(An excerpt post from about half way through my novel A Baron for Becky, the story of a courtesan and her escape from the life into which she had been forced when little more than a child. (Blurb and buy links if you click on the book name.)

Hugh had been in the heir’s wing many times, and at Haverford, the family seat, when he was a boy. He had never entered Haverford House by the main door. Designed to impress, the approach sat back from the road, admittance through a gatekeeper.

They were paraded through the paved courtyard by another liveried servant to the stairs between pillars that stretched three stories to the pediment above.

Inside, the ducal glory continued; a marbled entrance chamber the height of the house that would make a ballroom in any lesser mansion, with majestic flights of stairs rising on either side and curving to meet, only to split again in a symphony of wood and stone. Grenford ancestors were everywhere, twice as large as life, painted on canvas and moulded from stone, cold eyes examining petitioners and finding them all unworthy.

Aldridge met them in the entrance chamber, and led them up the first flight of stairs and down a sumptuously carpeted hall that was elegantly papered above richly carved panels. Four men could have walked arm-in-arm down the middle, never touching the furniture and art lining both walls,between highly-polished doors.

Busts on marble pedestals alternated with delicate gilded tables and seats upholstered in the Haverford green, scarlet and gold, many embroidered with the unicorn and phoenix from the Haverford coat of arms. The art in gilded frames that hung both walls showed more Grenford ancestors, interspersed with favourite animals, scenes from the Bible, and retellings of Greek legends. The ornately painted ceiling boasted flowers, leaves, and decorative swirls, the many colours highlighted in gilding.

Here and there, an open door gave them a view into one large chamber after another, each room richer than the last. At intervals, curtained arches led to more halls, more stairs.

Hugh was openly gawping, and Becky drew closer to him, as if for protection.

“A bit over the top, don’t you think?” he whispered to her, and was rewarded with a quick, nervous, smile.

The duchess received them in a sitting room that, if rich and elegant, was at least more human in scale.

She offered a cheek to Aldridge for a kiss, and a hand to Hugh. Becky held back.

“Come, my dear,” she coaxed. “Mrs Winstanley, is it not? Soon to be Baroness Overton. You shall kiss me, my dear, and I shall be godmother to your child, since I cannot claim the closer title.”

Hugh relaxed, then. Her Grace would champion them for her grandchild’s sake. He took the offered chair, and Aldridge leant against the mantelpiece. The duchess ignored them both to focus on Becky.

She insisted on Becky sitting beside her. “Are you keeping well, my dear? Are you eating?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Becky’s voice was so quiet Hugh had to lean forward to hear.

“You must eat several times a day, dear. More as the baby takes up more room…” she trailed off as Becky blushed scarlet. “And when do you expect the little one to arrive?”

“At Yuletide, Ma’am. Or perhaps early January.”

“What of sleep, Mrs Winstanley? Are you able to rest in the afternoons?” She turned to Hugh. “ An afternoon rest is most efficacious for women who are increasing, Lord Overton. I will expect you to keep her in bed in the afternoon.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Hugh replied, blushing in his turn.

The Duchess silenced her sniggering son with a raised eyebrow. “I suppose you have a plan, Aldridge, for convincing the ton that Mrs Winstanley and Lady Overton are two different people?” Aldridge explained about the woman from Astley’s.

“Will she keep her silence if the gossip rags guess she had a part in it? They pay, I am told. And is she willing to continue playing the part?”

“We intend a tragic accident, Mama. The horse will bolt, The Rose of Frampton will fall, and the Marquis of Aldridge will attend her funeral and wear a black armband for a full year.”

Aldridge’s mother pursed her lips. “Six months for a mistress, I think, my love. One would not wish to be thought excessive. And promise the girl a yearly payment if she is silent.”

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” Hugh ventured, “but might that not encourage her to seek an increase?”

“Blackmail, you mean?” Her Grace raised an elegant eyebrow. “Aldridge, you will make it clear that any attempt to seek an increase will be met with… considerable ducal displeasure. My godchild’ s mother is not to be inconvenienced or embarrassed.”

She patted Becky’s hand. “Now, my dear, what do you have to wear for your wedding? And may I ask… would you allow me to stand witness, Mrs Winstanley? I would be so delighted.”

After that, things moved with blinding speed, although not as fast as the Duchess first suggested. Becky demurred at marrying immediately, without Sarah present, so Aldridge was dispatched to collect her. Becky was swept off into the Duchess’s chambers, and Hugh was sent to the heir’s wing, where Aldridge’s valet waited to dress him for his wedding.

Two hours later, Hugh joined a cleric and a resplendent Aldridge in the Haverford House Chapel. Hugh had chosen formal court dress and had been pleased with his coat of cream silk velvet, grey breeches and a dark blue waistcoat, richly embroidered in powder blue and silver. Until he stood next to Aldridge.

Aldridge had also found time to change into formal attire. His coat and breeches—of a midnight-blue silk velvet, with a deep band of embroidery on each side and on the cuffs—fitted him as if sewn to his broad shoulders and muscular thighs. Snow-white lace foamed at his neck and cuffs, matching his pure white stockings with silver clocking. His waistcoat put Hugh’s in the shade, near-painted in a riotous multi-colour pattern on a salmon pink ground to match the roses in the coat’s embroidery.

Hugh glared at the roses, suspecting that particular sartorial choice was another poke at him. He would ignore it. In a very short time, Becky would be Lady Overton, and within a week, the whole of London would know the Rose of Frampton was dead and gone.