Once a Duchess(25)

 

An excited squeal, followed by the patter of slippered feet on the stairs, announced Naomi’s imminent arrival.

 

Marshall woodenly offered Caro his arm and led her toward the entry hall to collect his sister for her presentation at Court. His mother glanced up at him and said carefully, “I’ve had it that Lucy Jamison has refused Lord Northouse,” his mother said. “She has so had her hopes set on you, and I’d like to see the match. Elizabeth Ardwick is also amazingly still unattached. You’d do well to cast your attention to those quarters, if you take my advice.”

 

“Thank you for the information, Mother,” Marshall said coolly just as Naomi burst from the stairs in a snowy billow of lacy ruffles. His sister was trussed up in a fashion similar to their mother, but everything she wore was pure white, down to the feathers and pearls in her strawberry-tinged golden hair. “There you are, darling,” he said, his thoughtful frown turning to a sincere smile at his sister’s unrestrained enthusiasm. “Pretty as a picture and twice as dear. It’s just as well Prinny already has two wives, otherwise he’d snatch you up for himself.”

 

Naomi giggled behind a white-gloved hand. “Marshall, you are too much,” she said, lightly swatting his arm with her fan.

 

“Indeed I am,” Marshall said, bowing gallantly. “I have the pleasure of escorting the two loveliest ladies in England. How could I not be positively bloated with pride?”

 

As he handed first his mother, and then Naomi, into the carriage, Marshall thought about another lovely lady he knew, and wondered whether his letter had had any effect, or if she was spending this brisk March evening in the hot kitchen of a Leicestershire inn.

 

• • •

 

A month into the Season, everyone who was anyone was now in town to see and be seen. The Peel’s ball was an absolute crush. Marshall looked over the heads of the throng to the dance floor, where Naomi was being led through a set by a young fellow named Henry something. It had become increasingly difficult to keep all of his sister’s suitors straight in his mind. As he’d suspected, Naomi was a success, and considered one of the Season’s best catches.

 

Marshall feared one or two of the fellows were on the verge of offering for her. He dreaded the moment, as he would have to dash someone’s hopes. He’d determined to refuse all offers for her this year. Naomi’s debut had been delayed a year because of Marshall’s own reluctance to see her sweet, open nature tossed to the society wolves to be torn apart and changed into something cynical and cold.

 

Naomi tossed her head back and laughed gaily at something her partner said. She looked lovely in her demure peach gown, which brought out the strawberry undertones in her hair.

 

She had her whole life to be someone’s wife. This year, she would enjoy herself. She could set her cap after a husband next Season, if she liked, or the year after. He was in no hurry to push his beloved sister into matrimony.

 

“Rarely have I seen a man,” said a male voice beside him, “so hawkishly observe his intended.”

 

“Hmm?” Marshall turned to see his friend Jordan Atherton, Viscount Freese beside him. The two men had been friends since their Eton days. Jordan had sown his wild oats rather more zealously than Marshall in their youth, but that same unbridled lust for life had also led Jordan to volunteer for some of the fiercest campaigns in Spain.

 

One memorable incident had left them both scarred. While Jordan was about some clandestine business in a small village, French infantry attacked. Marshall and his men, along with a band of plucky Spanish peasants armed with farming implements, defended the village from French plundering.

 

During the action, Marshall was shot in his side. His parents fretted over losing their heir, and insisted he come home. So Marshall sold out and returned to England to recuperate.

 

When he saw Jordan many months later, his friend’s handsome face had been changed forever. A long scar left by a French saber slashed through his right cheek.

 

Despite the prominent mark, the ladies returned Jordan’s regard in equal measure. He was the only man Marshall knew who could turn such a visible disfigurement to an advantage, but somehow Jordan wore the scar so that it seemed a part of his ensemble as much as the diamond stickpin in his cravat. His hair was as dark as Marshall’s, but where Marshall’s was merely wavy, Jordan’s curls were barely restrained by an abundance of pomade, and threatened to sprout loose at the slightest provocation.

 

“I don’t take your meaning,” Marshall said.