When Cinderella Met the Duke

Chapter One

Miss Anna Blake

London,

November 1817

‘I am really not certain that this is a good idea,’ Miss Anna Blake said, surveying herself in the looking glass in front of her. She wanted it to be a good idea, because she didn’t know whether she’d ever again have the opportunity to wear a dress as wonderful as this or be able to go to another Society ball, but...

‘Nonsense. You deserve to have one last evening of enjoyment.’ Anna’s godmother, Lady Derwent, tweaked the gauze overdress of Anna’s ball gown into place and gave the tiniest of ladylike sniffs before wiping very delicately under her eyes with her beringed fingers. ‘I declare, you look like something out of a fairy tale, my dear: so beautiful. Your mother would have been so proud.’

‘Thank you, but...’ Anna began again. She was quite sure that her mother would not have recommended quite such an audacious deception. She had practised a deception of her own, when she’d eloped with Anna’s father, and had then had to spend Anna’s entire childhood attempting—with little success—to repair the damage done by the elopement. She had therefore been particularly desirous of Anna’s living as respectably as possible. The plan for this evening was not respectable.

‘You’re being far too cautious,’ Anna’s best friend, Lady Maria Swanley, told her. ‘If anyone should ever find out—which they won’t—it will be I whom they accuse of wrongdoing.’

‘Hmm,’ said Anna.

Nearly ten years of close friendship with Lady Maria, since they had entered Bath’s strictest seminary together, had taught her that Maria’s plots gave rise to much enjoyment but usually ended badly, for Anna, at least.

As the daughter of a rich earl, Lady Maria was usually protected from reprimand. Anna, by contrast, was the daughter of a groom. She was also the granddaughter of an earl, and sponsored by Lady Derwent, one of Society’s most redoubtable matrons and a great friend of her late mother’s, but in the eyes of Miss Courthope, the seminary headmistress, she was her father’s daughter and someone who could be punished much more thoroughly than could Maria, so whenever Anna had engaged in any mischief—usually with Maria—she had afterwards felt the full force of Miss Courthope’s ire.

That was one thing, and Anna had considered Miss Courthope’s punishments a small price to pay for how much she’d enjoyed misbehaving, but hoodwinking most of the ton was another. Surely that could give rise to any number of consequences considerably greater than having to write out one’s catechism three times or pen a letter of apology to the dance master.

‘What if Lady Puntney finds out? What if I oversleep tomorrow?’ Anna was starting work as a governess for the Puntney family in the morning. ‘And what if your parents find out?’ How had she allowed herself to be talked into this? Well, she knew how: both Lady Maria and Lady Derwent could be extremely persuasive and, if she was honest, Anna had been very happy to allow herself to be persuaded, and it was only now that the deception was almost under way that she was beginning to acknowledge her doubts.

‘If my parents find out, it is likely that they will also have found out about my engagement to my darling Clarence, and they will be interested only in that,’ Maria said.

Anna nodded; that much was true. Lady Maria’s beloved Clarence was a curate of very uncertain means, and her parents had their sights set on the Duke of Amscott, no less, as their only daughter’s future husband.

Anna was not convinced that her friend was making a sensible choice; Clarence might seem perfect now to Maria, but what if things became difficult in due course? He was of course a man of the cloth, so would—one would hope—hold himself to higher standards than did other men, but if he was anything like Anna’s father and grandfather, his love would not endure in the face of life’s obstacles.

When Anna’s mother had fallen in love at the age of eighteen with one of her father’s grooms, and then become with child and eloped with him, her father—Anna’s grandfather—had disowned her and refused ever to see her again. He had died a few years later. And after the money raised from the sale of Anna’s mother’s jewels ran out, Anna’s father had left to make a new life for himself in America, with no apparent further thought for his wife and daughter. When Anna had lost her mother, she had written to her father, and had received his—very short and not particularly heartfelt—reply over six months later. She knew that he had written it himself—her mother had taught him to read and write in the early days of their marriage and she recognised his handwriting—so had to assume that it did express his own sentiments. He had not suggested that she join him in Canada or that he attempt to support her in any way whatsoever.

Anna had been rescued from penury by the women in her life—her mother’s maid and then Lady Derwent—and she did not believe that men were to be relied upon. Lady Derwent had confirmed this belief; she had told Anna on more than one occasion that she was extremely happy to be a widow.

‘And in the meantime,’ Maria interrupted her thoughts, ‘I cannot go to the ball.’

The Dowager Duchess of Amscott was holding the first grand ball of the Season this evening, and, according to Lady Derwent, everyone expected the duke to be there, searching for a wife. Lady Maria’s birth, beauty and large dowry made her an obvious candidate for the position. When her parents had been called away and she had been entrusted to Lady Derwent to chaperone her this evening, Maria had suggested, most persuasively, as was her wont, that Anna attend in her place.

She had waxed lyrical about the dress that Anna would wear, the people she would see, the dancing, the food, the enjoyment of participating in such an excellent but entirely harmless deception. Lady Derwent had immediately echoed her suggestions, and Anna had found herself agreeing most thoroughly with everything they said. Now, though...

‘Lady Puntney will not find out,’ Lady Derwent stated, with great certainty. ‘Dressed as you are now, you look like one of Shakespeare’s fairy queens. Lord Byron himself would write quite lyrically about you, I’m sure. When attired in the garments—’ she scrunched her face disapprovingly ‘—you will wear as governess, you will still look beautiful, of course, but you will look quite different. I do not believe that anyone will make the connection. And we will leave at midnight so that you will not be too tired on the morrow.’

‘The timing is quite serendipitous,’ Maria mused. ‘Had this ball not been my first, had I not been incarcerated in the country in mourning for so many years so that I know no one in London—’ Maria’s family had suffered a series of bereavements ‘—and had my parents not been forced to leave town and entrust me to the care of dear Lady Derwent—’ Lady Maria’s grandmother was ill and her mother had left post-haste, accompanied by her husband, to visit her in her hour of need ‘—this would not have been possible. And by the time my parents return, Clarence and I shall be formally affianced, and no one will make me attend any more balls as a rich-husband-seeking young lady. So it will all be perfect.’

She smiled at Anna.

‘You look beautiful. That dress becomes you wonderfully. Perhaps you will find a beau of your own this evening, and marry rather than take up your position.’

Anna rolled her eyes at her friend. ‘I shall be very happy as a governess.’ She wasn’t entirely convinced that that was true, but it would be better than relying on a man to protect her, only to be abandoned when he lost interest in her; and she was certainly very lucky to have obtained her position with the Puntneys.

‘Harumph.’ Lady Derwent did not approve of Anna’s desire to be independent; she had asked her more than once to live with her as a companion, despite her obvious lack of need for one. ‘Let us go. You will not wish to miss any part of the ball, Anna.’

‘What if you change your mind in future, Maria?’ Anna worried. ‘How will you take your place in Society after I have attended this ball as you?’

‘No one would ever dare to question me,’ Lady Derwent said. ‘Should you in the future change your mind, Maria, and decide that you do not after all wish to marry an impecunious curate with few prospects, and that you wish to take your place at balls as yourself, I shall inform anyone who questions me that their eyesight is perhaps failing them and that the Lady Maria they met at the Amscott ball was of course you, and no one will contradict me.’

Certainly, very few people, including Anna, chose to disagree very often with Lady Derwent.

Anna turned to look again at her image in the glass. She loved this dress. It would be such a shame not to show it off at the ball. She loved parties—the small number that she had been to. She loved dancing. And everyone who was anyone amongst London’s glittering haut ton would be there, and she would love to see them all, and witness and take part in such an event.

She straightened her shoulders and beamed at the reflection of her two companions before turning back round.

‘You are both right,’ she said. She was going to take this wonderful opportunity and enjoy it to the full before starting her new, possibly quite dull life on the morrow.

‘It will be so diverting to know that you are practising such a masquerade,’ Maria said. ‘A huge secret that no one else knows. And you will enjoy the dancing very much, I am sure.’

‘Thank you, Maria,’ Anna said.

‘No, no.’ Maria hugged her. ‘I must thank you. Just make sure you enjoy yourself.’

‘I just want to check one final time that you are absolutely certain?’ Anna asked again.

‘We are certain.’ Lady Derwent was already standing and moving towards the door. ‘Nothing can possibly go wrong.’

Chapter Two

James, Duke of Amscott

‘And that is all for now,’ concluded the Dowager Duchess of Amscott, as she folded into neat squares the piece of paper upon which she had scribed her list of possible candidates for the hand of her son, James, Duke of Amscott, before leaving her escritoire to join him on the sofa opposite.

James raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you intending to share the contents of your list with me?’

‘Maybe. Maybe not.’ She waved the piece of paper under his nose before whisking it away and tucking it into her reticule.

James laughed. The idea of getting married was not at all funny, but his mother could nearly always raise a smile from him. Which was impressive, given all that she had gone through in recent years, with the death first of her husband and then of James’s two older brothers.

‘On a serious note,’ his mother said, ‘I will of course discuss the list with you, but I feel that it might be best for you first to meet the various young ladies without any preconceptions. You are fortunate in having no need to marry for money and being able therefore to choose any young lady—of good birth, of course—for love.’

James looked down at his knees for a moment, to hide his eyes from her as a chill ran over him.

He did not want to marry for love.

He did not wish to love someone so deeply that he would be broken if anything happened to her, as his mother had been at the loss of her husband and two oldest sons, and as he and his sisters had also been.

Also, and even more importantly, he did not wish someone to love him deeply, because he wouldn’t wish anyone else to be devastated if he died, and he veered between terror and resignation at the thought that it seemed extremely likely that he would die young; the doctors were not sure what had caused the early deaths of his father and brothers but their symptoms had all been similar, and it did not seem unlikely that their illnesses had been due to a family trait. It would be bad enough thinking of the pain that would cause his mother and sisters, but for him to choose to marry someone who loved him deeply only for the pain of loss to be inflicted on her too would be awful.

‘James?’

‘Yes, Mama. What an...excellent plan.’ He could not tell her how he felt; he could not add to her sadness, especially when she was doing so well herself at pretending to be happy. He must maintain his own stiff upper lip, as she did.

And his emotions were confused. Because he needed to produce an heir. His current heir was a distant cousin residing in Canada, and James had no way of knowing whether the man would—in the event of James’s death—look after James’s mother and younger sisters in the way that he would wish. It would be infinitely preferable for a son of James’s—infant or adult—to become the new duke.

And the existence of an heir—his son—would of course lessen his family’s grief on James’s death, in addition to securing their future. His wife would have a child or children to love, and his mother had already proved herself to be a most doting grandmother to his oldest sister’s two young daughters.

He raised his eyes to his mother’s and smiled as sincerely as he could.

‘That is settled then.’ She rose from the sofa. ‘You will meet as many ladies as possible this evening, and should you develop a preference, you may undertake to improve your acquaintance of the young lady in question. If you do not have a preference, we will revert to my list.’

James rose too. ‘Excellent.’ God.

‘We must hasten. The first of our guests will arrive soon.’ She held her arm out imperiously.

They were hosting the first big ball of this year’s London Season, and James’s mother believed that the whole of Society would be scrabbling to attend. She was almost certainly right: wealthy dukes were always popular, irrespective of their personal attributes. They were even more popular when they were nearing thirty and unmarried.

He laughed at his mother’s haughty gesture, and took her arm, wondering as he did so what chance there was that he would meet someone this evening with whom he could fall in love, should he allow himself to do so—he would not—or whether he would be happy to marry someone from the list.

He did need to marry.

And while he did not desire a love match, he did wish to choose his own bride rather than have one foisted upon him by his mother. He would like someone whose conversation he enjoyed, for example, although he probably wouldn’t choose to live permanently with anyone quite as opinionated as his mother and sisters were...

As they entered the ballroom, his mother’s voice pierced his thoughts. ‘Amscott. I was telling you about my decorations.’ She hadn’t allowed him to see the themed room until now, eager, she said, to spring a surprise on him—or perhaps just to avert the strong possibility of his cavilling at her evident extraordinarily high expenditure. He had in fact been happy to indulge her, delighted to see her take an interest in something again; she had struggled with listlessness in the aftermath of their bereavements.

‘I beg your pardon, Mama. I was lost in admiration of your design of the room.’ It was certainly remarkable—and must indeed have cost a small fortune. The ballroom of Amscott House had been transformed into an exotic fruit orchard. There were so many orange and lemon trees—surely more than in the glasshouses of the rest of England combined—that the room had a definite citrusy scent. And were those...pineapple trees?

‘I wished to make a splash, and I believe we shall do so. In addition, our ball will smell nicer than everyone else’s.’ His mother’s air of complacence made him laugh again. ‘So many hot bodies in the same room can often be quite unbearable.’

‘Impressive forethought.’

‘I must confess that I did not realise how very much scent the trees would give off,’ his mother confided, ‘but I am quite delighted now at how I shall be setting both a visual design and an olfactory trend.’

The first guests were announced before they had the opportunity to engage in further conversation, and James became fully occupied in greeting dandified men, bejewelled matrons, their eager-to-please debutante charges and the occasional actual friend of his.

‘Lady Derwent and Lady Maria Swanley,’ a footman announced, as a tall woman, her air almost as imperious as that of James’s mother, swept into the room with a smaller and younger lady, who was dressed in a silvery, sparkly dress.

‘Good evening.’ Lady Derwent curtsied the tiniest amount in James’s mother’s direction, her demeanour as though she was conferring an enormous favour on the duchess, who responded with the smallest of smiles. James made a mental note to ask his mother on the morrow what argument she and Lady Derwent held; there was clearly some animosity between the two women, and his mother’s stories were always amusing. ‘Lady Maria is under my charge this evening; dear Lady Swanley has been called to Viscountess Massey’s sickbed.’

‘I am so sorry to hear that your grandmother is ill,’ James’s mother told Lady Maria.

‘Thank you; we hope very much that she will make a full and speedy recovery.’ Lady Maria’s voice was musical, clear and warm in tone, so lovely to listen to that James instinctively looked more closely in her direction.

Her hair was a light brown, thick and glossy, her eyes green, her skin clear and her features regular, and her dress—cut low at the bosom and high at the waist—became her very well. She was certainly attractive, but, when his thoughts wandered vaguely to whether she would be on his mother’s marriage candidate list, he decided that it was irrelevant; she was probably a very pleasant lady, but there were any number of pleasant, attractive young ladies here, and he could think of no reason that he would choose this lady over any other.

Indeed, how would he choose a bride given that his choice would not be directed by his falling in love? Perhaps he should ask his oldest two sisters which young ladies they got on with best.

‘My son, the Duke of Amscott,’ James’s mother said, and Lady Maria turned in his direction with a smile.

And, good Lord, the smile was extraordinary. It displayed perfect, even teeth, it was wide, it was infectious, it showed one delightful dimple just to the left of her mouth, it was beautiful. James felt it through his entire body, almost uncomfortably so.

‘Delighted to meet you.’ His own mouth was broadening into a wide smile in response to Lady Maria’s, almost of its own volition.

Lady Maria curtseyed and held out two fingers, smiling now as though she was almost on the brink of laughter, her eyes dancing. James had no idea what she was finding quite so funny, but he knew that he wanted to find out. He had the strangest feeling, in fact, that he wanted to find out everything about her, which was a ridiculous sensation to have, given that the entire sum of knowledge he had about her was that she was a small, pleasant-looking woman with a musical voice and the most beguiling smile and was accompanied by Lady Derwent.

He leaned forward a little and spoke into her ear, just for her, comfortable in the knowledge that the hubbub of voices around them would make it very difficult for anyone else to hear.

‘Do you have a joke that you wish to share?’ He accompanied his words with a smile, to ensure that Lady Maria would know that he was funning rather than reprimanding her in any way. He would not normally speak to a stranger, a debutante, in such a manner, but then debutantes did not usually look as though they held a big and amusing secret. And he couldn’t remember the last time—if ever—that he’d had such a strong sense that he would get to know a particular person very well.

‘No, Your Grace.’ Her smile was no less mirthful than before as she continued, ‘I am perhaps just overwhelmed by the occasion.’ Her words did not ring true; she did not seem in the slightest bit overwhelmed.

She looked around the room before returning her regard to his. ‘I adore these plants. They are quite remarkable. I have never seen a lemon or orange tree outside the covers of a book.’

‘Remarkable indeed,’ James agreed. ‘I have it on the highest authority that the scent as well as the décor will make this one of the most successful balls of the Season.’

‘I think your authority is right,’ Lady Maria said very gravely. ‘Every ball