Falling For a Lady in Disguise (Preview)

Prologue

Beatrice—no, Jemima fought the urge to fidget. The gray-haired woman before her would undoubtedly notice and possibly strike her name from the list of potential chaperones. Jemima couldn’t let that happen. Her freedom depended on the position and thinking of herself as Lady Jemima Drake. For the sake of her lies, her true identity had to disappear from her thoughts.

“The duke wants a chaperone who is always mindful of their behaviour and how it would reflect on the family,” said Mrs O’Neil, placing a floral teacup on its saucer. She bit into a biscuit and dusted the crumbs from the corners of her mouth. “He will not tolerate any complicated matters that could affect the chaperone’s attention.”

Jemima’s tea and biscuits sat largely untouched. She simply didn’t have the stomach for it, but she still took a few tiny sips here and there to remain polite.

“I assure you that I have no attachments of any kind,” Jemima replied. “I prefer to keep to myself. Of course,” she quickly added. “I am also comfortable in social situations.”

She didn’t want the duke’s former housekeeper to think she was a hermit who stayed in their hovel like some social pariah. Jemima needed to portray herself as having the perfect balance of being reserved and gregarious. It wasn’t an easy feat, not when she was hiding so much.

Mrs O’Neil didn’t respond but tilted her head slightly and regarded Jemima as though she was searching for something. Jemima didn’t like that. She inwardly squirmed under the older woman’s silent and silvery gaze yet remained calm and composed on the outside.

“Who did you say your father was?” Mrs O’Neil finally asked. “You just seem familiar.”

Jemima’s blood ran cold. She had already given her father’s name and title. Being asked again could only mean suspicion.

“Count Didrik of Griffenfeld,” she replied.

“Ah, yes, a count from Denmark,” said Mrs O’Neil. She smiled. “I happen to be Danish, although I haven’t lived there since I married my husband over thirty years ago. Between serving the Duke of Richmond’s family for twenty years and being a wife, there wasn’t much time to return.” She frowned slightly. “However, now that I’ve been retired for a few years and have time on my hands, perhaps I should see my country once again.”

Jemima nodded, but inside, she was pacing like the caged lion she had once seen many years ago. It had been the last year she had with her mother before consumption took her away. If she had been alive, she would never have allowed Jemima’s father to force her into an unwanted marriage. Now, Jemima had taken matters into her own hands, but perhaps she had taken on more than she could handle. She had never before defied her father, lied, or devised a plan to take an interview that could lead to her freedom. Unfortunately, all that effort could lead to nowhere or worse.

“… wish to visit relatives next year,” she heard Mrs O’Neil say.

She had clearly missed the first part of whatever the woman had said, but she wouldn’t make it obvious. That wouldn’t reflect well on her.

“Where in Denmark did you grow up?” Jemima asked.

“The town of Jelling,” Mrs O’Neil replied. “Do you know it?”

“Is it not where the rune stone is located?” Jemima asked. “I recall reading that it was raised in the 10th century by King Harald Bluetooth in remembrance of his parents, Gorm the Old and Thyra.”

Mrs O’Neil’s eyes brightened. “I see you know some of your Danish history,” she said. “I find it essential for one to know where they came from.”

Jemima eagerly nodded. “Yes. It would be wrong of me not to know our history.”

The lie was delivered smoothly and confidently. The truth was that she had never been to Denmark, her father wasn’t a count, and Jemima wasn’t even her name.

“Er din mor engelsk?” Mrs O’Neil asked.

Is your mother English? The words hung in the air for just a moment before Jemima replied.

“Ja, min mor er engelsk,” she said, thankful for her Danish nanny teaching the language to her.

Yes, my mother is English. That was, so far, the only truth she had given. The less Jemima revealed about her true identity, the better. Lady Jemima Drake, the only daughter of an impoverished count, didn’t exist. In reality, she was Lady Beatrice Hoskins, the Earl of Morton’s only daughter, and betrothed to Viscount Wentworth, a man with a cruel streak. She shivered slightly just thinking about the man.

“Are you cold, Lady Jemima?” Mrs O’Neil asked. “The room is a little breezy. I’m afraid I have always enjoyed the cold more, so I keep a cool room. I attribute it to rarely growing ill.”

“No, I am perfectly well,” Jemima assured. “If I were ill, I would use marshmallow. I learned that from my Danish nanny.”

That was her second truth of the day. Thank goodness for her Danish nanny and the woman’s love for her country.

Mrs O’Neil’s eyes widened as she clapped her hands once. “Oh-ho! So, you also know about our herbal medicine. I happen to use that very plant whenever I have a cough or fever. I have it sent to me straight from the Caspian Sea region. It’s so much more effective than the blather these physicians babble about.”

“The old ways are the best ways,” Jemima said.

Mrs O’Neil smiled widely, evidently pleased. “Yes, they are.” She paused and sat back in her seat, her eyes sparkling. “When I was asked to find Lady Hannah a chaperone as a favor to the duke, I wanted to bring one of my nieces from Denmark, but he wanted an Englishwoman.”

“The English are more comfortable around their own,” Jemima offered.

“Indeed, they are,” the older woman replied. “However, I still feel Lady Hannah needs more than the company of the feeble young women I have spoken to thus far. You are intelligent, beautiful, well-spoken, and you have impeccable manners. But, more than that, you have the land of our fathers running through your veins, the strength of Vikings. You’ll need that once under the duke’s employment.”

Jemima’s clasped hands tightened with a mixture of hope and wariness. It seemed Mrs O’Neil was saying she wanted to give Jemima the position, but that last bit about needing strength when under the duke’s employment … That part was worrying, but no more than being Viscount Wentworth’s wife.

“Do you mean to say I have the position?” she asked.

Mrs O’Neil smiled. “I have yet to come across someone who deserves it more than you,” she said. “I have been to several counties, and Kent happens to be my last.” She took a letter lying beside her on a table. “This is your formal letter of employment. Please return tomorrow for the carriage to take you to the duke’s home.”

“Tomorrow?” Jemima replied in surprise.

She hadn’t realized she would need to leave so soon, but perhaps that was better.

Mrs O’Neil raised an eyebrow. “Yes, tomorrow. The post is effective immediately. Is there a problem?”

“No, none at all,” Jemima assured her.

The further she got away from Kent, the better. She just hoped York would be far enough.

***

Indecision ate away at Jemima’s resolve the following morning. She was due to leave in an hour, yet she was still in the library, trailing her hands over books she had read countless times. They held a special place in her heart for the many hours of adventure, tears, wonder, and hope they had given her. Now, she needed to embark on her own adventure.

Settling into her mother’s favourite armchair, Jemima wondered if she could really leave her home. Her mother’s essence was in every room, and the house had memories that shaped her childhood and her walk into womanhood.

“My Lady,” said Banks, walking into the library. “You must leave now. The carriage awaits. You cannot miss it. Most of the servants are busy, so the hallway is free.”

The poor lady’s maid had hardly slept a wink since Jemima decided to take the interview. To protect her, Jemima had given her very little information about everything, which only seemed to stress her more. It would all be for naught if Jemima didn’t leave.

She suddenly stood up, her mind made up. “Keep an eye on everyone, Banks,” she said. “I need to get my portmanteau first.”

“I hid it behind the potted plant just outside the foyer,” said Banks. “I wish I could carry it for you. It’s rather heavy, and you must walk quite a distance from the house to where the carriage awaits you.”

The portmanteau was filled with Jemima’s plainest clothes, some money, and jewellery to ensure she was never without means to support herself. She had also given her lady’s maid some money and a letter of recommendation if her father decided to end her employment.

“Thank you, Banks,” she said. “Make sure to tell them you know nothing. Do not deviate from our story.”

Her lady’s maid didn’t even know her mistress’s new identity. She didn’t know that Beatrice would cease to exist once she stepped outside the front door. Only Jemima was allowed to thrive.

Banks swallowed hard, her brown eyes growing watery. “Yes, My Lady. Please, be careful.”

Jemima nodded, and in a rare moment of affection, she hugged Banks and rushed out of the room before her lady’s maid cried. Walking downstairs as though nothing were amiss was trickier than Jemima imagined. She was trembling from fear of her father suddenly appearing and keeping her from leaving. He was in his study, poring over the books, none the wiser of his only child’s imminent escape.

She made it to the hallway and looked about. Thankfully, it was quiet. Jemima rushed to where her portmanteau was shrouded by a leafy potted plant and lifted it with hands that shook slightly. This was it. She looked back, finding Banks’s tearful gaze. With a grateful smile, Jemima nodded, opened the front door, and stepped outside. She hurried into the street and kept her head down, barely breathing until she was several feet away from her home.

After some time, she looked back and couldn’t see her house anymore. She had finally done it. She was free.

 

Chapter One

“Henry!” his sister cried, bursting into the drawing room.

Henry jerked, nearly spilling his tea all over himself. At eight-thirty in the morning, it was his quiet time before the storm of responsibilities, a lively sister, and visitors rained down on him.

“For heaven’s sake, Hannah,” he exclaimed, placing the cup on its saucer. “Why do you insist upon entering a room like that? What if my heart just gives up one day?”

Hannah rolled her eyes. “You’re far too healthy and strong to die.”

She threw herself onto a settee and hugged a floral cushion to her chest, not at all concerned about her dishevelled hair and lack of shoes. It looked like she had fallen asleep again after reading into the early morning hours and simply woke up and decided to go downstairs.

A pained expression crossed Henry’s features as he realized he had somehow failed to raise his sister well.

“Must you behave like that?” he asked. “Throwing yourself on the furniture. It’s not very ladylike. And did you even bathe today?”

“It’s just the two of us,” Hannah pointed out as she propped the side of her head on a hand. “I have no need to act like anyone else but myself. Also, I just woke up and wanted to speak with you while they ready my bath.”

Henry sighed. “You are now sixteen, Hannah. You’re a year away from your first London Season. You need to change your ways, or you’ll have trouble adjusting.”

“Isn’t that why I’m getting a chaperone?” she asked. “To watch my manners and ensure I always follow social etiquette?”

“She’ll be more of a companion,” Henry corrected. “Someone who will remind you of your behaviour. You must understand that people are always watching you.”

Hannah merely flung her arm over her eyes a touch dramatically and ignored him. He sighed again, reached for his tea, and took a sip. If not for a meddlesome but well-meaning relative pointing out that Hannah needed to be more socially aware of her behaviour as her first Season drew closer, he would not have sought a suitable companion and chaperone.

Hannah had become a young woman without him realizing it, and part of him still struggled to accept that she wasn’t the little girl he had raised after their parents’ death ten years ago. His sister’s future depended on her making a good impression, especially now that she had taken a liking to attending social events suitable for a woman yet to be formally introduced to society, like going on promenades in public spaces and shopping. Before, being at home and filling her day with horse riding, painting, playing the pianoforte, reading, and bothering him had been her favourite daily pursuits. It almost felt like she had changed overnight, but realistically, it had likely been small changes over time.

Hannah shifted her body to lie on her side and fixed him with a determined stare. Henry knew that look.

“What do you want?” he asked cautiously. “I already told you I’m not getting you another exotic animal.”

Hannah released a short burst of laughter and sat up. “It’s not that,” she said. “Although I think my little zoo requires another monkey to keep Albert company. He’s lonely.”

“Absolutely not,” Henry firmly said. “The estate is practically overrun with animals. What is it that you really wish to ask?”

“I’d like to invite our neighbours for dinner,” she revealed. “After all, I need to practice my hosting skills. What better way than to host dinners and parties?”

“You wish to invite Viscount and Viscountess Broad?” he asked.

“And Mr Miller, their son,” Hannah added. “I hear he intends to go on the Grand Tour before he begins his years at Oxford. I thought it would be nice of us to give a dinner party and wish him well.”

Henry raised his eyebrows. “How did you come by this news? I wasn’t aware you knew much about him.”

Although they had been neighbours for some time, Giles Miller usually kept to himself or his small group of friends. He was a serious and studious young man who rarely attended social events, so it surprised Henry to know his sister knew about their neighbour’s future plans.

Hannah’s cheeks pinkened slightly. “I heard someone mention it at Juliet Simpson’s garden party the other day,” she said. “Apparently, he’ll leave during spring. It’s already February, so there isn’t much time left.”

“Well, I suppose hosting a dinner party would be a good thing,” said Henry, mildly amused by his sister’s lightly flushed cheeks. “We have known the Millers for a long time, and it would be nice to have dinner with them.”

He got along with the family well enough. The viscount and viscountess had also been supportive after Henry’s parents died, even offering to help with running the estate and giving advice to deal with a grieving six-year-old girl.

“Capital!” Hannah exclaimed. “Shall we set it for next Wednesday? I’ll speak with Mrs Davis about the menu. Would an eight-course meal suffice?”

“I’ll leave everything in your hands,” said Henry. “Surprise me with your skills.”

Hannah beamed. “Certainly! Maybe I should find out about Mr Miller’s favourite dishes,” she said more to herself.

“I’m sure he’ll be happy with whatever we serve,” he said. “We have excellent chefs. The best in York, if not England itself.”

“Still, I’d like it to be special,” his sister insisted.

“Hosting a dinner in his honour isn’t special enough?” he asked. “Besides, why are you going to so much trouble for someone you barely speak to? Even if he is to leave for the Grand Tour, I do not see why that would prompt you to have a dinner for him.”

Hannah’s blush deepened. “It’s just an excuse to practice my hosting skills,” she replied, her voice rising slightly. “I already told you this.”

Her defensiveness couldn’t be missed. There was something she wasn’t telling him, but he wasn’t going to push her. There used to be a time when Hannah would tell him everything, even when she had her first blood. Henry couldn’t recall being more uncomfortable about the conversation, but he had endured it because she was his beloved sister.

“Do whatever you think is necessary for the dinner party,” he said. “Let Mrs Davis know what you need so she can buy the necessary things.”

“Is there a limit to how much I can spend?” his sister asked.

“No, but be responsible,” he told her.

“That is as good as saying do not spend too much,” she pointed out.

“No, it means purchase what you need, but there’s no reason to buy unnecessary things,” Henry stated.

“I still believe it means the same thing,” she muttered. She looked at her bare toes and wriggled them. “Do you think I could convince Madame Lamont to make me a dress for the evening? I know she’s rather busy, but I do not have a thing to wear for the occasion.”

Henry released a bark of laughter. “Nothing to wear? You have dresses made every season. You must have something.”

Hannah pouted and crossed her arms. “I have already worn everything. I simply want a pretty dress suitable for dinner. I will use my pin money if I must.”

His sister was undoubtedly spoiled, but he couldn’t blame her. He had made her this way. Fortunately, she had a heart of gold, so he didn’t really mind giving her what she wanted.

“If you can convince Madame Lamont to make your dress, then I will pay for it,” he said.

“Thank you, thank you!” Hannah squealed.

She leapt to her feet and threw herself at him, pushing him into his seat. He groaned at the sudden weight but still patted her head affectionately.

“Yes, yes,” he said, chuckling slightly. “Now, off with you and have a bath. You shouldn’t smell like yesterday.”

Hannah pulled away and frowned at him. “I do not smell.”

“You’re sitting in yesterday’s clothing,” he said. “You last had a bath before dinner. You didn’t even change your clothing into night attire. Did you sleep in the library or your room this time?”

Hannah grinned sheepishly and slid off him. “I might have fallen asleep in the library before Mary woke me up and led me to my chambers.” She paused and sniffed under her arms. “I suppose I don’t smell as fresh as I could.”

“Hannah,” he said with an exasperated cry. “A lady does not smell themselves in the presence of others.”

“My brother is not others,” she said, waving off his comment. She placed a hand on her belly when it growled. “I need something to eat.”

“After you bathe,” Henry insisted.

Hannah immediately pouted. “So, you wish to starve me?”

“You won’t—”

He was cut off when he heard a knock on the door. He turned as his butler appeared inside the room and bowed before them.

“Yes, what is it, Radcliffe?” he asked.

“Your Grace, Mr Miller is here,” his butler informed them.

Hannah’s gasp drew Henry’s attention. “Mr Miller?” she exclaimed, touching her hair. “Did he say what he wanted?”

“No, My Lady,” said Radcliffe. “Should I ask him?”

“No!” Hannah cried. “Bring him in.”

Henry looked on with amusement, although a bit of concern pricked the back of his mind. His sister appeared overly concerned with the young man’s visit. Usually, she would leave him to deal with any visitors who were not her friends. Not only did she want to host a dinner in his honour, but she also seemed eager to see him. He was beginning to think she might like Mr Miller, but that didn’t make sense. They rarely saw each other. She would not have had time to develop an infatuation.

“Do you mean to see Mr Miller looking like yesterday?” he asked her.

Hannah’s pretty dark eyes widened as she looked down at herself. “Goodness,” she cried before running out of the room like the hounds of hell were after her.

“Your Grace, should I bring in Mr Miller or inform him you’re unable to accept visitors?” Mr Radcliffe asked.

“Well, there must be a reason he’s here,” said Henry.

“He was carrying a basket, Your Grace,” the butler revealed. “I imagine he has come to bring you something.”

Henry’s eyebrows rose with interest. “Well, I suppose we shouldn’t keep him waiting.”

The butler disappeared and returned moments later with the fair-haired young man. If Henry remembered correctly, he was seventeen but appeared a little older with his permanent serious expression. He clutched a large basket covered with a colourful and floral cloth.

“Mr Miller, it’s a pleasure to see you,” Henry said, rising from his seat.

“Thank you for seeing me, Your Grace,” Mr Miller replied, bowing respectfully before taking Henry’s outstretched hand. “I would have come later, but my mother insisted I bring this basket now. It’s thanks for the preserves and flowers Lady Hannah gave her last week.”

Henry frowned slightly. He wasn’t aware his sister had sent anything to the viscountess.

“I see,” he said. “That is kind of your mother.”

Henry gestured for the nearby footman to take the basket and place it somewhere suitable. Hannah would undoubtedly wish to see what its contents held.

“Would you like to take a seat?” Henry offered.

“That is kind of you, but I must be going,” Mr Miller said apologetically. “Please give my regards to Lady Hannah.”

“Certainly.”

“Thank you. Please, excuse me.”

Henry nodded and returned to his seat when the young man left. Seconds later, his sheepish-looking sister appeared in the doorway.

“What did Mr Miller say?” she asked.

“He brought a gift basket from his mother,” Henry replied. “I suppose it’s for you. I didn’t know you sent anything to Viscountess Broad. You usually tell me these sorts of things.”

“Oh,” she said, avoiding his gaze. “I suppose it slipped my mind.”

She approached the basket and removed the cover, smiling as she looked through the gifts. A little unease settled within Henry. His sister seemed to be keeping more things from him lately, like suddenly leaving the house for a promenade at the park or visiting friends. It made him feel a little better knowing that her chaperone was on her way to the estate. Hopefully, the woman would be able to keep his sister from making any mistakes to jeopardize her future. He would otherwise never forgive himself.