The Perfect Duchess Read online

  The Perfect Duchess

  Erica Taylor

  Amberjack Publishing

  New York | Idaho

  Amberjack Publishing

  1472 E Iron Eagle Dr.

  Eagle, ID 83616

  http://amberjackpublishing.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, fictitious places, and events are the products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places, or events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Erica Taylor

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, in part or in whole, in any form whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data available upon request.

  Cover Design: Red Couch Creative Inc.

  Advance Reader’s Copy | Uncorrected Proof | Not for Sale.

  Dates, prices, and manufacturing details are subject to change without notice. Please check all reviews and quoted materials against the final bound book.

  Chapter One

  May 11th, 1813

  London, England

  Andrew Macalister, the Duke of Bradstone, hated his birthday.

  And he hated the Macalister Birthday Ball.

  Well, perhaps not entirely, as it was difficult to hate something that had been so beloved by his mother. The Macalister Birthday Ball was an annual event carried on in her memory, but hosting five hundred masked members of London society’s haute ton was the exact opposite of what Andrew wanted to be doing on his twenty-ninth birthday.

  Andrew nodded pleasantly at two simpering ladies as they strolled past. Or rather not exactly pleasantly, as he was scowling at the ladies, but they did not seem to notice—or care—and he was fairly certain one winked at him in return.

  Repressing an exasperated sigh, his gaze slid to the man standing beside him, eyes narrowing into a glare. His younger brother, Lord Luke Macalister, averted Andrew’s hard gaze, his shoulders trembling with suppressed laughter.

  “It is not my fault if the ladies of the ton are a little more forthcoming this evening,” Luke said with a shrug. The top half of his face was hidden behind a black mask, but his lavender eyes twinkled with glee. Andrew wished the masks were better at concealing identities, but he knew hiding from the hordes of society was never truly an option. He was forever known to the masses; he would only ever be the Duke of Bradstone.

  His own black half-mask was one of two things that made the evening marginally tolerable. Thankfully, this was not a traditional masked ball, and Andrew was grateful for the absence of elaborate costumes. His older sister Sarah, the widowed Marchioness of Radcliff, had what she claimed was an “ingenious idea:” send a simple black half-mask with every invitation.

  “Happy Birthday, your g-g-grace!” a well-wisher tried to say. Andrew turned to regard him, but the poor gentleman lost his nerve. Why he had this effect on people, he had no idea. Twelve years ago, he had just been the plain Lord Andrew Macalister, and in his own mind, he still was. His title had changed, not him, and it irked him that everyone felt his acquisition of a dukedom required a change in how they treated him. It was not that he was not appreciative of his current circumstances, just the conditions that prompted it. One moment he was a lowly second son with little in the way of prospects, and the next, a highly sought after duke who wanted nothing more than to hide in the attic. That hadn’t been a possibility at the time, or any time since, and it certainly was not an option now.

  So he stood in a foul mood turning darker with each tick of the grandfather clock. The only thing that kept him from running from the room—the only thing, besides the lack of costumes, that had the ability to make this evening tolerable—was the lovely Lady Clara Masson.

  Lady Clara was a bright spot on an evening that had the potential to be utterly miserable. He had known Lady Clara since she was a child, and despite their complicated history, it seemed fitting that this particular woman would be the one to catch his eye—again.

  The crowd parted a fraction, and Andrew had a clear line of sight to the object of his attention dancing a lively country dance. She was breathtaking, laughing in the arms of her partner, her blonde curls bobbing as a few unruly ones fell rebelliously out of her coiffeur. She was average in height and in possession of elegant curves Andrew could discreetly appreciate.

  Lady Clara turned away from her dance partner, separated by the steps in the dance. As she moved along the line, her eyes scanned the crowd and fell onto Andrew’s.

  For a second Andrew could scarcely breathe. The top half of Clara’s face was hidden beneath the damned black domino, but he could see that her dark eyes had an unusual sparkle. They widened a fraction as she focused on him before turning back into the dance with choreographed steps.

  The momentary glance had lasted barely a second, but Andrew felt his mouth go dry and his heartbeat increase. It would seem she recognized him as well. It would not do well to be caught staring again. The Duke of Bradstone did not stare. The Duke of Bradstone was never infatuated. And the Duke of Bradstone would most certainly not be interested in this particular lady.

  Andrew tore his eyes away, lest the ton observe his interest. He shuddered to think what would happen if he appeared to be even remotely interested in any young lady, much less this one. His well-crafted barrier managed to keep the marriage-minded females away, and he was usually avoided at most functions, even his own, mainly due to the scowling, brooding expression he plastered on his face. It was not that he was unusually unhappy or perpetually ill-tempered, though everyone thought him so. It was simply difficult to carry on a conversation when people, particularly women, were either too intimidated to utter an intelligible sentence or were drowning him in ridiculous flattery. People only wanted him because he was a duke.

  “A very Happy Birthday to you, your grace!” came another well-wisher, and Andrew nodded politely to the gentleman before him. The red-headed man grinned widely, and Andrew scowled, recognizing one of his oldest friends behind the black half-mask, Lord Rheneas Warren, the Earl of Bexley.

  Grumbling, Andrew muttered, “Bexley, please, not you as well.”

  “His graceness is in a mood this evening,” Luke warned, and Andrew shot another glare at his brother. “Graceness” was an adaptation of “grace,” which his siblings used to poke fun at him. Unfortunately, the teasing name had caught on and was used more and more often.

  “It would appear so,” Bexley observed.

  Glancing at Andrew, Luke noted his disgruntled mood. “You do appear awfully distracted, old man.”

  Andrew shrugged nonchalantly, and Luke laughed.

  “Next year it is your birthday that will be plagued with this dreadful event,” Andrew vowed. “It would be reasonable to argue that since this ball is in celebration of all our birthdays, we should share the blessed event. Having it on my actual birthday makes it my birthday ball. And I would prefer to not have such an event fall on the date of my birth.”

  “What would you wish instead?” Luke asked, turning his inquisitive eyes onto his elder brother. Andrew stared at him for a moment, aware that Luke’s question had an uncharacteristically somber undertone. His brother may have been a rogue and a flirt, but occasionally he carried a remarkably serious current about him. Andrew opened his mouth to reply, to tell his brother to sod off and let him be in his foul mood, but he stopped himself. There was no reason to take his frustrations out on his younger b
rother. Luke was merely being Luke: poking about where he did not belong and asking the wrong questions.

  Andrew shrugged again, turning back to the dancing couples, his eyes searching for a certain blonde dressed in pink. “Something that did not involve the ton.”

  The dance floor was a blur of black, pink, gold, and the ever-present debutante white. Everyone was dressed fashionably and extravagantly, adorned with crystals, sapphires, rubies, ostrich plumes, and delicate beadwork. Each of his guests wore the same simple, black mask, and for a brief moment, Andrew saw the beauty in the simplicity of Sarah’s idea. With all the extravagance and elegance, the flaunting of one’s wealth and position, on this one fact they were all forced to be the same, equal.

  He spotted Lady Clara again, smiling brightly at her dance partner as the last strings of the country dance came to an end. In the past five years, she had been the only one to catch his attention, to demand his notice. His mind wandered, intrigued by the idea that he could just walk up to her and ask her to dance with him. After all, he was the host, and technically, they had already been introduced.

  Luke eyed Andrew for a moment more, his perceptive eyes taking in more than just the duke’s irritable mood, before breaking out in a brilliant grin. “How can we cheer you up then? It is your birthday, after all.”

  “There are a number of lovely widows in attendance,” Bexley suggested.

  “Do not get any ideas,” Andrew warned, looking away from the dancing couples, away from Lady Clara. “My only desire is to endure the rest of the evening.”

  “We are merely suggesting someone to keep you company as you brave the remaining evening hour and, possibly, the early morning as well,” Luke replied.

  A pair of vaguely familiar girls draped in their debutante whites stepped past the gentlemen, drawing Andrew’s attention away from his brother. The room was nearly bursting at its seams, and the occupants were forced to stand almost improperly close to one another. The two girls took advantage of this, pressing a bit too close as they passed, giggling as they mumbled their apologies with heavily-lidded eyes and slow, seductive smiles.

  “Happy Birthday, your grace,” one young lady purred, and for the life of him Andrew could not remember her name. Not that her name mattered; the debutantes were all the same. They stared at the pair of Macalister brothers like ravenous men before a feast.

  Not wanting to give the silly girls any invitation to linger, Andrew nodded, and, luckily, the pair moved to stand a few steps away, sipping their champagne. Andrew breathed a sigh of relief.

  Luke raised an eyebrow at him and sighed. “Your loss.”

  The music was starting again, and Andrew searched the edges of the dance floor for Lady Clara. He spotted her in the corner nearest him. His height gave him a slight advantage over the rest of the ballroom, and he peered at her as discreetly as he could. She seemed to be in conversation with a young woman Andrew recognized as a friend of one of his sisters.

  The conversation did not look to be a friendly one. Lady Clara tilted her head up slightly in defense, and he wished he knew what was being said. The unknown lady stood directly in front of her, blocking Lady Clara’s only exit from the ballroom. Andrew realized her only other option was to turn completely around, walk back across the dance floor, and leave out a side door. Clara was stuck, forced to endure or interrupt the gathering couples on the dance floor. Her escape seemed impossible.

  “Oh look, the trollup is finally being put in her place,” said one of the girls to his right, dramatically conspiring with her friend. Andrew glanced at the girls who had passed moments earlier and saw they had also noticed the exchange.

  The second girl giggled. “Serves her right for showing her hussy face here. When will she learn she’s not wanted?”

  “She’s already been ousted from Almack’s,” the first girl replied. “If I had my vouchers revoked I doubt I’d ever show my face again, much less at such a public event.”

  “What is Lady Laura saying to her?” the second girl asked, and Andrew looked back at the confrontation.

  Ah, Lady Laura. Norah’s friend, Andrew remembered.

  “As a dear, personal friend to the Macalister family, Lady Laura was horrified she showed her face here,” the first girl explained. “I’m sure she felt it was her place to say something to Lady Clara. It is not as though she was invited. I am shocked Lady Clara was not denied at the door.”

  The girls giggled again, and Andrew stepped away from his brother and friend and the safe haven of a certain exit. He leveled a dark glare at the two girls before striding off towards the corner of the dance floor.

  Lady Clara Masson was doing her best not to plant her fist in Lady Laura’s pretty blue eye. Realizing their encounter was starting to draw more notice, Lady Laura’s voice was steadily growing louder with spite. Clara wanted to escape back to when she was dancing and laughing and no one cared to be rude to her, when no one wanted to acknowledge her presence. She was tolerated because of her beauty and because her brother was the Earl of Morton, although her brother despised her and made no secret of it. The ton, it seemed, did not know what to do with her. Her brother had made her a social pariah by refusing to associate with her, but her scandalous reputation was built mostly on rumors. For the most part, people pretended she did not exist. One moment she was sought after and the next she was avoided, though the reason was not a secret. She knew everyone thought she’d been involved in her sister’s disappearance, or that she was responsible, and it did not help that her brother treated her like she was an illness. Until this moment, Clara hadn’t really minded her position on the edges of society. She was a part of the beau monde by birth, but she was not welcome. She had survived without vouchers to Almack’s and an abundance of friends doting over her. Clara merely wanted what every other marriageable-aged woman wanted—a means to escape her own family.

  Her brother, Lord Jonathan Masson, the Earl of Morton, was not in attendance tonight, though Clara was certain his absence had more to do with their host than her. She glanced about the room again, trying to keep her wounded pride out of her eyes, hoping no one would flat-out tell her to leave. That might be the final crushing blow, and she was not sure how much longer her spirit would hold out.

  Sensing Clara’s resolve starting to crumble, Lady Laura smirked, fanning her face with her lace fan, her pale blonde curls moving with the breeze.

  “Darling Lady Clara, how did you get on the guest list?” she inquired. “I did not realize prostitutes were invited to society functions.”

  “Only the good ones,” Clara replied cheekily with a sweet smile. “Isn’t that why you are here?”

  Lady Laura’s eyes glowed murderously, and her grin thinned to a sneer. “It is so nice to have you returned to London after your adventures on the Continent. Tell me, was it an Italian lord who paid your way? Did you repay him on your back?”

  Clara balled her first, her nails digging little crescents into her palm through her white gloves.

  Lady Laura tilted her head forward to whisper loudly, “I doubt Bradstone would be happy to see you here making such an inappropriate scene. I imagine you were turned away at the door. Pity you had to sneak in through the servant’s entrance.” She popped her bottom lip into a pretty pout. “Poor dear, no family who wants her. No friends to speak of. Whatever shall become of you?”

  Clara decided she might as well hit the lady and be done with it. It would be quite satisfying. She glanced around at the sea of faces, and it seemed like all were turned towards her. Everyone was watching, waiting for her to take a wrong step, to completely fall from their good graces. Until now, all they had were rumors and false leads, and Clara was not one who was easily chased away, especially when she hadn’t done anything wrong. Anyone else would have fled to the country, away from the stares and whispers, and the malice dripping from the polite smiles of the haute ton. And even if Clara had wanted to f
lee, she had nowhere to go.

  The mass of people swam before her eyes as fury and tears threatened to spill over, and Clara swallowed down the crushing fear that surfaced when she was reminded of her deplorable options in life. He brother hated her, and her family avoided her for fear of her brother; everyone else was dead.

  A face from her past was suddenly clear amongst the blur of the ballroom. He was tall, dark, and deliciously handsome, and he was heading straight towards her.

  Clara recognized the Duke of Bradstone at once. His eyes were hard, his stride full of purpose, and for a split second, Clara thought he was coming to throw her out. A very public fall from grace, she knew that was what Lady Laura wanted and what everyone was expecting. Clara braced herself for the end, but then the duke turned his gaze onto her, and his face softened.

  “Lady Clara,” he said, bowing over her hand, a gentle look in his blue eyes. “I believe this is my dance.”

  “Yes, of course, your grace,” Clara replied smoothly, blinking away her shock as she smiled at Lady Laura. “It was nice to see you again, Lady Laura.”

  Lady Laura’s eyes flamed in outrage, and Clara swallowed down the panic she felt seconds before.

  The duke swung her into the waltz that had already begun, and they fell effortlessly into the steps, like they had danced them before. But they never had, despite having known each other since their childhoods. She eyed him expectantly, trying to assess his mood. The Duke of Bradstone was a stranger to her, but she knew Andrew Macalister very well.

  “I apologize for my tardiness, my lady,” Andrew said. “It is quite difficult to move across the ballroom quickly.”

  “Yes, well, do not let it happen again,” she replied brazenly with a shrug and a smile.

  His lips twitched, and she was reminded of how handsome he was. Dark, curly hair, always meticulously cut, coiled behind his ears. His eyes were a deep, bright blue, like the sky reflected in the pools of the Lake District near her country home in Cumberland.