XIV. Socialites

Unfortunately, being a Duchess meant Lecia had to make sacrifices. For instance, inviting Victoria Killigrew to her masquerade was not something she had wanted to do, but the horrible girl had been invited the year before. Catherine said that meant she had to at least be invited again. It bothered Lecia that someone that horrid was the child of a well-respected Viscount. The Marchioness said that Phillip Killigrew was a rather agreeable man.

It wasn’t just Victoria that the young Duchess resented. There were a number of women she would have gladly spent the evening without, and a few men whom she might have avoided for having scorned them. Vaughan reassured her that the night would go well, that it was already a success, but that did not quell her nerves in the least. How embarrassing would it be for everyone to arrive to a fabulous party only to be let down by her dissatisfactory skill as a hostess? She’d be ruined.

Zora’s condition was too delicate to travel. Her parents weren’t coming, either. Mother had said that there was far too much to do, that her father had been overwhelmed with work for weeks now, but Lecia knew that that was just an excuse to give her space. He could have written to her, or she to him—of course, he was the responsible party who should make amends—but the both of them were exponentially stubborn. Sometimes Lecia thought of writing him to say she forgave him for his cruelty, or to tell him that she was happy despite his scorn, but she always thought better of it. There wouldn’t be any recompense unless he initiated it, and it was just childish of him to avoid her party to spare his own pride.

It was a stroke of luck, though, that the Dowager sent her regrets. Catherine said she was likely humiliated already. After all, once the invitations had gone out, the Soiree was all anyone had talked about. Drothea’s balls had always been more of a social obligation than pleasurable. Lecia thought of it being like the Opera: it really wasn’t that gratifying to go, but it was expected, revered even; in the boxes one couldn’t see a thing, and the performances were always so painstakingly long.

There had been a moment when Lecia feared everyone would follow the Dowager’s example and skip the party, but Catherine pointed out that the gossips of the ton would rather come to see her fail than respect an old hag. It really wasn’t that comforting of news.

The guests had arrived throughout the day; some had arranged to stay at Martis for the evening, others had other accommodations. Though the party would be in full swing after dark, the sun set so late in the day that Lecia had invited them to come sooner and truly see the gardens in daylight. She and Vaughan had taken a post in the Great Hall earlier in the day to greet their guests, though.

An older man, Adam le Bret, Earl of Crohill, had noted the Duke’s presence.

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of your company at this event in some years,” he had said.

“I’ve always made a point not to be here,” Vaughan explained.

“Well, I certainly do understand that, Your Grace,” the Earl agreed, then noticed Lecia. “You’ve certainly outdone your predecessor, My Lady,” he said to her. She blushed as he took her hand and touched it to his lips in a bow.

Most of the exchanges with guests had gone similarly. There were a few that required she bite her tongue, and others that she had needed to brush up on her French for. For example, Miss Thomassina Bohley had just come in from France; she had complimented the Duchess’ intonation.

While their visitors made their way through the palace to the gardens, Lecia and Vaughan stood in the mammoth atrium waiting to retire themselves to the party. They had matching masks of rose gold lattice that tied behind their heads with strands of silk; the costumes were simple, but elegant, and Lecia was pleased that she had followed Catherine’s advice for them to dress as a pair. Though, his suit was not cut from the exact same cloth as her dress.

“What if,” he leaned down to whisper near her ear, “I call you ma petit chou.”

Smirking, he rose to his full height again as a blush worked its way over Lecia’s cheeks. It had taken hearing her speak that language so well for Vaughan to realize that he had had the perfect name for her all along. In those words there was no miscommunication, not even with himself, but that was still not quite it. Rather, he wasn’t quite ready to say precisely what he wanted to.

“If you say so,” she mumbled.

xxx

The Grand Soiree was an immeasurable triumph before the night had even ended. All of the guests were in love with the mystique of the masquerade; they had filled themselves on cakes with hidden filling and stuffed chicken. Navigating the torch-lit garden labyrinth proved to be everyone’s favorite thing, and Lecia had earned the esteem of more than one lady who had previously distrusted her.

“You’ve done very well,” the Marchioness told her as she looked out at the flickering lights from the terrace

“I could not have done any of it without you,” she breathed, taking the older woman into a quick embrace of thanks.

“Well, I’m too old to be up this late at night; I’ll see you tomorrow,” Catherine said, taking her leave. She wasn’t gone a minute when Vaughan took her place.

“So, ma petit chou, shall we take a turn through the greens?” he asked, holding out his arm for her to take. Without a word, she wrapped her arm in his.

The night was dewy and warm; it was comfortably humid with a soft wind to keep it temperate. Every star was twinkling in the sky, divested of any pollution. There was a string quartet placed at the center of the gardens, and as Vaughan led his wife deeper into the maze of flowers and shrubbery, the music faded to a distant hum.

“You are astoundingly good at being a Duchess, you know,” he told her, his eyes forward as they weaved between flowerbeds and statues.

“I’ve heard that before,” she smiled, rightfully proud of herself.

“Really, I’m impressed by how quickly you’ve adjusted to it. I was groomed for sixteen years, but my first year as a Duke as an utter disaster,” he admitted. His grandparents had died, but that hadn’t been the sole reason for the mild chaos he’d caused.

They stopped at a large fountain. The water sprayed out of multiple bubblers molded as a herd of winged horses running through the pool. Lecia hadn’t seen all of the fountains yet, but she decided that this was her favorite the first time she ever saw it. She slipped her arm out of Vaughan’s and untied her mask; she didn’t want to wear it anymore, the guests would all be dissipated shortly, anyway. Lecia hated to assume anyone would clean up after her, but when she set the thing down on a nearby bench, she knew that one of the grounds men would bring it back.

Vaughan watched as his wife bent down and ran a hand through the fountain water. Uncaring that there was a bench, she sat down on the edge of the pool. Her ivory skin had been brushed with luminescent powder for the masque, so she shimmered under the moonlight like the enchantress she was. He wanted so badly to touch her to make sure she was really there.

“I think I’d like a dog,” she sighed suddenly, turning to look at him. He hadn’t moved, he’d been so entranced by her beauty. When he didn’t say anything—because he hadn’t really heard her—she continued. “I’ve never had one. Zora had a cat once, but they’re just so impartial to affection. Dogs, I hear, are the greatest companions. Truthfully, I get lonely sometimes, so I think a dog would be good for me.”

Dog. Companion. Loneliness.

He wasn’t listening very well; his heart was hammering too loudly in his chest.

Her eyes flicked away from him for a moment and when they were back on his, he was already stalking forward like the hunter he was. She was helpless to stop it. He knelt down closely before her; one hand wound behind her neck—his fingers edging into her elegant hair—the other wrapped around her back. He pulled her swiftly forward, and whispered, “Eich bod mor brydferth.” With every word his lips brushed over hers, his breath tickled her tongue.

When he finally kissed her, he did not linger long.

She could not breathe when he released her, and she dreamily touched a finger to her tingling lips. Behind the mask, his glaucous eyes shone brighter than the glittering night sky.

“You are fy cariad,” he said. “Not my dear, or darling, or ma petit chou; you are fy cariad.”

All this time he had been hiding himself from his heritage. Sure the accent stayed, his grave would know him as Fychan, but he had forgotten the words. His mind had neglected them, but his heart would always remember. Lecia had told him he was not as unkind as his ancestors, he wasn’t cruel. He had been wrong about so many things, but not about her. She was exactly what he had needed, just not in the way he had thought.

Still stunned, her hand resting on her chest now, Lecia attempted to speak. First it was nothing more than a breath, and then she got it out. “Does that mean I can get a dog?”

It hadn’t been the response either of them had expected to hear. Vaughan couldn’t help but laugh, his Duchess didn’t move at all. He nodded and breathed, “Yes, of course. I’ll get you a dog.”

He got to his feet and extended his hand for her. As she took it, she looked sternly at him and said, “Not one of those little ones like the Duchess of Teale. I want a real dog.”

Grinning, Vaughan escorted her back to the palace. Somehow, there must have been a miscommunication. He had kissed her and she had demanded a dog. She wanted a real dog. He supposed he could live with that; he’d only ever had the herding hounds as a boy, and they were not very good company…

A/N: So this is a baby chapter, but I'm almost done with the next one anyway.