The Inconvenient Duchess

any idea how to get one.
    She smiled to herself. If she was a duchess, then perhaps she no longer needed money. She could not remember, on outings with her mother, ever seeing a coin change hands. Even after the money was gone, the shopkeepers extended them credit because of her father’s title, lowly though it was. All she need do was ride into town surrounded by the Haughleigh livery, find an appropriate sample and point. It would be delivered in all due haste, and might be hung on the walls before her husband returned to find her mistake.
    He would, of course, be angry. But in the two days she had known him, he had been angry about so many things that she doubted one more would make a difference.

    Supper that evening was a very different affair than breakfast had been. After a short nap, she had composed herself and returned to the kitchen to confront the cook. The woman had been wary at first, but when she was told that she might choose her own ingredients and order what was needed to undo the artificial famine created by Mrs Clopton, she seemed most happy with the change.
    Miranda, at Polly’s insistence, allowed her hair to be dressed and changed into her only decent gown for supper. The gown was a burgundy satin that had been much more fresh fifteen years ago, when it had been one of Cici’s ball dresses. They’d cut down the puffed sleeves, removed large amounts of skirt to hide the worn spots and managed, by cannibalising the train and adding some lace from another gown, to create something almost presentable.
    St John met her at the dinner table and kissed her hand. ‘Enchanted as always, my dear. You look lovely this evening.’ He looked over his shoulder at the destruction on the walls. ‘Dear God, what happened in here?’
    She sat and took a large sip of wine before speaking. ‘My first act today, as duchess, was to fire the housekeeper. My second was to destroy the dining room, attempting to clean it.’
    ‘The wall coverings,’ he said, ‘were imported from France by the second duke.’
    ‘Expensive?’ she asked.
    ‘Irreplaceable.’
    ‘Oh. And what is the current duke likely to say, when he realises they are gone?’ She held her breath.
    ‘I suspect that you will have done me a great service. The apoplexy will leave you a widow and me as the fifth duke. I will then absolve you of any guilt. They were uncommonly ugly, for all their value.’ He reached forward and snuffed several candles on the table, darkening the corners of the room. ‘And hardly visible now. Isn’t this much more intimate?’
    She laughed, despite herself. He seemed pleased, and continued to amuse her during dinner.

    After the meal he stood up and offered her his arm. ‘Would you like to retire to the drawing room, your Grace? Or would you prefer a more interesting pastime? I could give you a tour of the house, if you wish.’
    ‘It would be dark in the unused rooms,’ she protested.
    ‘Then the servants can go ahead and light our way. It is their job, after all, Miranda, to follow your instructions. But suppose we limit ourselves to a single room. It will further your education and not trouble the servants overly much if we spend the evening in the portrait gallery.’
    ‘That is an excellent idea, St John.’
    He rang for the butler, explained their needs and then escorted her to a long room on the second floor. Once there, he entertained her with stories of his ancestors. The first duke, awarded the title after a battle. His son, the mad second duke. Their father, who had been killed in a riding accident when both boys were young. He stopped before a portrait of his mother, and seemed to pause in respectful silence.
    She looked up at the face in the painting. Definitely mother to St John, with the same startlingly blue eyes, but with hair so blonde as to be almost white. She was as pretty as Cici had said, and Miranda looked for any indication thatthe woman was a threat, but could find none. There was nothing in her face to show that she was other than sweetness and light.
    She compared the mother to the picture of her new husband. Even for the portrait, he had not managed a smile. The painting in front of her must be several years old. There was no grey in his hair and the face had fewer lines. But the look in the eyes was the same intense stare that she had seen. Eyes that did not miss much, she thought. They were judging her as she stood in front of them, holding her fast and looking deep into her