Free Miss Darby's Duenna by Sheri Cobb South

satin wall coverings and black lacquer chinoiserie furnishings called attention to her delicate beauty.
    “Forgive me, Aunt Augusta,” said the marquess, kissing her cheek. “I see it has been far too long since I called. The last time I was here, this room was Egyptian.”
    “I know you did not come to admire the furniture, Selwyn,” remarked the duchess, as her nephew weighed a fat Buddha in his hand.
    Lord Mannerly replaced the Buddha figure with a shudder. “Quite right. I cannot share our Prince’s fondness for the Oriental style.”
    “Unhandsome! If you persist in insulting my taste, nephew, I shall be forced to ring for tea.”
    “That would indeed be adding insult to injury. As if it were not punishment enough that you expect me to sit on these unnatural chairs—my dear aunt, what do you call them?”
    “That is a klismos chair, Selwyn, as if you did not already know,” replied the duchess with asperity.
    “Indeed? And I thought the klismos was Greek. I must call on you more often, Aunt. These visits are so educational, are they not?”
    Ruthlessly, her Grace of Ramsey tugged the bell pull and ordered the butler to bring in the tea tray. Thus chastised, her recalcitrant nephew lapsed into silence.
    “Now, Selwyn, to what do I owe the honor of this visit? And do not give me any nonsense about education, for I know very well that you think you know everything already.”
    “Oh, but I do not,” protested the marquess. “And that is why I seek the benefit of your vast storehouses of information. What can you tell me about the dowager Lady Hawthorne, relict of a Leicestershire baronet?”
    “Lady Hawthorne,” echoed the duchess pensively, casting her mind back over the decades past. “What do you wish to know?”
    “I have no idea. I only hope I will recognize it when I hear it.”
    “Well, if memory serves, she was several years older than I—”
    “Everyone is older than you, dearest, including your own daughter,” put in Mannerly.
    “Flatterer!   As I recall, she was the daughter of a viscount, Langford, I believe—yes, I’m sure of it. She had very much the look of the family, poor dear, and although the Langford men were generally accounted a handsome lot, their features did not sit well on a feminine countenance. If she produced any female descendants, I pity them.”
    “You may reserve your pity for those who need it,” her nephew informed her. “Lady Hawthorne’s granddaughter is a diamond of the first water.”
    Her Grace’s eyebrows rose, her interest piqued. “Indeed? Sits the wind in that quarter?”
    Lord Mannerly gave a snort of derisive laughter. “Acquit me, I beg you, of having designs on a chit barely out of the schoolroom! Actually, I find Miss Darby, the fiancée of the current baronet, of far greater interest.”
    The duchess bent a frown of disapproval on her errant nephew.
    “Selwyn, you would not make advances to a woman who is already spoken for!”
    “Do you know me so little, Aunt? Of course I would!”
    Her Grace gave a musical laugh. “I have always had a weakness for a rake, Selwyn. I suppose that is why I tolerate you.” Her smiles turned to frowns as a new thought struck her. “She is not a Long Meg, is she, this granddaughter? Lady Hawthorne was taller than is pleasing in a female, although where she got her height remains a mystery, for the Langfords are not much above the average.”
    “No, no Long Meg. Now, what else can you tell me about Lady Hawthorne?”
    The duchess shrugged her frail shoulders. “Not much, I’m afraid, except that she has resided in Bath for the last twenty years or more.”
    “‘Resided’ being the operative word,” put in her nephew. “She has recently taken up residence in London—Curzon Street, to be exact.”
    “Indeed? Well! Now I am the one being educated! Shall I call on her, do you think?”
    Lord Mannerly hesitated. If there were anything havey-cavey about Lady Hawthorne, his aunt would be the one to spot