A Proud Duke for the Dashing Hoyden (Preview)

Chapter One

Celia

“All I ask, dear sister, is that you refrain from causing any further embarrassment to our family name.” 

Andrew Maynard gave his request, leaned against the swaying back of the carriage, and crossed his arms, levelling Celia with an uncompromising gaze. She looked back at her brother evenly. 

“I have done nothing to embarrass you thus far,” she said with a smile. “We haven’t even arrived amidst the wedding party yet. How could I have already taken a misstep?” 

“You haven’t had a chance this trip,” he retorted, “but you have a long and storied history of inappropriate behaviour, and I consider it my duty to stave off future outbursts.”

“Heavens.” Celia turned and elbowed their father, Viscount Malcolm Maynard, gently in the ribs. “Do you hear this, Father?” she asked archly. “Andrew has already given me up as a lost cause. How shall I ever make it through James’ wedding without embarrassing the entire family?”

Malcolm Maynard was well used to Celia’s teasing and Andrew’s propriety. The two personalities had clashed ever since they were children, and now, with Andrew, an established gentleman of four and twenty, and Celia, a lady only a few years younger, their father left them to their disputes without much intervention. He sighed slightly and drew himself up a little straighter in his seat. 

“It is too warm a day for bickering,” he complained. “Can you not reach some manner of truce and leave me to finish the journey in peace?”

Celia pursed her lips and turned her attention to Andrew again. “What do you think I will do, exactly?” she asked. 

Andrew crossed his arms. “You know exactly what I mean,” he said. “Do not force me to say something unkind you can use against me.”

Celia pretended innocence. “If you want me to refrain from certain behaviour,” she said, “then you will need to be clear about what are off limits.”

“You force my hand,” he said resignedly, holding up one finger at a time to indicate a list. “First,” he said, “you ought to refrain from speaking your mind so openly in public settings—it makes you look like a Bluestocking, and you know it.”

“Interesting that you should mention that fine society,” she said with a smile. “I was just reading Montagu yesterday.”

He rolled his eyes and held up a second finger. “Second: do not speak of authors linked with radical and inappropriate ideas of womanhood.”

“Oh,” she said with wide eyes. “So I ought not to ask the bride her opinions on Mary Wollstonecraft?”

“Father,” Andrew said with exasperation. “She is clearly trying to antagonise me.”

Malcolm smiled at Celia with that gentle expression that she knew and loved. “She has a point,” he said kindly. “If you disapprove of her manners in society, you ought to explain where she has erred so that she might correct herself in the future.”

Andrew held up a third finger. “Hold your temper,” he said, continuing the list. “You have a poor reputation, Celia. People are already on edge around you, fearful of what you might say and do next. Growing passionate about matters that are not proper for a woman to care about makes people uncomfortable.”

“Matters like the state of our penal system?” Celia asked archly. “Or the fact that women in poverty in London have no way of rising above their station? If it is not proper for a woman to care about such things, then who is permitted to involve themselves?”

“That,” Andrew said, slapping his leg emphatically. “That is precisely the sort of conversation that you ought to avoid. And lastly, you shouldn’t be so boisterous—always inserting yourself into physical competitions that are not proper for a woman.”

Now it was Celia’s turn to roll her eyes. “You make it sound quite scandalous,” she said. “It’s not as though I’m going across the ocean to fight Napoleon, Andrew. I’m only engaging in a bit of cricket with the village children now and again.”

“And you ride,” he pointed out.

“Many ladies ride,” she said, growing as exasperated as he. “Lady Astley is always riding at her country home.” A little under her breath, she added, “She won’t cease droning on about it.”

“You know very well that is not what I mean,” Andrew retorted. “That is all proper riding. You are quite different. You insist on helping house and bed down your animal, even if it means dung on the hem of your skirts, and you speak roughly about the intricacies of the sport as though you spent your afternoons at Tattersall’s.”

Celia looked out the window, watching the passing countryside rattle by. “I suppose you think riding is only proper if the lady partaking in the activity has no idea where her horse comes from,” she said, “or what its needs are? Surely a rudimentary knowledge of horseflesh could aid the lady in knowing when her mount is pushed beyond its limits.”

“No,” Andrew said tightly. “Not if the lady in question understands it is not for her to push a horse beyond its limits. Her riding ought to be restrained and for casual enjoyment only.”

“Andrew, really,” Celia said, throwing up her hands. “You could write a new volume of Fordyce’s; you’re so taken with the subject of what a woman ought and ought not to do.” She smiled. “And you and Fordyce have something in common—both of you, though seeming experts in the field, are not, in fact, women.”

Andrew fell silent for a moment, his jaw hard. When he spoke again, the anger seemed to have left him. His voice was quiet. 

“It’s for your own good, Celia,” he said. “You do realise, do you not, that your reputation precedes you to an event such as this? People will be talking about the hoyden daughter of Viscount Maynard, and they will be watching for your every misstep. You have given us a bad name—not just yourself, but your family as well.”

The viscount stirred at Celia’s side, reaching over and taking her hand briefly in his. “That’s enough, Andrew,” he said. “Celia is not a pariah. She is only a young girl who speaks her mind. She is kind, fair, and morally upright—all the qualities that truly make a lady.”

Andrew said nothing more, only turning his gaze out the window, but his last words had struck home. Celia watched his face momentarily and then dropped her eyes to her father’s gentle hand over hers. For all her bravado, she was not unfeeling. She knew she was an outsider. She knew her reputation preceded her. 

All her life, people had spoken hopefully of her maturation into womanhood. She will grow out of that wilful spirit. She will learn a civil tongue. She will soften and be gentle at finishing school. She will fall in love and see that a gentleman wants a woman with a meek spirit. Yet, her governess left, she was introduced into the London Season, and nothing changed. 

The long, gangly limbs and awkward manner of childhood had vanished. Celia had grown into a tall, willowy woman with light brown hair and uncommonly intense grey eyes. She had gone through all the motions required of a girl turning into a woman, yet she had not grown out of her spirit and wit. If anything, facing the icy propriety of her first London Season had caused Celia to buck even more against what was required of her, like a colt feeling the lead rope for the first time. 

She acted as though she did not care what others thought of her, and yet, just as Andrew had said, she could see that she was an outcast to them. Them. The sparkling, charming girls her age seemed to accept just what was required of them. The handsome, aloof dandies who asked her to dance out of obligation. The whispering, plotting mothers who tried to keep their sons safe from her wiles. 

Celia did not want to care, yet when she was honest with herself, she knew she did. Everyone wants to belong. The difference was Celia would rather be free than belong, and society declared the two things incongruous. 

The carriage lurched a little over a rough part in the road and then rattled onto a smoother section of crushed rock. Celia peered out the window and saw the countryside rolling out, lush and green, on every side. 

“Have you ever been to Welbeck Abbey?” she asked her father, hoping to steer the conversation away from her indiscretions. 

He frowned and shook his head. “I don’t believe I have,” he said. “I have been to the Dukeries in North Nottinghamshire, but I’ve never been invited to the estate before. It’s an eccentric place, to be sure. I’ve heard such things as pique my curiosity excessively.”

“Eccentric?” It was a word that always piqued Celia’s interest. “How so?”

“It belongs to the Duke of Portland at present,” he said. “Andrew knows him as Lord Bentinck, although I do not believe you’ve ever met him, Celia. He lives there with his mother, the Dowager Lady Bentinck. She has cultivated a rather splendid kitchen garden—more than twenty acres if I remember correctly.”

“A garden?” Celia asked, raising her eyebrows. “That is the great eccentricity?” 

“There is also the tunnel underground,” her father went on. “It leads to a heated indoor riding track for the horses. You are not acquainted with such a luxury, I imagine.”

Celia smiled and laughed. “You are right to name the track and the tunnel,” she said. “Those interest me far more than a kitchen garden. I wonder if we will have a chance to see it while we are guests at Welbeck.”

“I doubt it,” Andrew interjected quickly. “We will only be there a few days, and not even the gentlemen will be spending that time at a riding track.”

Not even the gentlemen. Celia took his point and turned back to her father. “Is there a town nearby?” she asked. 

“Worksop is local,” Malcolm said thoughtfully. “But not much else. As you have determined from our rather long ride, Welbeck is rural, and the surrounding country is quite isolated.”

“But we are nearly here,” Celia said, peering out again. “I felt the gravel of the drive as we turned onto it.”

She was right. Only a few moments more, and the sheep fields on either side gave way to large expanses of clipped green gardens and lush play fields with croquet already assembled on the lawn. 

Great arching trees spread their branches over the road and cooled the heavy, late-summer breeze as it drifted into the carriage. The horses pulled around a loop in the road, and Celia caught her first grand sight of the abbey, suddenly large and looming before them. 

Welbeck was enormous, sitting grandly along the banks of the narrow Shrubbery Lake, encircled by ornate stone walls and gardens. Celia looked at it with interest. She had grown up in a comfortable situation, but this manner of grandeur surpassed even the elegance of the London Season. There was something sprawling and indulgent about all the space surrounding the Abbey, as though it owned the sky and water as well as the stone from which it was made. 

“It is beautiful,” she mused. 

“And you were reluctant to be taken away from our library and stables,” her father teased gently.

She raised her eyebrows. “If you think the duke of this place will allow me access to his stables and libraries, then my reluctance will vanish.” She quickly glanced in Andrew’s direction, then nodded stiffly. “But of course, that will not be. No, all this wealth is for looking at and admiring. It matters not to me how great a stable there is if I am not to be permitted to ride. Nor how great a library if the doors are kept locked and barred.”

“The visit is not about you, sister,” Andrew cautioned. “It is about Manvers.”

Celia nodded, feeling a little guilty. Her brother, for all his harsh criticism of her person, was right in this matter. James was the son of the Earl of Manvers, her father’s late and dear friend. They had grown up together like brother and sister, and his marriage to Lady Rebecca Cavendish was a storied and impressive event. 

“He chose a beautiful place for his wedding,” she said, regretting her earlier pessimism regarding the library and stables. 

“It was not his choice, exactly,” Malcolm said with a frown. “After the fire damaged his own home, there was little option but to find another location. He is fortunate to have Bentinck as a friend.”

Celia nodded. The fire in question was an unfortunate accident in the kitchen that had spread up to the lower levels of the house. Repairs were underway, but a wedding such as James and Rebecca planned could never happen in a scorched home under construction. They were the match of the Season, and such a match demanded grandeur. 

At the gate, their carriage halted, waiting for the groundskeeper to let them enter. As they waited, Andrew looked out towards the narrow lake across the field from them. 

“They are fortunate in the hot weather,” he said. “I know a few years back, the autumn rains flooded the banks of the Shrubbery and caused quite a bit of damage to the surrounding countryside.” He smiled wryly at Celia. “Imagine how sad you would be to be separated from your library even longer because of washed-out roads.”

She smiled back at him. “It is a grim thought,” she said.

“And one that is unlikely to come true,” her father added. “The summer has been unusually dry. There is no reason to expect a wet autumn.”

“I disagree,” Andrew countered. “There is never a reason to expect rain … until it appears. The roads are hard-packed mud. If heavy rains come, there will be flooding in the extreme.”

“You always take a dismal view of things,” Malcolm said with a sigh. “Tell me, do you ever climb out of bed and think, ‘how glorious—I imagine the day holds all manner of adventure for me?”

Celia laughed despite herself, the idea of Andrew as an optimist appearing ridiculous. Andrew did not seem to find his father’s words amusing and only looked past his family to the groundskeeper outside. 

“What is taking so long?” he asked. 

As if in answer to his question, the great iron gate rolled aside to admit the carriage. Celia sat forward on the edge of her seat, eager to see what lay ahead. 

 

Chapter Two

Cameron

Cameron, Lord Bentinck, waved a hand to summon the stable boy to his side. 

“Will you see to Kingly?” he said, motioning to the horse he had just dismounted. “I have to go inside and ascertain the well-being of my guests.” He pulled an apple out of his pocket and handed it to the boy. “Make sure Kingly has plenty of oats and water,” he directed.

“And the apple, sir?” the boy countered, holding up the fruit and examining the crisp pink skin. 

“No,” Cameron said with a warm smile. “No, that is for you, William. To compensate you for the extra labours.”

“’Tis just my job, My Lord,” the boy protested, but when Cameron bowed and turned away, he heard the distinct sound of fruit being bitten into just behind him. 

He walked towards the house, brushing his hands against his riding attire, and taking off his hat as he went. He ran his fingers through the loose dark waves of his hair and took the back steps two at a time. He was unused to hosting large numbers of people at Welbeck—his tenure as the abbey’s caretaker had only begun a year ago, after his father’s death, and the place had been in mourning for most of that time. 

Still, it did his soul well to see the carriages lining up outside and to hear the soft murmur of conversation coming from the main rooms. 

He stopped briefly in the back hall to give the butler some direction regarding the evening meal and enquired after his mother. Hearing that she was still in her chambers, he turned and walked on into the large staterooms, where people gathered in conversation. He knew them all and smiled as a few heads raised in acknowledgement. 

He saw Lady Annabelle and Lady Marie looking his way from across the room. They were beribboned, as usual, with feathers and pearls hanging from their elaborate hairstyles and trimming the edges of their gowns. He forced a smile, wanting to be polite. The two young women had befriended his mother a few months before and seemed to be always near at hand. In response to his smile, Annabelle came his way, smiling in that simpering way that soured his stomach. 

“My Lord,” she said, tittering happily behind her fan. “We had almost despaired of seeing you here this fine day. Please tell me we can look forward to your presence here in the staterooms.”

“As I am already here,” he said, trying to keep his tone light, “I think such an eventuality can hardly be avoided.”

Annabelle broke into a gale of laughter that managed to be both coy and grating. She dropped into a curtsy. 

“You ought to come join Lady Marie and me,” she said. “We have been discussing the wedding tomorrow and would love to hear your opinion of the proceedings.”

“I will have to defer for now,” he said, catching sight of a few older women—friends of his mother’s—gathered by the great window overlooking the lawn. One of them was raising a hand to summon him. “I see Lady Weatherby calling me over.”

He bowed and left Lady Annabelle standing disconsolately behind himself. 

She and her friend were from fine families and had fine breeding, but they grated on his nerves in every other way. They had befriended his mother in her time of need, and so he had suffered them to continue their regular visits to the abbey. Still, he could not help wishing they were a more avoidable nuisance. Every time he turned around, one of those two ladies seemed to be hanging on his every word or striving for his attention. 

However, the three women by the window were like older aunts who had been in his life since he was a boy. He came to join them, bowing first to Lady Weatherby. She grinned back up at him. 

“You are too kind,” she said, patting the chair at her side. “You are giving three old women like us your attention when there are so many other sparkling stars in your universe at present.” She nodded significantly at Lady Annabelle. 

Cameron shook his head. “None so sparkling as yourself, Lady Weatherby,” he countered. 

“We are engaged in the most delicious gossip and would dearly love your input,” another of the three, Mrs Potter, interjected.

He sat by the three women, smiling despite himself. “I’m afraid I do not particularly enjoy gossip,” he said. “It doesn’t seem quite fair, does it? After all, the person under discussion can hardly defend themselves.”

“Our gossip is harmless.” Lady Weatherby patted his arm with a fragile, gloved hand, looking at him with the tenderness of a grandmother. “We are only indulging in one of the few pleasures left to our old age. Surely a gentleman such as yourself will not fault us that.”

“You are calling upon my duty as a gentleman,” he said. “And therefore, I must indulge whatever you wish.”

“We were just talking about the newcomers you have slated to arrive this afternoon,” the final woman, a bustling and officious lady named Mrs Elliot Stevens, said with a low tone. “We have heard the viscount is a particularly striking figure.”

Cameron smiled. “I have met him once or twice in the sphere of business. He seems a worthy enough man, although I do not know him well.”

“Well, that is what parties like this are for,” Mrs Potter said. “We shall be able to know him better by the end of our stay, I’m sure. He is bringing his son and daughter with him, is he not? I have heard the son is rather a sober fellow and regularly tends to his father’s business matters in London.”

“That is hardly intriguing gossip,” Cameron said. “You have only pointed out that the son, a Mr Andrew Maynard, is a hard-working young man.”

“Oh, the gossip is not with the son,” Lady Weatherby breathed, raising her eyebrows to deepen the moment’s mystery. “It all lies with the daughter, Miss Celia Maynard. I have only seen her across the ballroom a few times before—I have certainly never had her over for any significant personal event like a tea or a dinner party.” She turned her gaze to Cameron. “I think it a good thing that you are willing to invite people who are not as well accepted in other areas. It shows your charity.”

Cameron frowned. “I was not aware there was anything particularly untoward about Miss Maynard.”

“That is because you have not spent time with her,” Mrs Potter interjected. “Give Miss Maynard a few moments when she arrives, and she will show her true colours. This is not only from personal experience; I assure you—it is the tale I hear from every person I encounter in the ton. The girl is notorious. Even your own mother knows as much.”

“Notorious,” Cameron said, laughing despite himself. “For what? Is she an ogre after dark? Has she sold secrets to Napoleon?”

Lady Weatherby fixed him with an exasperated glare. “You speak as though we are silly,” she said, “but we have not manufactured these stories. If you were a little more in society and not always focused on matters of state, you would have heard about some of Miss Maynard’s indiscretions.”

“I hear she was caught riding astride through a park in London only a fortnight ago,” Mrs Potter said. “In broad daylight.”

“As opposed to riding in the dead of night?” Cameron asked, still smiling, though a sense of unease fell upon him at the words. He had felt the weight of responsibility for years—even before his father’s death—which required him to conduct himself with the utmost decorum and remain above reproach in all society matters. He had never had people speak of him as they were now speaking of Celia. He wondered if she would cause calamity during her stay, as these women seemed to suspect. 

“She also cried out at a showing of Othello during the start of the Season,” Mrs Stevens said with wide eyes. “She corrected the script, I believe.”

“That was not loud enough for everyone to hear,” Lady Weatherby said. “I believe only those in her box and the adjoining box were aware of the indiscretion.”

“That would be quite alright,” Mrs Stevens countered, “if it weren’t true that the Prince Regent occupied the adjoining box.”

Cameron raised his eyebrows. “Risky,” he said, “to correct a play in the presence of one so acquainted with entertainment and revelry.”

Mrs Potter shook her head. “Well, there you have it,” she said. “Miss Maynard is nothing if not risky.” She pursed her lips together, showing her disapproval. “I have spoken to your mother on the subject already—when I saw your guest list.”

With curious timing, the butler came and stood at Cameron’s side. “Please, sir,” he said. “I have just had word from your mother. She has a thought regarding the dinner tonight and has requested your attendance in her chambers so that she might share the thought with your lordship.”

Cameron stood, nodding to the butler. “Of course,” he said. “I will go at once.”

“Furthermore,” the butler continued, “the viscount’s carriage has been sighted in the drive. They should be here any moment.”

“Show them in and make certain their belongings are put properly into their rooms,” Cameron directed. “I will miss their arrival initially, but when my mother is finished, I will return to greet them.”

The butler bowed. “Right so, My Lord,” he said. 

Cameron turned to the ladies. “You will have a chance to test your gossip,” he said with a smile, chiding them gently. “I hope you will greet our Miss Maynard kindly in my absence.”

The three looked at him with patronising smiles, and all nodded dutifully. As Cameron walked away, he smiled to himself, guessing that his advice would not be followed in the least. 

***

The carriage rolled to a stop at the steps leading into Welbeck Abbey, and Celia climbed out after her father and Andrew. Her brother turned dutifully to offer his hand for support, but she had already leapt to the ground on her own. She smiled sheepishly up at him. 

“I was too quick for you,” she said.

“You are too quick in general,” he said through stiff lips. “Take my arm, and we shall enter the house in a dignified manner.”

The door opened quite suddenly, and as a footman stood aside to usher them inside, James appeared in the doorway. Celia abandoned her brother, climbed the stairs quickly, clasping James’ hand in friendship, and then stepped back to drop into an obligatory curtsy. 

“James,” she said with a bright smile. “It is so good to see you.”

“Why, Celia,” he responded gladly. “It has been far too long.”

“Of course,” she said. “What was it, a good two months ago that you were sitting at my father’s table telling us about your intentions regarding a certain Lady Cavendish?”

“I remember it as though it were yesterday,” he said, stepping aside so she could walk past him into the interior of the abbey. He turned towards her father and brother, who had made the ascent with considerably more decorum. “How wonderful it is to have you all here,” he said. “Your presence makes the festivities seem that much more enjoyable.”

Andrew bowed in greeting, as did Malcolm, and the two proceeded inside. James caught up with Celia, standing still in the first hall, looking up at the crown moulding in quiet delight. 

“Does it meet with your approval?” he teased. 

She turned and smiled at him. “I feel like a royal walking through my castle,” she said glibly. “The space is enormous.”

“And you have only just begun to explore it,” he said. “Rebecca said it was almost too grand for her desires—she was quite overwhelmed with the Gothic hall.”

“That sounds ominous,” Celia said. “Where is your bride-to-be at present?”

“I believe she is in the staterooms at present,” he answered. “I was going to take you there straightaway and make some introductions. There are quite a few people assembled here already. You are some of the last of the party to arrive.” He waved a finger at the footman standing just behind them, summoning the servant to his side. “See that their things are taken up to their rooms if you will.”

The footman bowed wordlessly and left to complete the task. Celia walked at James’ side down a hall hung with expensive portraiture, her father and brother striding just behind. At the end of the hall, a grand door opened into the staterooms James had mentioned. The ceiling rose high above them, moulded with intricate white texture, the walls painted with windows of maroon surrounding delicate landscapes. The entire affair was gilt in gold and made an impression on Celia despite herself. She was not usually drawn to rich and elegant surroundings—too often they were associated with the sort of people who despised her—but there was something tasteful and elegant about Welbeck that nearly took her breath away. 

A handful of people were in the room, each speaking in demure pockets of conversation. All looked towards the newcomers, but James chose the group gathered at the fireside to introduce first. He led his guests over and smiled at the slender wisp of a woman standing closest to him. 

“My dear,” he said, “may I introduce you to my dear family friends? This is Lord Maynard, a close ally of my father’s before he passed away, and his son, Mr Andrew Maynard.” Both bowed, and then James added with a note of tenderness, “And here is his daughter, Miss Celia Maynard. Celia, this is my fiancée, Lady Cavendish.”

Celia was gratified to see a hint of delight flash in Rebecca’s eyes, but she was a sophisticated woman and showed little other emotion. Instead, she extended a hand to Celia and pressed Celia’s gently in her own. 

“I am glad you could make it,” she said warmly. “James speaks of you often.”

“I made his life rather difficult when we were children,” Celia answered archly. “Any mischief I pulled on my brother, I had to pull on our dear Lord Manvers here as well.” She raised her eyebrow in his direction. “And I will say that he can give as well as he can get.”

She realised too late that something she’d said was not quite proper. Perhaps it was the reference to pranks of the past—perhaps it was the insinuation that Rebecca’s groom had mischief in his past—but for whatever reason, the other people in the circle seemed uncomfortable. She wondered if her reputation had preceded her here, as it seemed to do everywhere she went.

James cleared his throat. “And also,” he went on, pointing to the others in the circle, “I ought to introduce you to Mr and Mrs Cranwell. They are of the London Cranwells—you may have heard about the stir he caused in the House of Commons last year.”

Rebecca laid a hand on her fiancé’s arm as though to discourage him from discussing politics. Celia noticed the gesture but disregarded it, instead curtsying briefly to the elderly Mr Cranwell and saying, “I, for one, was impressed by the stand you took against the candle tax,” she said. “I think it will do much to help with the plight of the downtrodden.”

Mr Cranwell smiled back at her uncomfortably, as though unsure how to interact with a woman discussing such matters, but his wife did not smile. She looked away, trying to distance herself from the conversation. 

“You speak your opinion quite freely,” Mr Cranwell said. 

“I would be interested in speaking further with you on the subject,” Celia said slowly, sensing that she was already stepping over the line, despite her best efforts not to embarrass her brother. “When you are able.”

“Perhaps,” Mr Cranwell answered in a voice that did not sound hopeful.

“Lastly,” James said, raising an eyebrow at Celia before turning to a tall gentleman standing at Rebecca’s other side, “is my dear fiancée’s cousin, Sir Richard Cavendish.”

Celia looked at Richard with mild interest. Dressed in a military uniform, heavy gold tassels on his shoulders, and a strap across his red coat, he was handsome and held himself well. She had never met the man before, but there was something familiar about his name, though she could not remember exactly what. 

“Sir Richard,” her father said, stepping forward and engaging the man with a smile. “I believe you are a guest of Bentinck’s, am I correct?”

“Yes, indeed,” Richard responded, drawing himself up a little straighter. “I am awaiting a higher officer’s commission. I could choose no better surroundings, I assure you. The abbey is a delightful place.”

“It is our first visit,” Andrew said. “We are looking forward to experiencing its charms.”

“Is there a library?” Celia asked. She ignored her brother’s intense stare and added, “One that is open to visitors?”

“There is a fine library,” Richard answered her kindly, “but I do not believe it has been opened for this fine occasion. The general sentiment was that party-goers would wish dancing and fine wine over the indulgence of reading and study.” There was a hint of mirth in his gaze, as though he was teasing Celia for caring about books. 

She pursed her lips in response but said nothing else. If she were to share her true sentiment—that dancing and fine wine held not a candle to William Blake and the new romantics—she feared she would only earn another scolding from her brother. 

James bowed to the group. “Well,” he said. “We must pull ourselves away. We have not yet met the others.”

Celia caught sight of a familiar figure at the far end of the room, speaking with two other young women. 

“Helena has already arrived,” she said with genuine delight. “I worried that she would not be able to leave London for a few days.” She turned to James in explanation. “She was staying with friends and was unsure if they would make the journey.”

“They could not,” James answered, “but she was able to travel with Sir Richard. He had gone to London to deliver a message for Bentinck and coordinated with my own Rebecca to pick her up. I had assumed she would be riding with you, actually. Are you not sisters of a sort?”

Celia smiled, catching Helena’s eye across the room, and nodding at her. “We are as close to sisters as two women can be without it actually being true,” she admitted. Helena was her cousin but orphaned at a young age had grown up in Celia’s home. “Unfortunately,” she added, “Helena is better at navigating the wilds of society than I am and was already committed in London before we made our travel plans.”

“Well, Sir Richard was quite noble in his rescue,” James said. “So it is all well in the end.”

Celia frowned at the other two women standing with Helena. They contrasted strongly with her. Helena was a small girl with ink-black hair and a plump frame. She dressed simply as Celia often did and held herself slightly aloof from her companions. The other two women looked to be about her age: one was quite tall, with a towering blonde hairstyle and an elaborate plum gown that trailed on the floor; the other, red-haired and wiry, was equally fashionable in a blue chiffon gown. The shorter one moved like a bird, fluttering her arms, and laughing shrilly. The taller one was a statue in comparison, seeming to watch everyone and everything around her. 

James nodded at the taller one. “That is Lady Marie,” he said. “She is the second daughter of the Duke of Kingston. Beside her, you will see Lady Annabelle, the youngest daughter of the Duke of Norfolk.”

“Quite impressive personages,” Celia said, a little confused. “How do you know them?” she asked. “Are they friends of your bride, or are they merely here because they have dukes for fathers?”

“You are teasing,” he said in a low voice that only she could hear, “and so I will answer in kind. In truth, I am not entirely sure why they are here. They seem to be friends of the dowager duchess, although I’m not sure why.” He looked at her significantly, and she raised her eyebrows in response. 

“You say that like someone who, in fact, has a guess as to ‘why,’” she pressed. 

“I suspect they are interested in the dowager duchess’ son,” James said. 

“Our host?” she asked, putting on a tone of mock deference. “The great and noble Bentinck of whom everyone speaks so highly?”

“You would not mock him so if you met him,” James said. “He is a man of noble reputation and character and not easily teased.”

“Then he and I are entirely different,” she said glibly, “for I have neither a noble reputation nor a noble character.”

“Do not speak thusly,” James said, frowning at her. “You are too hard on yourself, Celia. You always have been. Perhaps, for some of these people, your reputation precedes you.” He shrugged. “Maybe that is the case, but you must not malign your character. You are as noble as they come.”

“And you are a flatterer, as always,” she retorted. She looked around the room, noting a few other guests but no one older who would fit the dowager duchess’ age. “Where is Lady Bentinck now?” she asked. 

James shook his head. “Likely in her rooms,” he said. “I have not seen much of her. I think she submits to her son’s will in the matter of our grand wedding, but otherwise, will have little to do with it. As far as I’ve heard, she is still in full mourning.”

“When did the late Lord Bentinck pass away?” Celia asked. 

“You are asking far too many questions,” Andrew said, coming up suddenly beside them. He had left their father back at the fireplace, still talking with Sir Richard. “I can see you two over here, gossiping like ladies of the ton, and I must protest that it is not befitting either of your characters.”

James turned to Andrew with an expression of exasperation. “Hardly,” he said. “I was only telling your sister about our hosts.” He addressed Celia. “The late Lord Bentinck passed away a year ago,” he said, “but it seems he left his wife in great grief. She has not recovered.”

“A year?” Andrew said. “I am surprised she is not in half-mourning yet.”

“Perhaps she loved him very much,” Celia said quietly. “Grief is not the sort of thing that follows a societal timeline.”

“You don’t think anything follows a societal timeline,” Andrew retorted, bowing briefly, and walking away. 

James watched him go. “Your brother seems more uptight than ever,” he said. “Was it a long journey?”

“Made longer by the company,” Celia said, feeling suddenly tired. “For both of us,” she added, wanting to be fair. “I believe I grated on him at least as much as he grated on me.”

Helena separated herself from the conversation of her companions and hurried across the room to Celia’s side, holding out her arms to meet her cousin. 

“How good it is to see you,” she said, smiling brightly. “I saw you already met Lady Cavendish. What do you think?”

“Oh yes,” James said drily. “Do gossip about my wife-to-be within earshot of me, please.”

“You needn’t be cross,” Celia chided him. “I have only lovely things to say. She is quite beautiful and seems composed and elegant. I look forward to spending more time with her and forming a more informed opinion.” She nodded towards Lady Marie and Lady Annabelle, standing in the background. They were talking to each other but looking at Celia discreetly as they did so. “Your new friends seem to have an interest in me,” she said.

Helena looked behind her and shrugged. “They have an interest in everyone,” she said airily. “During the short time I was conversing with them, they seemed to cover the whispered gossip of everyone in this room.”

“What was it they had heard about me?” Celia asked. 

Helena looked uncomfortable. “I am not sure I remember,” she said. 

Celia knew what they’d heard. A hoyden—scandalous—a woman who causes problems wherever she goes. “I’m sure talk of Lord Elliot’s dinner party has made it all the way here already,” she said slowly. 

“Not Lord Elliot’s, but the Winter Ball—” Helena stopped herself abruptly, realising that she’d accidentally revealed the gossip. 

“I didn’t do anything scandalous at the Winter Ball,” Celia protested. She caught James’ significant glare and added lamely, “Other than that little argument I had with the soldier from Bath, but that was his doing. He was not being entirely polite.”

“A little argument, perhaps,” Helena said quietly, “but your voice does tend to carry.” Her expression softened, and she laid a hand gently on Celia’s arm. “It is no matter,” she said. “I’m sure you will make a good impression on Lady Annabelle and Lady Marie when you have an opportunity.”

Celia was not so sure, but she felt no need to belabour the subject at present. Instead, she looped her arm through Helena’s and drew her cousin close. 

“Shall we go about the house and explore?” she asked. “I saw some fascinating paintings when we came in, and I suppose a house like this is rife with sculptures as well. I imagine every old statesman from Democrates of Aphidna to Charles Fox is pictured in these halls.”

“Not Democrates, but I do have a rather compelling statue of Philocrates in the main hall.” It was a new voice speaking, deep and smooth, from just behind Celia. 

She turned around quickly and saw that a tall gentleman had come up while she was talking. He was a striking personage, with wavy dark hair that curled nearly to his shoulders and stormy green eyes. He was dressed in fine clothes but had none of the fopperies of a dandy. He looked at Celia with something like amusement lurking in his fine eyes. 

She caught her breath. “I suppose one Greek is as good as the next,” she said, trying to gain her feet again. 

“I prefer Philocrates myself, considering his work on the peace treaty of 346 BC,” he said, turning and smiling at James. It bothered Celia that look—as though only the gentleman present would understand such an obscure historical reference. 

She drew herself up a little taller. “Democrates supported the Peace of Philocrates,” she countered coolly, “and additionally aided in preserving that peace by helping to obtain oaths from surrounding rulers. He negotiated treaties. Some might say he did more to bring about the practical peace than Philocrates ever attempted.”

Seeing the look of surprise stretch across the gentleman’s face was gratifying. He did not give ground, however. His voice a little hard, he looked at Celia. “He was no great orator.”

“But he was a great wit,” she said quickly. “And some would say that is of more consequence in the long run.”

“Wit, in a statesman, has very little consequence,” the man said calmly, “if it is not included in the annals of history by proper oration. How are we to know what Democrates stood for if we have such comparatively few documents with his speeches intact?”

“By his actions, of course,” Celia said, a little sharply. She did not mean to be sharp; it was only that the conversation topic was something she was interested in—passionate about, even. 

It was so rare that a gentleman would deign to engage her in a conversation of any substance, and there was something exhilarating about this man’s eye contact and pointed dialogue. He is treating me as though my ideas have merit. It was a simple thing, really, but still something Celia had been deprived of her entire life. 

Too late, she realised how uncomfortable Helena seemed with the conversation. Her face seemed pale, and she pulled her arm away from Celia as if to distance herself from her outspoken cousin. James, as always, jumped in to smooth things over. 

“I should, of course, introduce our host,” he said, nodding towards the tall gentleman, whose eyes were still fixed on Celia with a curious, unreadable expression. “Lord Bentinck, you are already acquainted with Miss Helena Warwick, of course. This is her cousin and companion, Miss Celia Maynard.”

Bentinck smiled slightly. “A pleasure to meet you both,” he said. “I think I heard, as I was walking up, that you were considering exploring the grounds. Please, feel free to go wherever you find an unlocked door. We have spent some time preparing for our guests and want your stay to be as comfortable as possible.”

“You are too kind. Although one might suppose,” Celia pointed out, “that what lies behind the locked doors should really hold our interest.” 

“Celia,” Helena said in a low voice of warning. 

Lord Bentinck did not respond but merely smiled again. There was a light of amusement in his eyes when he looked at Celia, and it delighted her more than she cared to admit. He bowed and took his leave of the conversation. 

When Celia felt certain that he was out of earshot, she turned to James. 

“Tell me about Lord Bentinck,” she said. “He seems a worthy man indeed. Handsome, well-mannered, and quite quick on his feet.”

Helena gasped quietly. “Celia,” she said, “it is entirely inappropriate for you to speak so freely about your attraction to a man you have barely met. You are showing your hand too soon.”

James smiled. “I don’t think she means any harm, Helena. Besides that, I’ve known Celia my entire life, and I have never heard her speak of any gentleman with anything besides disdain. It is certainly worth noting that Bentinck is the first to catch her attention.”

“I am always truthful,” Celia said archly, “and I have never before met with a gentleman worthy of anything besides my disdain. They seem to be all of the dullest stock, completely concerned with their own affairs and ignorant of the needs of people around them.” She smiled at James. “Excepting you, of course, and we would never be well suited to matrimony.”

“Matrimony!” Helena cried. “Celia, you simply can’t go speaking of such things without proper introductions and conversation.”

“You may rest easy,” Celia said, laughing despite herself. “I am not announcing any desire to marry the man—only to get to know him better. He seems interesting to me, which is saying quite a lot, I assure you.”

She looked over at Bentinck, who was speaking now with her father and Sir Richard. 

“Please, James,” she said. “Take me with you to speak with him. I want to know more about him.” She looked back at him with a wicked note of teasing in her voice. “And if you don’t take me, the burden of revealing his true nature shall be on your shoulders alone. I shall simply pepper our conversation with enquiries regarding him until you at last relent.”

James laughed. “It is no great threat,” he said, “for I dearly enjoy speaking well of my friends. “Still, I think further conversation can be arranged. You are already introduced, after all. We shall wait until he is free of his current conversation, and then I shall grant you your chance.”

---

“A Proud Duke for the Dashing Hoyden” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

Miss Celia Maynard always struggled to adhere to society’s standards and prefers carrying the title of the boisterous hoyden. Nevertheless, the ton will never let her forget the mistakes she did when she was first introduced to the London Season. Despite her wild spirit being a challenge, her encounter with the proud Duke Bentinck will lead her on an adventurous journey of love that she could never imagine.

Will her troubled past destroy her chance at happiness?

Lord Cameron Bentinck is the wealthy and respected owner of Welbeck Abbey. During a grand party he hosts in celebration of his friend’s wedding, he comes across the dashing Celia and the gossip around her name. He initially attempts to avoid her, thinking there is no room in his sophisticated life for a hoyden, but soon realises there is so much more than what meets the eye. As he finds himself unexpectedly and deeply attracted by this gifted troublemaker, he finds himself torn between love and honour.

If only a blooming romance between a proper lord and the famous hoyden could stop the looming storm…

As early rains flood the estate and the surrounding road, the house party, which was meant to last a week, is trapped, similarly to the hearts of Cameron and Celia. While he is mesmerised by her authentic grace and poise, she slowly lowers her walls to meet his kind soul. However, jealous gazes and ruthless schemes threaten to destroy any potential romance between them. Will the two soulmates fight against the ton’s deceit? Or will their unique connection be drowned in a world of rules and necessities?

“A Proud Duke for the Dashing Hoyden” is a historical romance novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cheating, no cliffhangers, and a guaranteed happily ever after.

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