How to Fool a Duke (The Husband Dilemma #1) - Lancaster, Mary Page 0,1

time when Sarah would have sung at the top of her voice just for the fun of defying her, and she was still tempted. But she had learned good manners among everything else, so she merely smiled wryly and inclined her head while her old governess raised the large, iron knocker.

Almost at once, the great door swung open. A liveried, middle-aged footman bowed them inside, and Sarah looked about her in wonder. The entrance hall was a seamless blend of ancient carved stone and modern luxury. An indecipherable coat of arms carved above doorways, carpets on the stone floors, and even leading up the massive, curving staircase. Wall sconces looked as if they were made for flaming torches but contained candles.

An elderly, dignified butler materialized before them and asked them with a bow to follow him. He led them up the staircase and along a picture-lined gallery to a set of double-doors, which he pushed open.

He bowed into the room. “Your Grace. Miss Sarah and Miss Hammy.”

Your Grace. Sarah’s curiosity burgeoned. Their hostess, the sole occupant of the room before they walked in, was Lady Whitmore. Why would her servant address her as Your Grace? A title once reserved for queens, and now only for duchesses—among the female sex at least.

“Ah, thank you, Saunders,” Lady Whitmore said. Smiling, she stood up from a massive desk at which she had been writing, and replaced her pen in the elegant stand. “Ladies, please join me in a glass of sherry. Or would you prefer ratafia?”

Sarah, dragging her gaze from the massive leather-bound books and what looked like parchment scrolls that lined the cabinets around the walls, curtseyed and asked for sherry.

Lady Whitmore served them herself from a Venetian glass decanter into matching glasses. “This is the center of my world,” she said, presenting the glasses, and waving her hand around the room. “My library.”

Sarah sat on the comfortable, velvet-covered sofa. “It is a beautiful room. Are you engaged upon a great work here?”

“Many minor works,” Lady Whitmore replied.

“You have a wonderful view,” Hammy said, gazing in awe toward the window that overlooked the sea.

“My inspiration and my reminder of a mere human’s limitations,” Lady Whitmore said, choosing a chair close to them.

“What are the subjects of your works?” asked Sarah, who had once believed women had no need of learning and that bluestockings were to be pitied.

“Genealogy,” Lady Whitmore replied unexpectedly. “Largely. Also, I study human nature, which I suppose makes me a philosopher. We shall talk more of that over dinner, if you wish. But I would like to hear about you, Miss Sarah. Your little recital this afternoon was…dazzling.”

“Thank you,” Sarah said, blushing with gratitude. “I have worked hard over the last year.”

“So Signor Arcadi tells me. Of course, he is delighted to have such a naturally sweet voice to train. But I understand you have not limited yourself to his training. You also attend lectures in art and the classic texts, poetry readings, and even the political salons. Your interests are wide.”

“They are,” Sarah agreed.

“And you, Miss. Hammy? I believe you were Miss Sarah’s governess? Are you responsible for her voracious love of learning?”

“I would like to claim so,” Hammy said ruefully, “but in truth, it occurred in spite of me rather than because of me. I taught only the basic education and accomplishments thought to be necessary in a young lady of quality. And from the age of eleven, I’m afraid Sarah despised those things.”

“I was, alas, selfish and opinionated,” Sarah admitted. “And wild to a fault. I led poor Hammy in a terrible dance for the next five years.”

“Oh, it was not as bad as that,” Hammy insisted. “Although it must be said, you did worry your dear parents.”

Lady Whitmore’s perceptive gaze flickered from one to the other, although she kept her interested smile throughout. “Then what on earth led you to Whitmore? A positive hotbed of learning and accomplishments?”

“I grew up,” Sarah said lightly and sipped her sherry.

“At the ripe old age of, what?” Lady Whitmore wondered. “Are you even nineteen years old yet?”

“Almost,” Sarah admitted.

“Then you were just seventeen when you came to us, were you not? An age when most young ladies of your class are enjoying their first London Season and trying to catch a husband.”

Sarah couldn’t quite prevent the curl of her lip or the echo of the old hurt. “My parents did not feel I would compete well on the marriage mart. They sent me abroad with my aunt and uncle