The Inconvenient Duchess

Something about milkmaids. Brown eyes. Wooing. Something. Folksongs were all alike. There was always a shepherd or a tinker and a milkmaid. And the results were certainly the same.
    He whistled.
    What was coming over him? He was wandering down Bond Street like he hadn’t a care in the world.
    He was acting like St John.
    And stopped in his tracks so suddenly that the package-laden man behind him collided with an oath. He apologised with a smile, helped the man collect his purchases and helped him on his way with more good grace than he’d felt in years.
    It was dashed strange, considering the mood he’d been in when he’d come to London, to find himself so carefree now.Especially considering the burden of responsibilities loaded on to his back. A wife had been shock enough. But a wife that could clean privy pots and draw ale? And in-laws. And their debts. And a surrogate mother-in-law who would turn the vicar’s hair snow white, should he realise her former profession.
    It could probably be kept hushed, he decided. But he must find a way to persuade Anthony to legitimise the union before he could accept them into the house. The vision of Cecily Dawson at Christmas dinner floated into his mind. Perhaps he would have the servants put her in his mother’s room. The thought gave him a moment’s wicked pleasure.
    It was mad.
    He ducked through a nearby door and into the salon of a noted dressmaker. It had been years since he’d crossed the threshold, trailing after Bethany on one of her many shopping trips, but Madame Souette recognised him immediately.
    ‘How may I help you, your Grace?’ She signalled to a shop girl to bring tea, and offered him a seat on a divan.
    ‘I need…I need everything. That a woman might require.’ He pulled out the worn gown and slippers that Cecily had provided. ‘In this size, or slightly larger.’
    She glanced down at the worn clothing in front of her and almost managed to hide the moue of displeasure at their poor condition. ‘And the woman in question? What is her taste?’ Madame was probing gently, afraid of giving offence. ‘Will you be spending your time with her at the opera? The theatre? Or will you be remaining at home?’
    She was looking at him closely, probably trying to guess the identity of his new mistress.
    He grinned. ‘Oh, all of the above, I should think. When Ibring my new bride to London, she will attend many such functions. But for now, clothing suitable for a quiet life in the country.’
    ‘A wardrobe worthy of a duchess?’
    He nodded.
    ‘And she needs everything.’ The woman’s eyes sparkled as she totalled the bill in her mind.
    ‘Everything. There was an accident involving her trunks when she travelled to Devon.’ He waved his hand in dismissal. ‘All lost.’
    ‘How unfortunate.’ Madame tried and failed to look grieved.
    ‘I trust that you will be both discreet and quick, for I need the clothing in three days.’
    Her eyebrows arched, but she did not refuse him.
    ‘It will require a miracle, but you will be generously compensated for it. Her colouring is pale, but her hair and eyes are dark. Do what you can to flatter her. I trust your judgment in these matters more than my own.’
    Giving her his card and direction, he left the shop.
    It was strange seeing the small rooms where his wife had spent so many years, poor beyond his ability to imagine, but more warm and welcoming than his own home had been. And then to come into the great mausoleum that was Haughleigh Grange.
    She deserved better.

    His next stop was a jeweller’s shop, where he pulled a flat, velvet-lined case from his pocket. The jeweller was as ingratiating as the dressmaker had been; ready to bend over backwards to please his Grace.
    He spilled the hated necklace on to the table in front ofhim. ‘I have recently remarried and wish to present the family emeralds to my wife.’
    The jeweller remarked that they were most fine which, of course, Marcus knew.
    ‘A new setting, I think. A new wife should not have to wear the cast-offs of the old. I would like to start fresh.’ Not that that was ever possible, with the weight of tradition heavy on his shoulders. Perhaps a change in the necklace would remind him of something other than his mother, or Bethany, whenever he had to look at them.
    The jeweller made hurried notes, wincing only a little at the proposed timeline. ‘Will there be anything else, your Grace?’
    ‘No. I think… Wait.’ The image of his new wife