The Earl and Countess of Hardford—Imogen, the former Lady Barclay—would be there too, having just returned from abroad. There had been some anxiety that they would not return soon enough for the duke’s wedding, but they had arrived just in time. On the morning of the betrothal party they called first at Stanbrook House and then at Arnott House.
“I cannot tell you how very happy I am that George has decided to marry again,” the countess said, squeezing both of Dora’s hands in her own. “And I really cannot imagine a more suitable bride for him than you, Miss Debbins.” She turned to her husband. “Percy, when you hear Miss Debbins play the harp or the pianoforte, you will think yourself transported to heaven, I promise you.”
Dora regarded the countess in some wonder. Could this warm, vibrant woman possibly be the same lady of rather marble demeanor she remembered from Middlebury Park last year? Her extremely handsome husband smiled warmly at her before shaking Dora’s hand.
The evening of the party drew inevitably closer, and Dora found herself looking forward to it with real pleasure and distinct flutters of apprehension.
6
The betrothal party might not be a grand ball, Dora thought later in the evening, but when the duke had spoken of inviting a number of guests, he had actually meant a large number. She estimated that there were at least two hundred people, and His Grace presented her to all of them within the first half hour as they stood together in the receiving line. She recognized a few from Hyde Park and the theater and Vauxhall Gardens, but most were strangers. Would she ever be able to remember them all as well as their names?
She was wearing a gown of gold lace over blond satin that Gwen and Agnes had persuaded her into choosing.
“You are about to become a duchess, Dora,” Gwen had reminded her, a twinkle in her eye. “Nothing is too grand for such an exalted personage. Besides, the colors and design suit you to perfection.”
She had looked sincere while saying it. But of course she was sincere. They were friends, and she had come on the shopping trip specifically to offer her advice and opinion.
Agnes had insisted upon sending her own maid to Dora’s room to style her hair in smooth coils high at the back of her head. They lent height and perhaps a little elegance to her appearance.
“I am the most fortunate of men, Miss Debbins,” the duke had said upon her arrival at Stanbrook House, taking her gloved hand in his and raising it to his lips. “You are looking quite beautiful.”
The compliment, though rather extravagant, had warmed Dora down to her toes. And he, incidentally, looked even more gorgeous than usual in his crisp black and white evening clothes, though she did not tell him so.
The rooms that were being used for the party were on the first floor and were really quite splendid, with a great deal of gilding on the friezes and hanging chandeliers and scenes from mythology painted on the coved ceilings and portraits and landscapes in ornate frames on the walls and Persian carpets underfoot. It was dizzying to realize that in a few days’ time this would be her home—or one of her homes anyway.
All the rooms were filled with guests. There was conversation in the drawing room, music and conversation in the room adjoining it, cards in two smaller salons, refreshments in another. Dora did not spend a great deal of time with her betrothed after that first half hour. He was very properly mingling with all his guests and so was Dora, although she was not having to make any effort to do so. People came to her. They wanted to converse with her. Plain Miss Dora Debbins, music teacher in the small village of Inglebrook, had been transformed, it seemed, by the fact that the Duke of Stanbrook wished to marry her. It might have been a mildly disturbing realization if she had tried to hide in his shadow. She did not, however. She was a lady, daughter of a baronet. She belonged with these people. She smiled and conversed, and if anyone tried to monopolize her attention for too long, she smiled her excuses and moved on.
It was almost supper time when the Duke of Stanbrook approached her as she was stepping into the music room, having just moved away from a pleasant conversation with two elderly couples.
“I hired the services of Mr. Pierce for the evening,” he explained, nodding in the direction of the pianist. “He makes a living from such events, I understand.”
“He plays well,” Dora said. She had noticed all evening the soft, soothing music, chosen with care to provide background melody without being in any way intrusive or making it difficult for people to converse. She felt just a little sorry for Mr. Pierce, however, for no one appeared to be taking any notice of him. She wondered if he had an artistic soul or if he was content just to make a living thus. Perhaps it was preferable to many other occupations. At least he probably did not have a Miranda Corley to teach. “I shall go and have a word with him.”
“I will come with you.” He smiled at her. “But before we do—” He looked consideringly at her. “I did think at first to ask you to favor my guests with a recital for a small portion of the evening. But I did not believe you would want the extra pressure on an evening that would surely already be making heavy demands upon you.”
“Oh,” she said, startled. She might have played for all these people?
“I ought to have consulted you,” he said. “It should have been your decision.”
“Oh . . . no, that is quite all right,” she said. But she might have played, as she did at Middlebury Park last year, but on a far grander scale?
He moved his head a little closer to hers. “No, it is not all right,” he said. “Forgive me, please. I have much to learn. I have been accustomed to command for so long that I do not even realize I am doing it. I made a decision for you on this occasion and hired someone with only a fraction of your talent.”