Chapter Four
The jittery energy of copious cups of thick, black coffee hummed through Lady Victoria’s veins as she stood in the shadows of their gilded foyer.
Her father, the Marquess of Halford, tossed his cloak and hat to Ferber.
Ferber looked like a rabbit who had spotted a fox. The poor man had seen more excitement this night than he no doubt had in twenty years. Her family, though powerful, was rather boring, after all.
Her father had gone through his life, head buried in books, hands in the dirt, and largely away from the glittering circles of London society. When they came to London, her father attended countless historical societies during the day. Some evenings, he did go out to the gambling clubs. But he had never returned worse for drink or with empty pockets.
Unlike so many butlers, Ferber had not had to manage scandals.
This seemed to be undoing him, and she couldn’t blame him.
The whole debacle was quite the surprise.
“Papa,” she called.
Her father swung his gaze to hers and smiled. His silver hair shone in the light golden glow of the candelabra, which always awaited his return from the gambling clubs.
He was an exceptional cards man.
So the very idea that he had lost her in a game of chance was unfathomable.
He was so skilled at games, even games of chance, that he’d nearly been banned from gambling clubs on more than one occasion. He usually returned in the late hours with a bouncing step and mischievous gleam in his triumphant gaze.
But there was something different about him as he sauntered forward tonight. “My darling girl,” he proclaimed, “I have the greatest possible news for you.”
“Oh?” she called lightly, desperately hoping that her fears were false. That he was not about to proclaim some absurdity like the Duke of Chase.
“Are we to go to Italy?” she teased hopefully. “Shall we see the ruins of Pompeii as you have promised for years, or perhaps,” she rambled, “are we to return to Yorkshire to start a new dig?”
He stepped forward and took her hands in his, his brow furrowing as he studied her. “No, my darling daughter. It is time that you put that all aside. We have discussed this many times. Your experiments in the field, your pursuits were acceptable when you were but a child. But you are a woman now. And I”—his brows rose with great pleasure, and he announced—“have found you a husband.”
She swallowed.
Good God. Chase had not run mad. He had not been drunk.
“Have you?” she queried, her voice sounding strangled.
“Oh, yes,” he said, pleased as punch. “I have procured you a duke, even,” he announced, as if it was the greatest possible thing in all the world.
And then, he waited, clearly expecting her pleasure.
She could not reply.
He nodded, squeezing her hands. “You are so astonished with your good fortune. My darling, I know that balls are not your forte. That you do not care for the London season. And so I took it in good measure to ensure that your future would be secure in the role that you have always been meant to have. Duchesses are women of power. I know that you shall be excellent in such a role, for you are capable in a way that many ladies are not allowed to be. It shall be the nearest thing you can achieve to what you might have wished for yourself.”
He let out a long sigh. “It is such a shame that you were not born a man. You would be a much better lord than your brother. But there it is.”
She grimaced.
Her father had said such a thing on more than one occasion. That she should have been born to be his heir.
Her brother had no mind for it. No, he preferred galivanting about the continent, eschewing all learning or responsibilities.
But she was not born to be the heir. She was born to be a Lady, to be married and to bear children. Her father had reminded her of this time and again after she’d turned fourteen years.
And yet she had felt that her father had admired her skills enough that he would not shove her into matrimony.