Four Nights With the Duke(29)

Mia felt as if there wasn't enough air in the room. It wasn't merely the  confrontation with Nottle; it was all too overwhelming. "Susan," she  said desperately, "I cannot stay married to the duke."

Her maid plopped down on the bed. "Why not? He's a fine figure of a man,  and the household likes him. That says a good deal. And now you're a  duchess."

"I don't want to be a duchess! I never did."

Susan scoffed at that. "That's like saying you hate diamonds. Only a  witless woman would say that she doesn't want to be a duchess. You can  have all the gowns you want."

Mia shrugged.

"All the books you want," Susan added. "And the young master can have a tutor again."

"His Grace thinks I'm dumpy," Mia said, coming out with the truth of it. "And fat."

Susan's brows drew together. "How do you know?"

"He thought I was carrying a child."

"What?"

"I was able to disabuse him of his error," Mia said miserably. "But I  dislike the idea of being married to him. He's too handsome, Susan.  There's a disbalance between us that cannot lead to a happy marriage."                       
       
           



       

"Were you wearing the blue merino when he said that? It does bunch up  under the bosom. I've always said that Mrs. Rackerty down in the village  should keep to her garden." She hesitated, and added, "I noticed that  he didn't visit your bed last night, though it was your wedding night."

Of course she'd noticed. Servants saw everything. "We've decided to put  the business of making an heir off for a good period of time. Years,  most likely."

"You are not fat," Susan stated firmly. "You have lovely curves. We shall have to prove him wrong."

"Dumpy is another word for short. I'll be known as the Dumpy Duchess."

"It's a possibility."

"You think so?" Mia was actually a little hurt. Susan had been her  maid-and, in practical terms, her only female friend-for three years.

Susan pulled Mia until she was standing before the glass. "Your dress goes up to your collarbone," she pointed out.

Mia nodded. "I like it that way."

"And these extra ruffles at the shoulders do you no good."

"I need them."

"Why?"

"To balance my breasts. They're too large."

Susan's eyebrow shot up. "Is that why you always want ruffles?"

"So would you if you were short and had cabbages in front. You're a full  head taller than I am, Susan, and you have no idea what it's like to be  my size."

"I would love to be your size. Particularly in front." She plucked at her bodice. "Look at me. I have almost nothing here."

"Apple dumplings, not cabbages."

"What? Why are you talking about food?"

"I don't like to draw attention to my bosom. I'm too short for dresses  that catch up under the breasts. They're made for ladies with long legs,  while on me, they billow out and make it appear that I'm carrying a  child."

"Your legs are nicely shaped," Susan said. "As are your ankles. I think  we should order a scandalously short gown with almost no fabric in the  bosom."

Mia rolled her eyes.

"You are married now. You have to dress like a duchess: à la mode, not  behind by two years." She plucked at the ruffle. "Or ten."

"It will make no difference."

"Costly gowns make all the difference. We could leave for London tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

Susan nodded vigorously. "In order to visit a modiste. You know my  sister Peg is in service with Lady Brandle. When I visited Peg last  month, we discussed every modiste in the city of London, and I know  precisely whom we should see."

"I can't. My novel-"

"Your husband neglected you on your wedding night," Susan said, her  voice sharp. "No woman should stand for that. We'll transform you into a  woman so exquisite that the duke will beg for entry to your chamber."

Mia liked the idea, though she didn't believe it possible. "I can't go  to London. You know Charlie doesn't like to travel, and I am certainly  not leaving him alone in a strange house while I gad about to buy some  new ribbons."

"You need more than ribbons!" Susan cried.

"I thought I might go for a ride," Mia said, changing the subject. "Do  you happen to know whether Lancelot was delivered last night? I'm not  hungry for breakfast."

"Yes, he did," Susan confirmed, "which reminds me, you need a new riding habit as well."

Mia nodded, painfully aware that her habit had apparently shrunk, as the  fabric was straining at the brass buttons that ran down her front,  which lent even more emphasis to that area.

"Now that you are no longer plain Miss Carrington," Susan said  thoughtfully, "you might be able to summon a modiste to Rutherford  Park."

"They would come here, to the country?"

"We shall offer double."

"Double?"

Susan put her hands on her hips. "My lady, your husband did not even attempt to join you in bed last night, did he?"

Mia frowned at her. "Must we go around and around on the same topic?"

"The right gown will make you irresistible," Susan promised.

In Mia's expert opinion-as a novelist who had crafted three Cinderella  transformations-that was as improbable as snow in July. But she couldn't  help it. A germ of hope sprang up in her heart.





Chapter Fifteen




MORE NOTES ON FLORA





~ Problem: Flora is boring. Too like a hearth rug. She should issue set-downs. "You flea-bitten fungus!"

~At least defend herself.                       
       
           



       





The vapid Mrs. Dandylion (shrilly): "Don't count your chickens before they are hatched!"



Flora: "I am happy to say that I would not recognize a chicken, nor do I  own any. Obviously our social spheres have been quite, quite  different."



Readers might think she is overly tart?



She must be sweet.



Vander's stable was nothing like the simple enclosure at Carrington  House. It was four times the size, with a wide, spotless central  corridor and elegant stalls over which horses stretched their heads.  Each stall had a brass plate engraved with the horse's name. And each  horse was more graceful than the last.

"Watch that one, Your Grace," Vander's stable master, Mr. Mulberry,  said, touching Mia's arm and nodding to their right. "He's new to the  stables, and he's proven to have a terrible temper. He bit one of the  stable hands in the arse, and the lad will have a scar to the day he  dies."

The horse poked his head out to look at her. He was an amber chestnut  color, with a black mane and a rather sweet tuft that fell over his  eyes. Muscles rippled as his powerful neck curved over the door of his  stall. His eye caught hers. It was dark brown, ferocious, wild.

Mia froze. "He's the size of a house," she breathed. She vastly  preferred the size of her mount, Lancelot; he was as stubby as she was.  She was terrified by large horses.

"Sixteen hands," Mulberry confirmed.

"What is his name?"

"Jafeer. That means ‘the sound of the wind,' in the language of Arabia.  His Grace imported him at great expense on the basis of his bloodlines,  but no one can tame him. He's stopped eating. Doesn't like England is my  guess."

"Oh, dear, that's terrible," Mia exclaimed. Luckily, that would never  happen to her horse, because Lancelot liked eating more than anything in  the world. She doubted he would even notice if he was moved to a  different country, as long as they grew oats there.

"I put your mount in the stall beside Jafeer, as he seems unlikely to be riled by all the carryings-on next door."

"Nothing riles Lancelot," Mia confirmed.

Mulberry was trying to guide her past Jafeer's stall, but she halted. "If I approach him, what will he do?"

"Likely start kicking his stall," the stable master said. "Please, Your  Grace, don't do that. I have twenty-four animals here, and they all grow  upset when Jafeer tries to escape, which is all he's been doing for the  last five days."

Mia nodded and edged past. Lancelot didn't look up as they approached; he was taking a nap, his head hanging.

"Could Lancelot have a brass nameplate too?" she inquired. "I know he's not of the quality of the rest."

"His Grace will undoubtedly procure a new mount for you without delay," Mulberry said.

"I don't want a new horse," Mia told him. Lancelot was just right for her. He resembled a sofa with legs. Short legs.

Sir Richard had sold all the horses belonging to her father and brother,  claiming that Charlie had no need of them. He would have sold Mia's  horse too, but for the fact no one thought Lancelot was worth more than a  shilling.