Lady Lucy's Lover by M.C. Beaton Page B

outside. London seemed very far away and, for the moment, her marriage ceased to exist.
    It was soothing to look forward to a quiet family evening. She imagined the Dowager Duchess a tall, elegant figure—for surely that was the sort of mother the Duke would have.
    At last, a vastly imposing Groom of the Chambers arrived to escort her to the Long Gallery where she was told everyone was assembled.
    It seemed more like a Royal procession to Lucy as she followed the imposing back of the Groom of the Chambers, who held his tall staff with all the swagger of a Macaroni. One footman carrying a candle in a flat stick supported her on one side, and on the other, another footman with her shawl, her fan, and her vinaigrette.
    Lucy stopped at the entrance of the Long Gallery with a little gasp of dismay. The Duke had only mentioned his mother. He had obviously not seen fit to include the names of several members of the county, the rector, various cousins, and three old and moth-eaten hounds.
    The company arose at her entrance and the Duke led her around, making the introductions in his easy manner. Lucy’s eyes flew from face to face. Which was the Dowager Duchess? As if in answer to her unspoken question, the Duke said, “Mama is late as usual. She does it quite deliberately, of course.”
    Lucy felt a pang of disquiet. Her feeling of escape was melting away, leaving her with the uneasy feeling that she should be at home with her husband, no matter what he had done. She had, she realized, been hoping for some lady of mature wisdom who would comfort and counsel her. Again her conscience gave a sharp twinge. She should turn to her own mother. But her mother was so obsessed with the glamor of a title that she would simply not listen. All these thoughts were churning through Lucy’s shining fair head as she murmured pleasantries to the various guests.
    â€œI don’t know why Angela cannot be on time for once,” grumbled an elderly, choleric-looking gentleman called Sir Frederick Barrister, whose high starched cravat cut into the florid flesh of his fat cheeks.
    â€œOh, you know Mama’s little ways,” said the Duke of Habard soothingly. “I tell
her
dinner is at seven, don’t you see, and I tell my chef to arrange it for seven-thirty, and that way the kitchen staff is not thrown into disorder.”
    The Groom of the Chambers rapped his staff and announced portentously from the doorway leading to the Long Gallery:
    â€œHer Most Noble Grace, The Dowager Duchess of Habard!”

Chapter Six
    The Groom of the Chambers stood aside and the Duchess stood poised on the threshold, her eyes darting around the room.
    She was tiny and grotesque. Her wrinkled face was rouged and powdered like a mask. Her diaphanous, high-waisted gown revealed a pair of perfect—perfectly improbable—breasts. They were, in fact, wax. The gown was cut low and the upper half of them gleamed palely in the candlelight. She wore a frivolous little lace cap adorned with multicolored ribbons on top of a blond wig. Her pale blue, slightly protruding eyes fastened almost greedily on her son as she moved forward to take his arm, baring a mouthful of china teeth.
    â€œNow, you are about to scold me, naughty boy,” she cooed. “But you shall take me into dinner and then I shall know I am forgiven.”
    â€œMuch as I do not wish to forego the honor, Mama,” said the Duke, “my guest, Lady Standish, has the prior claim.”
    â€œWho’s she?” demanded his mother rudely, her eyes raking around the room.
    The Duke went across the room and took Lucy by the hand and led her forward. Lucy sank into a low curtsy while the Duchess looked down at all that beauty and youth and innocence with her face setting into a petulant mask.
    â€œThere is no need to stoop so low.” She laughed shrilly, rapping Lucy playfully on the head with her fan but with such force that she snapped one of the sticks of her