “I am looking for the real Duke.”
    “But haven’t you heard,” said Mrs. Bannington with gentle malice. “Captain Wright
is
the Duke.”
    “Impossible!” shouted Clarissa and then blushed as several people turned to stare at her.
    “But not impossible at all,” said Mrs. Bannington sweetly. “The Duke and your little sister make such a charming couple.” And having delivered her last barb, she drifted off.
    Clarissa could feel her heart beating hard against her ribs. Then she relaxed. Of course, all was not lost. Why only last week, he had declared his love for her… had asked her to marry him. Well, he should have his wish. That is, if he ever stopped dancing with that little idiot.
    But the idiot was still circling in a dream-like trance in the Duke’s arms. The Falconers had chosen an Indian theme for their ball. A great tent of white silk was hung from the roof of the ballroom which was so crowded with palm trees, stuffed tigers and exotic plants that it was hard at times for the dancers to find space. The ball was declared to be a sad crush which meant that it was the success of the Season.
    Lord Hefford approached Clarissa and begged for a dance but she pleaded fatigue, anxious not to lose a moment of the chase. Archie shrugged and then remembered that he had promised Henry to spare his sister a dance. He searched along the line of wallflowers, looking for the familiar angular figure of Emily Wright, but she was nowhere to be seen. He turned and studied the dance floor. A tall, dashing girl floated past in the arms of her partner and turned to give him a brilliant smile. He smiled back automatically, wondering who the dasher was… and then he slowly looked at her again. By George it
was
Emily.
    She was wearing a sea-green gown of
crepe
trimmed with bugle beads and cut low to reveal an unexpectedly generous bosom. Gold jewelery flashed at her neck and ears and on the heels of her dancing slippers. Her bony arms were concealed by a pair of long green silk gloves and her gown had a demi-train which added fullness to her figure. He did not know that the precocious Frederica had persuaded Emily to darken her brows and fair eyelashes. Lord Hefford only knew that his childhood friend seemed to have undergone some magical transformation. To blazes with playing games with Clarissa. He would secure Emily for the next dance.
    After an hour had passed, Clarissa realized that the Duke was not going to dance with her. He was obviously having his revenge. That did not disturb her. It was exactly how she would have behaved