When You Wish Upon a Duke

by Charis Michaels

  Please don’t go.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, speaking to the wet skin of his neck.

  “Sorry?” he demanded. “But what does that mean? There is no sorrow here. There is only joy and love and, if we’re quick and can manage some form of it, possibly sex.”

  She laughed through her tears but shook her head.

  “You do not feel the same,” he guessed.

  Another laugh. She loved him so much she ached with it. She could heat this pool and illuminate the sky with how much she loved him.

  “I do love you,” she whispered.

  It deserved to be said. If nothing else.

  A love this strong could not be denied or kept secret. She could say the words.

  He gave her another shake. “Then what is it?”

  In a burst of frustrated energy, she pushed away again. She swam to the rocks at the side of the pool. She stared up at the green swirls in the sky.

  “What you’ve just . . . said—what you’ve proposed—will be so very difficult and complicated when we are back in England,” she said, speaking to the horizon. “It’s easily proclaimed here, but it will not be simple there.”

  “I don’t care about simple,” he said.

  “You don’t have to care about anything at all,” she said. “You are a duke. Your world is assured and provided. I, on the other hand, am a girl in a shop. I am responsible for my mother. I feel responsible for Samantha. She lives with her father but she finds purpose in the shop, and honestly, they use the small salary I pay her. I am responsible for my own very tenuous future. My aunt and uncle love me in good faith, and I would die before I disgraced them. I don’t merely care about ‘simple,’ I fight for it. I strive for simple, and straightforward, and the expected. Anything more feels like the first step to chaos and heartbreak.”

  She heard splashing. He swam up behind her. She could feel him floating, an inch from her back.

  She swallowed hard and continued. “For me to accept your declaration of love? To trust it? To guard my heart? This is a colossal leap of faith that threatens everything that has sustained me since returning to England. And it terrifies me. I want to believe it—I’m crying because I want to believe it so much. But, Jason?”

  “Yes?”

  She shook her head, unable to finish.

  He pressed himself against her back, caging her on either side with his arms. He kissed her neck, setting off an upward stream of fizzy shimmers inside her.

  “Can you not admit,” she whispered, closing her eyes, “that the excitement of this mission, the spectacle of this sky, the remoteness of this country, of our very wet, very tingly proximity in this pool . . . all of this worked together to make your declarations seem probable? Of course you professed love amid all of this.”

  “I will not admit that,” he said simply, kissing her jaw. “I’ve lived my life on the road, Isobel. I’ve experienced wild, remote, beautiful things in every corner of the planet. For me, real life is remote—it’s seeing different things, it’s spent in the field, on a mission. This is—”

  “But that will all change at Syon Hall,” she insisted, spinning around.

  He scooped her up. She met his next kiss but then pulled back. “You cannot fathom the pressures and expectations of being duke, Jason—truly, you cannot. You’ve guessed enough to put it off, you’ve dodged and dreaded it, but I fear the reality will be far worse. Learning you are not permitted to marry a girl like me will be only the beginning of your new life.”

  “I will do what I want when it comes to who I marry, damn it,” he said. “I am the bloody duke, after all.”

  “Did your brothers?” she challenged.

  “My brothers did not marry. My oldest brother, August, did not care for women and my middle brother, James, was too overwhelmed with the duties thrust upon him when he inherited.” He made a bitter sound. “Until August died, James’s only vision of the future had been his violin. And then suddenly he was duke, and there was no time for women. He fell ill within three years and was then too sick to consider them. Poor James,” he sighed. “God love him.”

  “And this proves my point,” she said. “Two men who would have pursued their own bliss if the dukedom hadn’t disallowed it. Your older brother could have presented himself to the world as a confirmed bachelor, with no illusion of eventually marrying. Your next brother could have filled his short life with music instead of . . . estate management. You will discover the same—”

  “Make no mistake, sweetheart,” Jason cut in. “August told us all very early on that another Beckett male would be responsible for begetting the heir; he would never marry. And James could have courted any number of potential duchesses, but he didn’t. I actually learned how not to do it from him.

  “But I assure you,” he finished, “there is no officer of protocol at Syon Hall. Has my mother made my eventual marriage a priority? Yes. But she knows better than to coerce me or manage who I choose. She wants me to be happy. We’ve had so much tragedy, so many funerals. She understands what truly matters.”

  For this, Isobel had no answer. She stared at his wet hair and face, just inches from her own.

  He reached up to trace a finger around her mouth. “You make me happy,” he said. “You make me more than simply ‘happy.’ You . . . you give me the will to go on.”

  “I’m the balm that allows you to tolerate the dukedom,” she guessed, being deliberately obtuse. “If you were doing as you liked, still working as a foreign agent, you would have never settled for me.”

  “If I was still working for the Foreign Office,” he said softly, pulling her face to his, “I would marry you, then I would recruit you, and we would travel the world, preventing wars and routing slavers and fighting pirates.”

  Again, Isobel’s eyes filled with tears, and she collapsed against him. With slick hands, she felt her way around his chest, savoring each muscle. She wanted to be as close as possible; she wanted to dig to his heart and swipe it, to hold it, to protect it.

  “Is that a yes?” he asked, speaking into her hair.

  A trail of shimmers revolved in her stomach. She floated in the hot pool and in the green heavens and in love with him. A tiny sliver of hope could just be made out on the horizon of her life. She allowed herself to reach out and jab at it, testing its durability and staying power.

  “What was the question?” she asked, speaking to his chest.

  He laughed, tickling her ribs with provocative fingers. “Do you love me?” he stated.

  She paused in the act of kissing his nipple. She nodded.

  He tickled her again, his fingers playful and sensual at the same time. His erection bobbed at the junction of her legs, a delicious, throbbing hardness.

  “Will you marry me,” he went on, “and become the Duchess of Northumberland?”

  She paused again. The shimmers had crystalized into tiny, sharp pinpoints of hope. She was so very torn. The shimmers of hope could swirl again or slice her to ribbons.

  He could slice her to ribbons.

  Jason went still, waiting for an answer.

  When she said nothing, he swore, disentangled himself, and splashed away.

  She stared after him, suddenly cold despite the fizzing heat. She treaded water, watching him. His handsome face was shrouded in steam and backlit by green swirls in the sky.

  “Answer me,” he demanded.

  He grabbed her ankle beneath the water and pulled her to him. She let out a whimper and allowed herself to glide. When she floated against him, she wrapped her legs about his haunches and looped her arms around his neck. He ground against her and she sighed in pleasure.

  “An answer, if you please,” he growled in her ear.

  “Yes,” she finally said breathlessly. “Yes, I will do it. If you do not change your mind. If your family will allow it. If society will allow it and it will not decrease your influence or the stature of the dukedom. I will do it.”

  She finished on a sob, and he kissed her, swa
llowing up the sound.

  Isobel’s conscious mind floated away, and she allowed herself to simply sink into the kiss and into him. Sensations built, throbbing between them, and when she could no longer bear the pressure, she reached between them and grabbed his erection.

  He jerked and caught her hand, holding her there, moaning into her mouth.

  She stroked him but was impatient. She began to shimmy from her wet drawers.

  “Not this way,” he whispered against her ear. “We cannot remain here all night. I want to do it properly.”

  “But . . . but . . .” she insisted, kissing him, “there are so many ways to properly do it. Quickly can be properly.”

  He chuckled and shook his head. “I’ll not get you with child until you are my wife, S’bell. You deserve this much.”

  She made a noise of frustration, she kicked her feet, but in her head and in her heart, she fell a little more in love.

  “So how do you want it instead,” he growled, kissing her. He was tall enough to touch the bottom of the pool, and he walked to the side, carrying her.

  “I beg your pardon?” she managed.

  “You will see stars before we leave here, Isobel, even if I don’t.” He moved his own hand to her center, and she gasped at the contact.

  “I see more than stars,” she panted, blinking at the hanging green light in the sky.

  “No,” he teased, tracing kisses down her throat, and then lower, to her breasts. “Not that way. Close your eyes.”

  Isobel complied, and the duke feasted on her body with hands and mouth, sending her to a place that she’d never been. When she reached climax, she was consumed by the shimmers that had teased her from the first day he came to her. She was a woman-shaped pile of shimmering love and light, floating against him. She opened her eyes and saw every shade of green and blue and indigo glittering above her. She saw her future in a hazy glow of warm, soft light. She wanted to turn away, to not risk burning her eyes, but she allowed herself to take it all in, to bask, to absorb it.

  When, finally, her sense returned, she realized she was kissing him—he was such a good kisser—and she reached into the water for his body, but he gently pulled her hand away.

  “There’s no time,” he said. “The wagon will have made it to the brig by now. You and I cannot be long after. The pirates may not find us here, but they can row downriver to their ship and pursue us in the harbor. We must put as much distance between ourselves and Iceland as possible.”

  He gave her a final kiss and then shoved from the pool, water sluicing down his glorious body.

  Isobel nodded dumbly, reaching up. He pulled, sliding her from the pool to balance beside him.

  She glanced down. His drawers were strained by his hard, demanding length. She put one hand on his chest and reached for him with the other. “Jason . . .” she began.

  He made a hissing noise and doubled over, grabbing her hand at the wrist.

  “I’m endeavoring to do the correct thing here, Isobel,” he rasped. “Do not make it impossible. You will owe me, and I will expect a great many things from that debt, but let us not dash this mission in the eleventh hour.”

  She slid her hand away, and he gave a full-body shudder. He swore and cleared his throat.

  He turned away. “Get dressed?” he suggested, shucking his wet drawers and wrestling into his dry clothes. Isobel did the same, shivering now without the hot water.

  “It’s cold,” she said.

  “Take my coat.” He dropped his greatcoat over her shirt and buckskins.

  “What will your friend Declan Shaw and the captives think when I return wearing your coat?” she asked. “Oh, and how is your cousin? The merchants looked wretched.”

  “Reggie? He’s fine. Hungry and defeated, but he will survive. There are other captives in far worse condition. The pirates were brutal. It nearly killed me to leave you with them.”

  “You should have seen me,” she sighed, rubbing the flank of her horse. “I was a spinning top. Once I danced them into the tavern, I was home free.”

  Jason shook his head and smiled, a wordless show of admiration. He vaulted into the saddle and Isobel smiled too, admiring his muscled grace.

  Mounting the mare, she followed Jason up an embankment out of the canyon, shrugging into the warm, musk-smelling confines of his coat.

  “Jason?” she called.

  “S’bell,” he answered. Her stomach flipped.

  “I . . . I have a request.”

  “I’ve already said there isn’t time, love.”

  She bit back a smile. “I would like you to keep our . . . our—”

  She couldn’t say it.

  “Are the words you seek wild, passionate love?” he asked.

  “I was going to say betrothal.” She reined her horse beside him. In her mind, she repeated the sentence.

  “But is that what actually happened?” she asked. “Are we betrothed?” Her heart pounded.

  “What happened was the most illicit, wettest betrothal of all time,” he said. “With the greatest lack of jewelry or paperwork. I apologize, but I am not sorry. I’ll correct the jewelry and the filings when we reach London. But yes, if you can abide it, that was the Jason Beckett version of a betrothal.”

  Isobel felt herself nod. Hearing the words again made her breathless. She looked at the blue-green lights hanging in the sky. The aurora borealis looked dull compared to their love and their impending marriage. That was the supernatural phenomenon. That was the miracle.

  “Right,” she said, kicking her horse into a cantor. “My request, then, is that we . . . we not discuss it with anyone? Not yet?”

  “What?” He kneed his horse forward.

  “It’s just—when we see your cousin, or when we make landfall in London. If we could simply . . . keep it . . . kind of like a secret? For a time?”

  “Why?” he ground out. His anger was clear.

  “Well, because I want you to settle into your role as duke without . . . without having to explain your relationship with me. Without having to accommodate me and show me about and introduce me. Without the burden of a fiancée.”

  “You believe that when I am immersed in the so-called real world I will reconsider my offer. You believe,” he clipped, “that I’ll discover what a poor fit you may be, and keeping it secret allows me to disentangle?”

  It was exactly what she believed, but she had no wish to quarrel with him. The night had been too perfect.

  “The transition from spy to duke,” she explained, “will involve stewards, and advisers, and weeks of reading and property tours. You will be inundated with family. Your life will be turned upside down for a time. Please indulge me in this: go home. Get settled. Make some accounting for your reticence all these months. And then, if everything goes smoothly, we will announce it.”

  He exhaled. He was frustrated, unhappy.

  “No matter how reasonable your family,” she said, “they will be alarmed by the presence of a—of me. If we sweep in from foreign shores after this wild adventure—after having worked so very closely together—I’ll not only seem like the most unexpected bride of the decade, I’ll look calculating and . . . and seductress-y as well. It will look like I enchanted you while we sailed about the Atlantic Ocean, rescuing cousins.”

  “But that is what you’ve done,” he teased.

  “In contrast,” she pressed, “if we allow some time to pass, if I have time to settle in as well and establish my new travel agency, I’ll have a better idea how I’ll operate it while also serving as your duchess—”

  “Syon Hall is just miles from Hammersmith,” he cut in.

  She cleared her throat. “If I settle in, and you settle in, and time passes, then you may introduce me to your family. They’ll meet me simply as a translator who advised you on this mission. There’ll be no need to mention that I’m the girl who introduced you to . . . to—”

  “Bathing in a heated pool?”

  “Yes,” she breathed.

>   “But when will I know that you’re ready?” he asked. “When can I introduce you?”

  Isobel shrugged. “It’s impossible to put a date on it, isn’t it? Until we are home and we see what life will be like for us both?”

  “Impossible,” he repeated bitterly. “Is it really ‘impossible’?”

  “You will know when you’re ready,” she said.

  He swore and kicked his horse into a gallop.

  “Or perhaps,” he called, his voice hard, “I will wait for you to come. And you’ll be the one to know when you’re ready.”

  Before she could answer, he darted ahead, leading the way across the grassy plain.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Dearest Georgiana,

  I’m home, Mama. I am home. I’m sending this letter by private messenger from London so you will know straightaway.

  The mission was a success; you’ll not believe all we managed. I’ll share every detail when I see you. Unfortunately, the return sailing was dreadful. Autumn weather caught up with us and storms from the north made for relentless rocking and plunging, dipping and bobbing. I was sick for ten days, unrelenting. When finally we reached London, I staggered off the brigantine in search of fresh bread and ginger tea and chocolate.

  But this is not what you really want to know, is it?

  Before you expire from curiosity, I’ll tell you that the duke and I did . . . grow close on the voyage, but our farewell was largely without ceremony. The duke’s family was at the dock to greet him when we reached London. An important component of the mission had been to recover an abducted cousin, and Northumberland sent word to this man’s parents when our ship entered the Thames at Margate. The note was meant to put an anxious aunt and uncle at ease, but the result was a family reunion at the East India Company docks.

  His desperate mother and sisters, aunts, uncles, and cousins created quite a raucous welcoming party, but they served as a useful distraction to my green-gilled quest for solid ground.

  So there you go.

  I have other news.

  Your Norse crystals are in my possession.

  I am so anxious to see you.

  To that end, please begin to think about what you will pack for a visit. When I come for you, I’ll have no time to indulge this process. We will leave the same day I arrive, please be aware.