Araminta (Regency Belles Series Book 2) by Caroline Ashton

with a happy heart.

Chapter Seven
    L ord Frederick needed no urging from his friend to discover the identity of the horse’s owner. Once home, he paced the drawing room casting repeated glances at the ormolu clock on the mantle. The Duchess usually woke about eleven if she had been gallivanting the night before. Even if this morning was an exception and she was up before time, he was not going to chance his luck by venturing to her boudoir to early. The hands crept round until he felt the moment had come to brave the frilled and flounced room.
    He bounded up the stairs and tapped on her door. A tall, thin woman in a dark gown opened it. When she saw who was waiting she slid discretely out of the room leaving mother and son alone. Shortly thereafter Frederick discovered to his great disappointment that his Mama was not disposed to assist. She lay back on the small mountain of lace-trimmed pillows at the head of her vast bed looking the depiction of fragile elegance. Her pale gold hair, still without a single grey strand, descended in a plait from her embroidered cap. She waved a delicate hand in his direction. A scrap of handkerchief wafted from it.
    ‘Darling, I have no idea who she is.’
    ‘But mightn’t your maid at least know who’s rented the house?’
    The Duchess of Ellonby shrugged a pair of smooth cream shoulders under the silk nightgown. The cashmere shawl draped around them slid sideways. She pulled it closer. ‘She may have mentioned it. I cannot recall.’
    Her son flung away from the bed and came to rest at the end of it, his shoulder propped against the nearest of the carved posts that supported the damask canopy above. His weight caused the silver fringe on the canopy and bed drapes to shiver. ‘But it’s a wonderful stallion, Mama. If I put Athena to him the foals . . . well –’
    The Duchess gasped. She clapped her hands over her ears. ‘Do not say so, darling. Farmyard talk is most improper.’
    Frederick sighed. ‘Of course, Mama. I beg your pardon.’ He walked to plant a kiss upon her hand. ‘But I do wish you would discover who has taken the Perlethorpe’s house.’
    A sigh drifted from the Duchess’s rosy lips. ‘I suppose I might try. I might try harder if it were a girl that had attracted your interest and not a horse.’ The handkerchief fluttered. ‘I quite despair of ever seeing one of you wed.’
    ‘But we’re neither of us thirty yet, Mama. There’s plenty of time.’
    ‘That’s as may be but you know how anxious His Grace is to secure the succession.’ A pair of moistening blue eyes gazed up at him from under the lacy cap.
    ‘Don’t distress yourself, ma’am.’ Frederick caught her hand. ‘There’s no need. Papa will be with us for years yet.’
    The blue eyes grew moister. They sent a silent plea to him.
    Frederick sighed. ‘Very well, Mama. I’ll speak to George again. Though why he should heed me and not His Grace, I’m sure I don’t know.’
    The Duchess detached her hand and patted his arm. ‘You’re a good boy. I’m sure you will persuade him.’
    ‘I’ll try, ma’am. Now, excuse me.’ He bowed and left her to the rest of her toilette.
    The Duchess reached out to tug the tassel descending from the long embroidered bell-pull. Moments later the tall, thin woman in the dark gown returned. She began to lay out a selection of morning gowns.
    ‘I hope Lord Frederick was well, Your Grace.’
    A sigh, well able to match her son’s, slid from the Duchess’s pretty mouth. ‘I suppose so. But he did nought else than chatter about some horse he’s seen. I fear he has more interest in finding another of them than giving any thought to finding a bride.’ The second sigh was louder. ‘And then there’s George for ever pushing for a commission. Thank goodness that dreadful campaigning in Portugal has ended and they will all come home.’ The handkerchief drifted to a delicate tear. ‘I declare, Mitcham, I despair of either of them marrying before