When You Wish Upon a Duke

by Charis Michaels

  Would she do more than march him around? He’d never minded her bossing, for all that. It was arousing in a way. He was aroused now.

  He wet his lips and glanced at her profile. “Isobel?” he said lowly.

  “You’re right,” she said, leaning to drop a paper into one of her many neat stacks, “best file it with the taxes and ask a solicitor to look it over. There may be an exemption.”

  “Isobel,” he repeated his voice a growl.

  “No,” she said, a senseless answer. She dabbed a pen in the inkwell, refusing to look at him.

  He called her name a third time. “Isobel.” A whisper.

  She paused, her fingers frozen over a stack of papers; she looked to him. Her face was tight. If he wasn’t mistaken, she held her breath.

  “North?” she asked.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you . . . ?” She studied him with narrowed, searching eyes.

  He scratched his beard. He began slowly shaking his head.

  Whatever she meant to accuse, it wasn’t—he wasn’t.

  He hadn’t.

  She’d not come to him as she said she would.

  The estate was every intolerable thing he thought and more.

  He hadn’t planned to lure her here by going a little mad.

  The air in the library, previously cold from the open window, had grown hot. He was sweating. It took every ounce of self-control not to reach for her.

  She tried again. “Are you teasing me?” A whisper.

  He continued to slowly shake his head. Their eyes remained locked. She looked at him as if she was trying to find a hidden lever, to see beyond a ruse or a lie, like she was trying to see the real him.

  It’s me, he wanted to say. And then he did say it. “It’s me, S’bell,” he said.

  “You’re not overwhelmed,” she realized, her voice rising. She dropped the papers in her hand.

  “The devil I’m not,” he breathed, leaning back. He glared at the library in disgust. He was overwhelmed and miserable and desperate for her. He was also terrified of how he would manage it all for the rest of his life.

  “Perhaps, but you aren’t . . . immobilized.” She shoved up from the stool and took a step back from the desk. “You don’t need me.”

  “Isobel,” he said loudly, firmly, “I need you more than I need my next breath.” He would perish, he thought, if she left now.

  “Do not,” she ordered coldly, rounding the desk. She held up one angry finger.

  He gave in and reached for her, but she darted away.

  “Why didn’t you come for me?” she demanded. Her voice broke.

  “Do not cry,” he said. “I cannot bear it.”

  “Do not sprawl on the floor and pretend you’re out of your depth. I was worried for you. I was beside myself with worry.”

  “I am out of my depth and you should be worried,” he said, raising his own voice. He stood up. “Did I exaggerate my distress, creating some incentive for you to come? Perhaps. Do I regret it? No. Not when I was actually immobilized. Do not deceive yourself about how miserable I have been. And news of it did work. Clearly. You’re here. You’ve finally come.”

  “Why, in God’s name, would you wait for me to come to you?” she asked. “You know my insecurities. You are rich, and handsome, and dashing, and a bloody duke. The burden to come was on you.”

  She pressed her hands to her chest in the most heartbreaking gesture of self-preservation. It killed him to see her so upset, but this was always going to be a difficult conversation.

  “S’bell,” he began.

  “No,” she said. “Do not. Does your family know you’ve been . . . been pretending to be incapacitated?”

  “They know what you know. That I’m stupefied. Miserable. That I’ve made no progress on taking the dukedom in hand. It cannot be said enough: I’m not pretending to struggle with the bloody estate!”

  “You are,” she insisted.

  “I deplore this tedious, mind-numbing, body-atrophying drivel. I cannot look at it for more than a quarter hour without hoping I catch yellow fever like my brother and die.”

  “Do not say that.”

  “It’s true. That is how much I hate it. Can I manage it? Probably. Will I be miserable doing it? Always.

  “Look, Isobel,” he continued. “Is my mother worried? Probably. Are my sisters afraid for my sanity? Probably not. Are people in London talking about me and my inabilities and my failings as a duke? Certainly. I don’t care.

  “That said,” he countered, “I’ve cared very much about when you might come to me. Now, did I think you might hear of my distress and be motivated to come more quickly, to overcome your own insecurities and . . . bloody . . . look in on me? Yes. The thought did cross my mind.”

  “So you . . .” she began, “you encouraged the gossip because you thought I’d hear about it and come here?” Her voice was high and searching. Her expression was creased with confusion.

  “No, I did not encourage the gossip. But servants talk and I didn’t prevent it. My sisters have guests to the house and I did not care what they saw or what they said. And yes, Isobel, I hoped you’d come for me. It’s part of the terrible secrecy you forced me to keep within moments of our betrothal—”

  She let out a breathy sob when he said the word.

  “Not to mention,” he continued, “the blind sprint in which you left the brigantine the moment we reached London. Not even a good-bye, Isobel! Not even a moment to say when I might see you next. One moment you were locked in your room, the next you were winding your way through dockworkers and sailors to flee the scene.”

  “I was very ill on the return trip.”

  “You were afraid,” he said.

  “I was—”

  “You were afraid to meet my family, or you were afraid that you would not meet my family. Either way, you were running scared. I understand why, and I am sorry for the circumstances of your life that cultivated this fear. However, I know you to be a brave woman and I believed you when you said you loved me.”

  “I do love you,” she said softly.

  His chest clenched. “Well, God forgive me. Because I know that my struggles here forced you to face your fear to come to me.”

  He dug a coin from his pocket and flicked it. “Do I misremember,” he pleaded, snatching the coin from the air, “that you swore me to secrecy about our betrothal? Did you or did you not flee the brigantine without saying good-bye?”

  “Yes. The silence was meant to give you a clear head and no other obligations as you eased into the dukedom.”

  “It didn’t work.”

  “And yes, I fled—because the ship was met with cheering relatives whose priorities were reclaiming your cousin and welcoming you. It was the wrong time and place for introducing me. I . . . I was green. My skin was actually greenish-grayish-tannish in color at the time.”

  “I’ll admit that Reggie’s parents and my mother and sisters complicated the arrival, but never would I have simply . . . left it—left us. Not without a plan, a good-bye, nothing. But you sprinted away. I could hardly chase you through the docks while my family watched. Green or not, how would that have improved your introduction? What choice did I have but to let you go? You made me let you go.”

  “I do not mean the docks,” she said in a small voice. “I meant afterward. You were meant to come for me.”

  “To what end, Isobel?” he asked in frustration. “So you could relive your insecurity again and again with every new relative to whom I introduced you? No. I’ve wanted you to want me enough to put your fear aside and face my family.”

  “Wanting you was never the problem,” she said, louder now.

  “What was the problem?” he begged.

  “Feeling . . . worthy of you,” she shot back.

  “Meanwhile,” he said, his voice now raised, “I’m the one who cannot do my own filing. Who is unworthy now? I wanted you to see this. I wanted you to forget your alleged lack of worth and see that we are both s
imply human!”

  “So you admit you lay in wait for me to come here,” she demanded.

  “I will not admit it. I have not had a moment’s clarity, Isobel, until you walked through the door. I understand that you feel . . . uncollected by me—”

  “Try ‘rejected’—I felt, I feel, rejected by you.”

  “I see now that you feel rejected, and I regret this, but I beg you to consider that I had no intention of upsetting you. There was no grand scheme. I was here, struggling. You were in Hammersmith, waiting. I was waiting too. I waited every day for you to come. Yes, I could have rescued you, Isobel, but you seem to enjoy rescuing yourself.”

  He spun away and walked to his desk. His heart was pounding; he wanted her so badly he felt physical pain. It wasn’t meant to play out this way. When she came. If she came. He made a sound of frustration and ran a hand through his hair. He looked at the stacks of parchment on the desk and wanted to scoop them to the floor in an angry sweep. But then where would he be? Faced with sorting it all again.

  He chuckled bitterly to himself. “Although I have no aversion to you rescuing me. Obviously.”

  Across the room, Isobel was silent. He did not look at her. He did not need to look at her; as always, he felt her presence, her flickering energy. He smelled her.

  After a tense moment, he asked, “Has Drummond Hooke, your former employer, harassed you in any way?”

  “What?” She stared at him as if he might burst into flames.

  “The illustrious Mr. Hooke. Has he harassed you in the new shop?”

  “Well, he sent a letter the first week. I responded but heard nothing back.”

  “Good. I hope you don’t mind my paying him a visit. Rest assured, he understands now that it’s in his best interest to not bother you again.”

  “I . . . I did not know,” she said softly.

  Jason nodded, watching his coin spin upward. In his peripheral vision, he saw her drift in his direction. He held his breath.

  “But have you,” she ventured softly, “told your family about . . . about your offer?”

  Jason exhaled. He smiled to himself. If she raised the topic of “his offer,” surely she was conceding. She wanted him still. They were nearly there.

  He propped his hip on the corner of the desk. “Which offer would that be?”

  “You wouldn’t make me say it,” she said.

  “I would make you say it. I made you come for me, didn’t I?”

  “You’ve just claimed—” She stopped herself. She narrowed her eyes. “Answer the question.”

  Her voice was sharp but she’d taken another step in his direction. His muscles twitched to reach her, but he remained calmly, coolly, on the edge of his desk.

  “No,” he answered, enunciating his words flatly, “my mother and sisters do not know that we are betrothed. You forbade me from telling anyone, remember? No one knows. You’ll have to endure that particular revelation in front of everyone—assuming you’ll still have me. But see? How much easier will it be now that you’ve enjoyed this lovely foray into a typical day at Syon Hall? Now that you’ve met my harmless mother and sisters, all of whom couldn’t care less who I marry? They believe you’ve come to take me in hand. Which you have. In one sense at least. That alone will win you approval.”

  “You could have managed,” she tried, still a little confused. She took another step. Jason licked his lips.

  “The hell I could’ve.”

  “I thought you weren’t coming for me,” she whispered, her voice breaking again.

  Jason’s teasing bravado fell away. He shoved off the desk. He met her where she stood. He dropped to his knees before her.

  “I was always coming, S’bell. If you never made it here—and I was praying every day that you would—I would’ve come for you. I love you. I want you to be my duchess, if you will have me.”

  Isobel’s face had gone the most charming shade of pink. Her mouth was half-open. Tears dropped down her cheeks. She had just extended her small, shaking hand when the door behind them made a loud, slow, creaking sound.

  Jason closed his eyes.

  “Oh lovely!” said his sister Veronica from the doorway, her voice light with genuine pleasure. “You’ve finally begun sorting the ledgers. And the tax bills. Well done—”

  Jason swore.

  A stray wad of paper lay on the floor beside him and he took it up and pivoted on one knee.

  “Out, Ronnie,” he sang, pitching the ball of paper at the door. His sister made a yelp and hopped back, slamming the door.

  The room fell silent. Jason took a deep breath. He closed his eyes. He turned back to Isobel.

  “Sorry,” he said, gazing up at her. “Where was I?”

  While he watched her, Isobel’s tearful, silent sobs made the most inelegant transformation to giggling. She shook her head and pressed her hands to her mouth, unable to stop the happy, excited sound. Her face was lit with delight. She leapt at him and he caught her up.

  His mouth found hers in the first moment, kissing her with the passion and possession wrought of four weeks of waiting. Within moments, they were a clawing, pawing tangle of arms and lips, tongue and breath.

  They were just about to tip sideways when a knock sounded at the door.

  Jason ignored it but Isobel paused.

  “Tell them to go away,” he mumbled.

  In the direction of the door, he shouted, “Whoever you are, go—”

  Isobel placed her hand over his mouth and craned up to stare at the door. The knock sounded again. Through the door, his sister Veronica could be heard calling to them.

  “Just a note that the tax on the foundry should actually read half of the listed sum because we supply swords to the Royal Marines . . .” Her voice was muffled through the wood.

  Isobel looked at him, looked at the door, and then shoved up.

  Jason slapped the floor with his hand in frustration.

  He heard the door creak again, and then he heard Isobel say, “Hello.”

  “Sorry to disturb,” apologized Ronnie, “but Mama said you were helping Jason sort out the filing?”

  “I was endeavoring to do it,” Isobel said. “I . . . I don’t believe we’ve met. I am Miss Isobel Tinker.”

  “Oh yes, I know who you are,” said Ronnie cheerfully. “Jason has told us how you saved our cousin from pirates. Well done. But I hope you’ll forgive my very obsessive need to make a few suggestions about the filing.” Ronnie drifted into the room with the cat.

  “But do you have some . . . interest or expertise in the management of the estate, Lady Veronica?” asked Isobel. “Er, may I call you Lady Veronica?”

  “Oh, please call me Ronnie,” his sister said, brushing past, making her way to the desk. “It’s just that I’ve been managing the correspondence and figuring the ledgers since our brother died, and I could share a few things with Jason—when he’s ready.”

  “Is that right?” said Isobel, sounding inspired. “But do you . . . enjoy the work of managing the estate, Ronnie? That is, does it disrupt or postpone your other pursuits?”

  “Oh no,” assured Ronnie. “I’m loath to give it over to him, honestly. And not only because he will cock it up almost immediately.”

  She plopped down in Jason’s chair and spilled the cat on the desktop. “I was just beginning to have everything sorted when Jason returned home. He’s made quick work of turning everything upside down. Naturally.”

  She took up where Isobel left off, stacking papers into piles.

  Isobel came up behind her, her arms crossed over her chest, and watched appreciatively as Veronica sifted through his tangle of papers, setting things to rights.

  “I think perhaps you’ve found an answer to your problem, Your Grace,” Isobel said. “You have a capable sister right here at Syon Hall who not only wants to do your job, she’s already been doing it.”

  Jason was shaking his head. “I won’t allow the dukedom to ruin her life too. She deserves to marry, start a famil
y.”

  “Actually,” said Veronica, not looking up, “I’ve no aspiration to either of those pursuits. I’d much rather remain in my own beautiful home and play the duke instead. Given the chance.”

  “Lovely,” said Isobel, beaming at him. She was so beautiful his heart ached.

  “Ronnie,” he said, “why didn’t you tell me you could help? Couldn’t you see me struggling?”

  His sister shrugged. “You seemed so very determined. You were behaving so strangely. I was afraid my interference would make you more hysterical, honestly.”

  “Quite so,” he said, scratching his beard. “Well, the hysteria is over, you’ll be happy to know. And I would be forever grateful for any estate business that you wish to manage. I’m rubbish at it, as you’ve suggested. I’ve solicited potential stewards to interview. Outsiders who could take things in hand, but it makes far more sense for you to do it. You were always smarter than the three of us boys combined.”

  She winked at him but said nothing, pointing out some tabulation on an invoice to Isobel.

  Jason wondered how he’d gone from kissing his betrothed to watching her do sums with his sister.

  “Ronnie?” Jason called. “Is this business of a ball still happening?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Ronnie.

  “When is it?”

  “Tonight, Jason. We’ve said this again and again.”

  “Right,” said Jason. “But has anyone thought to invite Isobel?”

  The younger woman finally looked up. She spun in her seat to beam up at Isobel. “But you must come, Miss Tinker. Reggie will be there—and all of us, of course. A small crowd from London. It’s meant to be great fun, and how much more fun now that you appear to have fixed whatever was wrong with Jason.”

  “Yes, Isobel,” said Jason sardonically. “You must come. Especially now that you’ve ‘fixed’ me.”

  Isobel blinked up at him, her heart in her eyes. “Alright, Your Grace,” she said. “I should be delighted to attend.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Dear Georgiana,

  Can I beg a favor, Mummy? I’ve a gown in my bedroom that I need sent up to Syon Hall. The groom bearing this letter will wait for you to fetch it and return with it. It’s the emerald-green silk with moss-colored trim; you’ll find it in the back of my second wardrobe. I’ve only the one gown appropriate for evening, so it won’t be difficult to find.