An Ideal Duchess by Evangeline Holland

rows of windows flanking either side of it, was covered by cheery yellow awning. As she ascended the wide, shallow steps leading to the terrace, an attendant in white coat and dark trousers immediately appeared, taking her cleek and golf ball and fitted red coat with a brief bow. Her mother was in here somewhere, taking tea with old friends who, just last year, had pretended as though she did not exist.
                  The thought of the slights and cuts her mother suffered from women she’d known from girlhood, simply because her father had lost his fortune, and she’d had the temerity to marry the self-made man who’d taken over the company made Amanda tremble with fury. She barely managed to nod and smile politely to the ladies and gentlemen (ha!) seated on the veranda, clad as etiquette demanded in pale summer frocks and navy jacket and white trousers, respectively.
                  She heard her mother’s hesitant laughter to her right and directed her path towards the sound, failing to notice the man seated with her until he rose to his full height and looked at her with piercing gray eyes. She paused, staring back at him in bewilderment, somehow finding the duke’s presence here in America rather incongruous. He seemed elegant and elusive at once, his very being distinctively English in spite of his conformity to the standard summer costume of pale trousers, crisp white shirt, and fawn jacket.
                  Amanda was dimly aware of the eyes turned discreetly (or blatantly, depending on the person’s voracity for gossip) towards them, and she shook herself from her reverie and extended a hand.
                  “Your Grace, it is so kind of you to finally arrive in Newport. How was your trip?”
                  The duke’s eyes narrowed perceptibly, noticing the stress she placed on the word “finally”, but took her hand with a slight press of his fingers. He pulled the chair beside him out for her to sit, and she did so, taking care to move past him without touching even the fabric of his jacket. His hands, where they clutched the arms of her chair, were brown and callused, decidedly not the hands of a pampered, spoiled aristocrat. She lifted her face in curiosity, meeting his steady gaze, but her eyes dropped immediately to his full lips, which parted on a slow breath that then drew her attention to his throat. He wore no necktie, and the bob of his Adam’s apple against the high collar as he swallowed made her draw in a sharp breath.
                  His hands flexed on the arms of the chair and then moved away, the moment breaking almost as quickly as it had occurred. Amanda flushed, avoiding her mother’s eyes as she reached for the china pot to pour a cup of tea.
                  “I was apologizing to your mother for my delay,” The duke said evenly, which forced her to turn with a polite smile or risk attracting attention for ignoring him. “I was simply overcome by the scope of your country and I wished to see few sights before making my way to Newport.”
                  Amanda set the teapot on the table and dropped two lumps of sugar into her cup. “And what sights did you see, Your Grace?”
                  “Washington, the Potomac River, the Badlands, Niagara,” He replied equably.
                  “What do you think of our country?” She raised a brow in challenge, sipping her tea. “Many of your country men and women have a low opinion of America when compared to their own country.”
                  “I hesitate to disparage my own place of origin simply to flatter you, but I am impressed.” The duke said blandly. “I greatly admire the vigor of Americans, and your determination to recapture some of the Old World in the New.”
                  “So you believe we most desire to replicate and reproduce after your