The Duke's Sister and I
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Emma-Claire Sunday
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An amazing Harlequin Historical… A+, no notes – Fated Mates A spellbinding sapphic love story filled with wit and queer joy, Emma-Claire Sunday's debut Regency romance will leave you swooning! She's supposed to wed a duke… But it's his sister she can't keep her eyes off! As the ton's most in-demand debutante, it should be easy for Miss Loretta Linfield to find the perfect husband. So the reason why she is embarking on her third season unwed is a puzzle that nobody can solve. Not least Loretta! Until she meets Charlotte Sterlington… The sister of her new suitor, the Duke of Colchester, is everything that prim and proper Loretta isn't — bold, daring and rakish! But Charlotte is also everything that Loretta finds herself desiring…
Chapter One
There was no arguing the fact that Miss Loretta Linfield and the Duke of Colchester could have an agreeable marriage. Yet some deep and inscrutable part of her seemed to argue all the same.
As she gazed at him from her hiding spot behind a row of potted plants, Loretta was dismayed to find nothing immediately wrong with the tall, handsome Duke who stood in the conservatory, deep in discussion with her father. Broad shoulders, kind face, full head of hair—he was the very portrait of a desirable bachelor.
Loretta, of course, had to remind herself of the qualities she was supposed to look for in a gentleman the same way she had to recite her French lessons—over and over again. Never mind that when it came to courtship most ladies of the London season seemed native-born speakers—Loretta had read enough scandal sheets, romantic poetry and Jane Austen novels to navigate the language of love with near-perfect fluency.
A decrescendo from the string quartet afforded Loretta a moment to hear her father exclaim, ‘You absolutely must meet my daughter tonight! She is a lovely specimen.’
Loretta felt her throat tighten and her jaw clench. She loathed being discussed as though she were a scientific object...an impressive microbe beneath a microscope. She wanted a husband—or she wanted to want a husband—but anyone chosen by her ambitious father would most certainly be selected for his wealth and title above all else. Arthur Sterlington, Duke of Colchester, Britain’s oldest city, would be no exception.
She slowly reached into the greenery and prised apart the purple wisteria petals, straining her neck to get a better view, her knees increasingly sore from kneeling on the stone floor.
A brazen, unfamiliar voice startled Loretta from her eavesdropping. ‘I do hope that your chaperone doesn’t find you alone and so intimately entangled with unmarried wisteria. I’m sure I’d die of the scandal.’
Loretta spun to look behind her and, her legs caught in her own satin skirts, tumbled firmly onto her backside.
The fashionable woman standing over her continued as though Loretta had not just entirely embarrassed herself. ‘Though, given the gentlemen in attendance, I can hardly fault you.’
‘I was simply—’
Simply what? Loretta couldn’t exactly admit to spying on two members of the peerage.
She stammered out the first thing that came to mind. ‘Simply searching for my dance card. I had dropped it amongst the flowers.’
Loretta’s eyes climbed the lavender silk skirts before her the way ivy climbed a wall. Tendrils of lace and sequins led to a face adorned with rosy cheeks, stormy blue eyes and a mischievous grin framed by glittering amethyst earrings and a crown of golden curls. The woman before her stood nonchalant and contrapposto, in that pose made famous by the Grecian sculptors of old—with all her weight shifted to one leg, a hand on her protruding hip, in defiance of all things ladylike.
‘I cannot fathom the loss of a dance card as anything other than a blessing,’ the bold stranger said with a sigh.
Loretta didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t used to hearing people complain so openly about the rituals of society. She agreed that dancing could be quite tedious, of course, but she would never say so out loud.
Loretta must have looked confused, because the stranger continued. ‘Are you the type of lady who enjoys dancing with all the prized gentlemen of the ton?’
The question made Loretta nervous. Saying yes wouldn’t be truthful, but saying no would be impolite. ‘What other type of lady could there be?’
‘I merely saw you evading the night’s festivities and wondered if I’d found someone as fatigued by society as I.’
The sudden squint of her eyes made Loretta feel entirely bare.
‘I see now I was mistaken.’
‘Indeed you were,’ Loretta snapped, her face flushed with the rising heat of her temper.
She heard her own heartbeat, loud as a soldier’s drum. And Loretta realised if she was hearing her heartbeat so clearly, she was not hearing the music. She clutched her dance card as the tune changed and scanned the list of hastily written names. The opening chord of the evening’s first quadrille pierced the silence and announced to Loretta that she was late for her promised dance with the Earl of Hawick, a visiting Scot she’d met at last week’s ball.
She frantically gathered her sapphire skirts and, with a cutting glance, strode with haste into the ballroom.
‘Miss Linfield!’ Loretta spun around to see the Earl approaching her from the direction of the punch table.
‘My lord...’ Loretta sank into a slow curtsy, in no hurry whatsoever to lift her embarrassed face from the floor. ‘I must apologise...it seems I had lost track of the time.’
The Earl gently reached out his hand to tuck a lock of copper-brown hair behind Loretta’s ear—a curl that must have fallen during her race to the dance floor.
‘Not to worry,’ he said with a reassuring smile. ‘The dance has only just begun.’
She took his arm and let him lead her, resisting the urge to turn her head in the direction from which she’d come.
Loretta was soon twirling around the polished floor, feigning interest in the Earl’s unsolicited narration of his long carriage ride to London. She tried her best to grant his perfectly average face the polite eye contact years of etiquette lessons had prepared her for, but she couldn’t stop her eyes from wandering around the grand ballroom.
Dresses of purples, pinks and greens spun before the powder-blue walls like a hurricane of colour. At one and twenty years of age, this was Loretta’s third season, but she still found herself gaping in awe at the gorgeous gowns her peers arrived in, with their hair wound in elaborate patterns above their smooth, painted faces. She resented how fake and shallow the season could feel at times, but she had never stopped loving the beauty of it all.
‘Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Linfield?’ the Earl asked with eager eyes.
Loretta plastered on her most polite smile and nodded in agreement. ‘Most certainly,’ she gushed, to fill the space between them, and prayed it wasn’t too obvious she hadn’t been paying attention.
As the dance reached its crescendo, Loretta saw a hand gesturing at her from the corner of the room. There, between two white pillars wrapped in decorative vines, stood her father and the Duke. Looking straight at her.
‘Might there be room on your dance card for another...?’ The Earl raised his eyebrows as the tune drifted into its final note.
‘It appears my father has other plans for me this evening, my lord,’ she said with relief.
‘Another time, then,’ the Earl replied—three words Loretta had heard a hundred times over from men who had failed to interest her in a second dance.
Most of her peers seemed to be enjoying themselves—not only tonight but in all aspects of the hunt for a proper husband. This was their duty, after all. Their purpose. Their very nature as members of the fairer sex.
Loretta lifted her chin high and glided towards her father, making a promise to herself then and there that she would greet the Duke with an open mind—no matter how difficult that might be.
‘Loretta, darling,’ her father said as she stepped into the admiring gaze of Arthur Sterlington. ‘It is my honour to introduce you to the Duke of Colchester.’
‘Your Grace.’ Loretta curtsied, her eyes politely fixed on the floor.
‘Your father has been singing your praises all evening,’ the Duke said.
Had Loretta been less concerned with displaying the slowest and lowest curtsy a graceful lady like herself could manage, she might have noticed the swish of a lavender hem approaching. She might have caught a glimpse of the halo-gold hair and the devilish smirk that couldn’t belong to anyone else, and she might have taken a moment to compose herself before rising.
Instead, Loretta was entirely helpless against the scarlet blush that bloomed up her neck and across her face like an invasive weed.
‘You must also meet my sister, Lady Charlotte Sterlington,’ the Duke continued. ‘You may have met in a previous season?’
‘I can’t say that I recall.’ Loretta shook her head and opened the fan tied around her wrist, cooling her face and avoiding Lady Charlotte’s amused gaze.
‘Charlotte is quite good at making herself unknown,’ her brother said, with a teasing tone that indicated real frustration. ‘But we all must leave the marriage market eventually.’
‘And I intend to be a shopper in this market,’ Lady Charlotte quipped with a venomous smile. ‘Not a product.’
‘A shopper or a loiterer?’ The Duke shot his sister a conversation-killing glance, then turned to Loretta, completely unruffled. ‘You’ll have to forgive my sister. She has the unfortunate habit of leaving her manners at home. I assure you they are there somewhere.’
‘I suppose there are worse places to leave your manners,’ Loretta offered.
The Duke’s sister raised an eyebrow in amusement.
‘Ah, is that Lord Hoskins I see?’ Loretta’s father exclaimed, relieved at having found an exit from such an odd exchange. ‘I shall find you at the end of the night.’
Lord Bertram Linfield, Baron Devonshire, had made his approval of the Duke unquestionably clear at breakfast, and there was no doubt in Loretta’s mind that a dance with him was expected. Her father flashed his winning smile—the one he saved for a successful business transaction—and marched into the crowd.
Lord Sterlington held out his arm with the confidence one might expect of a Duke.
His sister rolled her eyes.
What on earth about this interaction could possibly be worthy of an eyeroll?
Loretta fixed her own eyes on Lord Arthur Sterlington as he swept her onto the dance floor. He had an exceptionally handsome face, a glowing head of bronze hair and the commanding presence that came with such arrow-straight posture. But as they twirled beneath the shimmering candlelight Loretta was struck with a most unfamiliar and unwanted thought: she was somehow, inexplicably, undeniably, in the arms of the wrong Sterlington.
Despite her unreserved disdain for society balls, Lady Charlotte loved to dance. She adored the cool, crisp feeling of soft silk against her thin stockings, the sweet sensation of being swept up in the music. She was almost tempted to join in tonight, but she could never indulge her brother’s hope that this would be the season, after twenty-five years of spurning men’s attentions, when she would blossom into a suitable bride.
The punch table was the most interesting part of the ball anyway, so she planted herself by an indigo velvet curtain and sipped from a scandalously full glass, then turned her ear away from the music towards the flock of gossiping mothers gawking at the dance floor.
‘This is Miss Beaumont’s third dance with Mr Stanton,’ muttered a woman in a bright yellow frock. ‘I imagine a proposal must be in the works.’
‘She’s nearing four and twenty,’ a woman with a mountainous amber hairstyle chimed in. ‘I can’t imagine she’d have a chance beyond this.’
Charlotte clenched her jaw. She knew Arabella Beaumont. They had never been close friends, but they had shared a passionate two-week affair after meeting at a private party for Londoners whose romantic tastes could be described as...unconventional. Arabella didn’t want a husband any more than Charlotte did, and the thought of what she was giving up to be with Mr Stanton tugged at Charlotte’s heart.
But had Charlotte any right to fault her? Women were given few options if they wanted stability, safety, financial security. Charlotte’s brother could offer all that and a newly bestowed title. With marriage finally on his mind this year, he was bound to make someone very happy. It seemed Miss Linfield was angling to be that person.
The dance ended and a sapphire dress emerged from the crowd, shimmering and incandescent.
‘Lady Charlotte,’ said the Baron’s daughter.
Her curtsy was impeccable—Charlotte knew an etiquette over-achiever when she saw one. The rigid posture, the easy smile and the insistent charade that they were speaking for the first time.
‘Miss Linfield.’ Charlotte forced a smile. ‘Surely you’re in need of punch after that performance?’
Loretta tilted her head as the slightest crease appeared between her eyebrows. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Don’t tell me you find the company of my brother anything but tiresome? I’d never believe you anyway.’
‘I assure you, that was no performance.’
‘Well, a glass of punch nonetheless,’ she said as she reached for the bowl. ‘Allow me.’
Charlotte sank the ladle into the gold-orange liquid for a generous pouring. The crystal glass in her hand caught the flickering light of the chandeliers like a jar of glowworms—a sight lovely enough to divert both ladies’ eyes until they rose to meet each other’s.
That was when Charlotte noticed, for the first time, that Loretta Linfield was truly gorgeous. Her emerald eyes were striking, her soft smile inviting. Charlotte was certain Loretta would be just as stiff and stodgy as all the other women her brother had courted, but there was no harm in checking—just to be sure.
‘I don’t remember seeing you last year,’ Charlotte said as she handed over the glass. She tried hard to recall if she’d seen her in years prior, but each season was a boring blur in Charlotte’s memory.
‘I stayed in the country,’ Loretta responded. ‘I was dreadfully ill.’
‘I’m glad to see you’re in good health now.’
This was quickly veering into small talk—a ritual that Charlotte worked hard to avoid. She’d give Loretta another minute before giving up and finding someone more interesting to talk to.
‘Thank you,’ Loretta said. ‘I must admit, though, it was quite a lovely break. The season can be so tiresome.’ She took a sip of punch. ‘This is my third.’
Charlotte’s eyebrows rose just slightly. ‘Tell me more.’
Loretta tilted her head, looking confused, as if she wasn’t used to saying more. Gentlemen didn’t often ask for details.
‘Well...’ Loretta started uncertainly. ‘My first season was supposed to end in a match with a viscount, but he—’
‘Wait!’ Charlotte interjected. ‘Let me guess. He impregnated his mistress? Perished in a duel?’
‘Goodness, no!’ Loretta said with wide eyes.
‘Aha! He realised he fancies men?’
‘That would certainly have made my life easier,’ Loretta mumbled. Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, dear! I said that out loud, didn’t I?’
Perhaps Loretta was not as boring as Charlotte had thought. ‘Is he still after you?’ she asked.
‘He’s not here any more,’ Loretta said matter-of-factly. ‘He lost his fortune to gambling, then disgraced his reputation with a drunken brawl at a club one night. My father decided he would no longer make a suitable husband. So he left.’
‘And you agreed?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘With your father? That this viscount was no longer a decent suitor?’
Loretta wrinkled her nose. ‘Lord Wrottesley was a decent gentleman before his fall from grace, I suppose. We grew up together, so at the time it seemed an easy match...’
She took another sip of punch, small and modest.
‘Wrottesley sounds like a pest, and he doesn’t deserve someone as exquisite as you.’ Charlotte couldn’t help herself...flirting with someone so unlikely to notice or reciprocate.
‘You’re too kind.’ Loretta blushed, deflecting the compliment.
Had Charlotte been a man, some might have called her a rake, a rascal, even a scoundrel. But Charlotte was not a man, and there was no equivalent word for women with devilish desires.
There was no word for women with desires at all.
The music must have changed, because once again Loretta was hurrying to check her dance card. These high society ball tunes all sounded the same to Charlotte—sweet and mellow, like a cup of tea with too much sugar.
Loretta curtsied again, deep and slow. ‘It’s been a pleasure speaking to you, Lady Charlotte, but I must be off to my next dance.’
‘It is my sincere hope that we don’t meet again,’ Charlotte said, and winked.
Loretta’s eyes opened wide with astonishment. She looked much like a doe caught before a carriage.
‘For that would mean that you’ve found a better suitor than my brother,’ Charlotte continued.
The tall, slender woman in the deep blue dress blinked away her confusion and disappeared into the whirlwind of swaying silks and satins.
Charlotte had never considered herself the type to have a type, but if she had it wouldn’t be Loretta Linfield. The Lorettas of the world were just too perfect. Beautiful, yes, but the kind of beautiful that left no stray hair uncombed. There was no glint of mischief in her eyes...no secret gap in her dance card for a tryst on the terrace.
Not that Charlotte looked much different from her tonight. From a distance, the dainty pearl beading at her neckline and the golden ringlets that framed her face made her indistinguishable from any other member of polite society. She knew how to dress the part—but the illusion was always shattered the moment she opened her mouth to speak.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ boomed the voice of Dudley Stanton, interrupting the music. ‘It is with great pleasure that I must interject...’ he paused for dramatic effect, a favourite conversational strategy of his ‘...to announce the happy news that Miss Arabella Beaumont and I are to be wed.’
The room erupted in applause, well-wishes and travelling trays of freshly poured champagne.
There was often a knot in Charlotte’s stomach at these events, but it had just tightened beyond what she could bear. Her feet moved swiftly through the ballroom, her eyes staring straight ahead as she passed her brother and declared, louder than she’d intended, ‘I’ve caught a chill. I’m taking the carriage.’
She reached for a glass of champagne and downed it on her way out the door.
Charlotte had never cared for rank, but there was something cruel about the knowledge that even a third son like Dudley Stanton stood a better chance of landing Miss Beaumont than she did. Such was her fate.
The crisp air and the musty smell of horses was a balm to her senses, grounding her in the wideness of the world outside that ballroom. Sure enough, by the time she’d reached her carriage and settled in for the short ride home, Lady Charlotte Sterlington had done what she always did: forgotten. This engagement was no different from those that would happen all season.
Tired and numb, she dozed off to the sound of wheels on stone, then lazily climbed the stairs to her bedchamber and exhaled all her tension as her maid unlaced her bodice. While the sameness of nights like this exasperated her, the sameness of returning to her cosy bedsheets was a true comfort indeed.
Slowly but surely, the knot in her stomach unraveled.
It was simply another ball, Charlotte reminded herself, where nothing extraordinary had come to pass. She had once again spent an evening on the suffocating stage of society, where no one was diverted from their well-worn scripts and every stock character was played to perfection. This night would fade with sleep, as so many others had, and life would return the next morning unchanged.
Of this she was certain.
