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

herself.
    Resorting to her old tactics, she slipped as she took his hand during the Grand Chain and stumbled against him so heavily that he perforce had to put his arms around her to prevent them both from falling. To Frederica it looked as if he seized hold of Clarissa in an affectionate embrace and her heart sank down to her little scarlet slippers.
    She had hardly seen him during a week taken up with the hurried and important affair of choosing a new wardrobe, a project in which Emily had taken an increasing interest, confiding to Frederica that it was so pleasant to shop with someone who could
hear
what one said. Clarissa seemed to be entreating the Duke to remove her from the dance. Frederica momentarily closed her eyes because she could not bear to look. But when she opened them again, the dance was proceeding as if nothing had happened. Clarissa was sitting sulkily beside her mother and the Duke was returning to her round the chain of the dance.
    There was a sudden fanfare of trumpets and Lady Falconer mounted a small stage beside the musicians and held up her hands for silence. “My lords, ladies and gentlemen,” she cried. “Curiosity has been satisfied. Behold our Duke.”
    There was much cheering and clapping for Henry Wright was a popular figure. “But this is an evening of surprises,” she went on. “Our Duke has chosen his Duchess.”
    Clarissa let out a little sigh of relief. Who could Lady Falconer mean except herself. Why he had been
crying
with disappointment over her rejection of him. Clarissa had the enviable talent of believing her own lies as soon as she had uttered them. She fixed the Duke with an excited and predatory stare like some exotic bird spying a particularly large and tantalizing worm.
    “May I present our future Duchess… Miss Frederica Sayers!” said Lady Falconer, holding out her hands to the Duke and Frederica. Blushing at the cries and applause, Frederica mounted the platform with the Duke and then suddenly felt herself being wrenched to one side.
    Clarissa was seizing the Duke’s arm with fingers like claws digging into his evening coat. “What a silly mistake, Lady Falconer,” she cried shrilly. “
I
am his affianced bride.”
    The Duke looked at her with something like loathing. “You are standing in the way of my fiancee,” he said brutally, extricating himself from her grasp. He stretched his hand out to Frederica. Clarissa was bundled unceremoniously away by two large dowagers who kept shaking their turbanned heads over the scandalous lack of breeding in the younger generation. Clarissa was so mad with rage that she would have returned to the attack had not a stentorian voice announced, “His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent.” The band struck up “God Bless The Prince of Wales,” as the portly figure wearing the Order of The Garter descended the stairs. With the ease of long social practice, the company had formed themselves into two long reception lines in order of importance.
    At the very bottom was Clarissa. At the very top was her stepsister. His Highness was laughing and clapping the Duke on the back and chucking Frederica under the chin. Clarissa writhed in misery. But His Royal Highness would surely notice
her
. As yet, her great beauty had not gone unmarked. But the bluff Prince went no further than the beginning of the line and then retired to the card room followed by his cronies.
    Clarissa’s bitter cup was full. She longed to murder Frederica. Murder her… but see her disgraced first. Hard glances were being directed at her as loud murmurs of “What do you expect from the mushroom class,” assailed her burning ears.
    “Control your fury. You’ll win no battles that way,” said an amused voice at her elbow. Clarissa swung round. The Honorable Jack Ferrand was standing smiling at her. He was a square-built, soberly-dressed young man with a pleasant, open expression in his light blue eyes.
    “We have not been introduced,” snapped Clarissa