When a Duchess Says I Do by Grace Burrowes

Author:Grace Burrowes
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Published: 2019-04-01T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

“Your taste is refined, my lady,” Wakefield said. “I will continue my search for the exact right piece to set upon your piano.”

Lady Elspeth Cadwallader offered her hand. “Promise you will be tireless, Mr. Wakefield. My musicale is scheduled for the end of the month, and all must be perfect.”

All had to be perfect, but at bargain prices and only after Wakefield had shown her half the French porcelain for sale in London and had sent to Paris for a few more pieces besides.

At his own expense, of course. “Both of your daughters are performing?”

“A duet,” her ladyship said, beaming as if no pair of siblings had ever done likewise. “Written especially for them by a very talented fellow from a ducal family.”

God rot all ducal families and their country holdings. “I’ll look for a figure that represents harmony and dual forces, shall I? Psyche and Cupid?”

Her ladyship paused in the doorway to her parlor. “I mustn’t be obvious, Mr. Wakefield. My daughters need husbands, but they need to be happy too. Cupid and Psyche had rather a difficult time on the way to lasting happiness, for all their union eventually prospered.”

Her ladyship was so earnest in her regard for her children. Wakefield abruptly needed to be away from her and her maternal devotion.

“Not Cupid and Psyche then,” he said. “Perhaps a shepherdess with her flocks.” Such figures abounded, each one more insipid than the last.

Lady Elspeth was ever polite, and thus she accompanied Wakefield to her own front door.

“You must miss your dear Matilda terribly. Does she at least write to you?”

Her ladyship had clearly married young, if she had two daughters who were already out. Wakefield put her age at less than forty, and she was maturing gracefully. She had a way of making him feel as if nobody in all the world could locate the desperately needed painting, sculpture, or vase that would ensure her eternal happiness. She’d been widowed five years ago, and Wakefield hadn’t heard so much as a snippet of gossip about her.

Standing in her foyer, parental commiseration beaming from her green eyes, Wakefield wanted to break something—the porcelain figure of Aphrodite on the sideboard, perhaps. He’d made not a farthing’s worth of profit on that sale.

“Matilda is a conscientious correspondent, but a father worries.” More and more, the longer she was missing, and still Wakefield’s superiors urged him to leave matters alone. Weeks ago, he’d deduced that she was in London and trying to discreetly contact him. He’d deferred to the wishes of his superiors then, and regretted his decision ever since.

“The ocean is so dratted wide,” Lady Elspeth said. “One of my worst fears is that my daughters will fall in love with Americans. I shall have to leave England if that happens, because what matters a Mayfair address if I can’t hug my girls?”

She was tightening a noose of guilt with each well-meant word. “Your devotion to them does you credit, my lady. I will redouble my efforts to find you an exquisite piece for your musicale.

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