When You Wish Upon a Duke

by Charis Michaels

  Insecurity and defeat fell like an avalanche; she couldn’t breathe for the weight of it. What had she thought? That she could triumph at the ball of a duke? As his betrothed, for God’s sake? To earn the approval of the dowager?

  Meanwhile the approval of Wendy Bask was guaranteed. The girl needed only sail through the door.

  Isobel felt hollow inside, light enough to float away.

  This—after the dowager duchess had been so lovely.

  After she’d squired Isobel on her arm and introduced her to her guests.

  Now, Lady Northumberland and her daughters would be part of the gossip mill for weeks.

  Worst of all, Jason would be lost.

  She looked back to her mother. Georgiana was staring at Isobel. Her expression showed such deep, painful regret it pierced Isobel’s heart. Isobel couldn’t remember her mother ever looking so diminished.

  Georgiana mouthed the words, Oh God. I’m so sorry.

  Tears clouded Isobel’s eyes. Slowly, she nodded. It occurred to her that Georgiana would not mount a confrontation. She was . . . she was . . .

  . . . making her way to her.

  Across the crowded ballroom, Wendy Bask and Lady Cranford had intercepted the duke. Wendy curtsied before him with the practiced grace of a dancer. Wendy’s mother looked on fondly while a uniformed man facilitated an introduction.

  Isobel glanced again at Georgiana. Her mother held out a hand, low with open fingers. The gesture was so foreign—almost nothing Georgiana did was low or discreet—Isobel almost didn’t understand.

  Without thinking, she reached for her mother. She could count on one hand the number of times that Georgiana had been present when she really needed her. But she was here now, and she wasn’t causing a scene, and she didn’t spoil for a fight. She was simply standing beside her, holding her hand.

  Isobel felt a swell of love and gratitude for her mother. She was flushed with it; the hollowness inside began to fill.

  “Proud smile,” Georgiana whispered in her ear. “Chin high. Tits out. Which one is the duke?”

  Isobel looked across the ballroom, and they saw North, yards away, bowing over Wendy’s knuckles. The sight banished all thoughts of crying; now she wanted to shout. The outrage in Isobel’s head took the form of four words: He belongs to me.

  She opened her mouth to say it, but then suddenly the dowager duchess returned. Two of Jason’s sisters joined her, and the three of them smiled in hopeful curiosity, their eyes darting back and forth between Isobel and Georgiana.

  And now Isobel acknowledged that running had never been an option. It would only make matters worse and it wasn’t her style. She was a realist, not a coward.

  She cleared her throat. She sucked in two silent breaths and envisioned each vertebra of her spine fortified with iron.

  “Your Grace,” she said to the dowager, “I should like to make an introduction.”

  “Lovely,” said the dowager, eyeing Georgiana Tinker’s eye-wateringly bright gown, feathered headdress, and beautiful face.

  “May I present my mother, Miss Georgiana Tinker.”

  The dowager blinked once, absorbing Georgiana’s vibrancy. When she recovered, her smile was warm. “How do you do, Miss Tinker. I was so pleased you accepted our invitation on such short notice. We are delighted to have you to Syon Hall. Your daughter is a delight. And if I might say so, what a magnificent gown.”

  “Your Grace,” said Georgiana in hushed, respectful tones. One of the things that made Georgiana the consummate professional was her triumph in a supporting role. She sank into a curtsy and clung to Isobel’s arm.

  After this, conversation dropped away. The moment took on an odd, expectant quality. Isobel and her mother turned in unison to track the movement of the Ladies Cranford.

  “But have you seen a friend?” asked the dowager, following their gaze.

  “Ah,” said Isobel in the same moment that her mother said, “Yes.”

  Halfway across the room, Lady Cranford turned to stare directly, unerringly, at Georgiana and Isobel. The ice of her glare was like a snowball to the face.

  “Oh no,” groused the dowager, “is that Lady Cranford?”

  Isobel didn’t answer; she watched as her father’s widow began a slow, determined march in the direction of Georgiana.

  My God, Isobel thought in horror, she’s coming directly to us.

  Again Isobel felt the instinct to run. They could excuse themselves and slip away; they could cut their own path through the ballroom, marching to meet Lady Cranford halfway. She could whisper to her mother, Do your worst, Mama, and simply step back.

  But then she looked at Jason. He was laughing at something his sister said, and looking pleasantly down at Lady Wendy. He appeared neither enchanted nor repelled; he was simply talking. Wendy related some anecdote with rapid movements of her small, gloved hands.

  Without warning, he looked up and around, seeking out Isobel. If Lady Cranford’s gaze had been ice, his was the sun. He smiled and gave her a wink. Ever so subtly, he affected a slight eye roll and nodded to Lady Wendy’s flapping hands.

  Isobel smiled, and the shimmers in her belly filled in all remaining hollowness.

  She had the sudden thought, I will try to salvage this.

  He is worth it.

  I am worth it.

  “Your Grace,” Isobel said suddenly, turning to Jason’s mother. “Forgive me, but my mother and I have an uncomfortable—dare I say, indelicate—association with the dowager countess currently making her way to us. I assume she is in your acquaintance. Lady Cranford?”

  “Oh,” sighed Lady Northumberland. “Lady Cranford.”

  Isobel pressed on. “I beg your pardon for—I . . . I find myself at a loss for what else I might say. I beg your pardon for our history and I beg your pardon for imposing this moment on you. And your daughters. Whatever it may entail.”

  She turned to Georgiana. “Shall we stay, or shall we go, Mama? I leave it up to you.”

  “I should go,” said Georgiana quietly. “Salvage your future, Bell. I will perish if I ruin this for you.”

  “My future and our past are linked, and I thank God for it,” Isobel replied. “No one will perish. Come what may. But hurry and decide. Stay or go?”

  “Stay,” whispered Georgiana, her voice as soft as a kiss.

  Isobel nodded. She squared her shoulders and raised her chin and stared at the rapidly approaching dowager countess.

  By the time Lady Cranford reached them, Isobel had schooled her face into aloof serenity. At her side, she gripped her mother’s hand as if she meant to snap it off. She held her breath.

  The dowager countess was prettier than Isobel had first thought. She was shockingly pale, but her features were delicate and her lashes long. She pinned Georgiana with a furious glare. She had the determined look of someone chopping off the head of a hysterical goose.

  “Your Grace,” Lady Cranford began, speaking to the dowager duchess in tight, clipped tones. “I must beg a word with you in private. Immediately. The matter is very urgent.”

  “Hello, Rosemary,” drawled Lady Northumberland. “How purposeful you look. Will you not take some champagne? ’Tis a ball; it’s meant to be a respite from ‘urgent matters.’ Surely you don’t mean to pull me away from my guests.”

  “Your guests,” ground out Lady Cranford, “are precisely the urgent matter I wish to discuss. There are . . . personalities present of whom you’ve not been fully apprised. You would not wish dishonor to fall upon this ball or this house or your daught—”

  “Careful, Rosemary,” cut in the dowager duchess, her voice calm but final, “before you invoke the names of my daughters—or any of my guests, for that matter. Not only do I eschew ‘urgent matters’ at my parties, I also forbid slander. I’ll not stand for name-calling. Unless someone is brandishing a saber, I’ve no interest.”

  “But, Your Grace,” said Lady Cranford stonily, her eyes lancing Georgiana with a hateful look. “This wom—”


  Before Lady Cranford could finish, the dowager duchess swept a collective arm around Isobel and Georgiana and pivoted, effectively turning her back.

  The cut direct.

  Isobel had heard of this phenomenon but never witnessed it. Certainly if ever she imagined it happening, she saw herself on the receiving end rather than the beneficiary.

  “Ah, Count St. Claire, there you are,” called Lady Northumberland to a passing man. “Someone told me you’ve written a book. What is your passion? The history of . . .”

  “The cistern, Your Grace,” provided the man, clearly delighted.

  “Yes,” enthused the dowager. “I am fascinated. Will you tell us more?”

  I love this family. It was Isobel’s next thought.

  I love this family, and I love the duke, and I have as much right to be a part of their lives as anyone else.

  I fought pirates, for God’s sake.

  I speak seven languages.

  I’ve traveled the world.

  They see me.

  I deserve to be seen and they see me.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Within moments of the stupefying description of the cistern book, Jason appeared at Isobel’s side.

  Isobel, still shaky and breathless from the near miss with Lady Cranford, had the extreme pleasure of introducing the Duke of Northumberland to her mother.

  Jason said all the correct things, praising Georgiana’s work as an actress and Isobel’s skill as a cultural attaché. If he made no mention of their relationship, the possessive hand he settled on her lower back said more than words. And not simply to Georgiana. Bystanders craned to examine the duke’s proximity to Isobel, his attention to her every comment, his possessive touch.

  To her credit, Georgiana was careful not to upstage Isobel or flirt. Her radiant face was awash with love, and also with hopefulness. She was rapt, an audience member for once, desperate to see what delightful thing would happen next.

  Ultimately, that thing was Jason pulling Isobel away.

  “We’ve things of dire importance to discuss,” he told their mothers and his sisters. “If you’ll excuse us.”

  “Such an epidemic of dire discussions and urgent conversations at this ball,” observed the dowager duchess. But she was already turning away, taking Georgiana by the arm to introduce her to a passing group.

  Jason looped Isobel’s arm beneath his and led her from the ballroom. The closer they got to the doors, the faster he walked. They were nearly running by the time he pulled her into a wide, shadowy corridor, vacant except for some distant guests.

  Isobel laughed at his haste, looking behind her to see if the crowd had noticed their flight. When she looked back, Jason was reaching for her. Without breaking stride, he picked her up and whirled her into an embrace, burying his face in her neck.

  “Is the ball over?” he breathed.

  “Yes,” she teased, “it is over and the house is deserted and now you and I and your sister may resume our work in your library.”

  “On second thought, it cannot end.” He gave her a smacking kiss and set her down, recovering her arm. “Not yet. Not until I’ve made the announcement.” He resumed their march down the corridor.

  “What announcement?”

  “Our betrothal. What else?”

  Isobel missed a step. “Our—”

  “Do not test me on this, Isobel. I’ve waited bloody long enough. I’ve a special license in my pocket. Calling on the archbishop was one of the few things I actually achieved in these last many weeks. If the vicar is still in attendance, we’ll do the thing tonight.”

  “Do what ‘thing’?” Isobel rasped, stopping in the middle of the hall.

  Jason kept walking. “Prepare yourself, S’bell. My patience has run its course.”

  He turned to walk backward, facing her. From inside his coat, he pulled a tiny box. He flipped it in the air like one of his coins. Then he pitched it to her. Isobel was unprepared but caught it on reflex.

  “But what is—?” She stared at the box in her hands.

  “Jason?!” A head popped through a ballroom door. His sister Susana, her voice winded, like someone was chasing her.

  “Not now, Sue,” he ground out, not looking at her.

  “It cannot wait,” said his sister. “It’s Reggie. He’s delved into a political debate and offended someone’s French relation. The man is threatening to call Reggie out. He’s thrown his drink in Reggie’s face. Mama is furious. She’ll not have dueling at Syon Hall.”

  Jason closed his eyes and swore under his breath. He stared at the ceiling. “I swear, Reginald Pelham,” he vowed, “for once could you imperil yourself without inconveniencing so many other people? Most of all, me?”

  He pointed to Isobel. “Stay right here. Do not move. This will take ten minutes, no more.” He strode in the direction of his sister.

  “Are you certain I shouldn’t come?” Isobel asked after him.

  He was shaking his head. “Reggie’s debt to you already extends two lifetimes.”

  Isobel watched Jason and his sister disappear into the ballroom.

  She looked down at the small, leather box in her hands.

  With trembling fingers, she slid the ebony latch and popped the lid. Nestled inside a froth of ivory velvet was a ring. The simple gold band was set with a swirl of stones in three shades of green—emeralds, peridots, and jade—interspersed with fiery white diamonds.

  She looked up, staring through tears at the empty doorway. Her body pulsed from the inside with shimmering light. She sucked in a tearful breath.

  “What a pretty ring,” said a voice behind her.

  Isobel turned.

  Lady Wendy Bask trailed in from the ballroom, shoulders slumped, silk wrap sagging halfway down her back.

  Isobel snapped the box shut.

  “Oh,” said Lady Wendy, “you’re crying too. Excellent.” A dramatic sniff. “I’ve reached the designated spot for weeping.”

  When the younger woman moved closer, Isobel could see splotchy cheeks and spiky lashes. Her eyes were red. But why would Lady Wendy Bask be crying? Had her mother harangued her and demanded they leave? Lady Cranford had vanished from the ballroom after she’d been cut by the dowager duchess. Or perhaps Wendy was upset because she’d seen Isobel disappear with the duke. Did the girl feel proprietary after only an introduction?

  Even as Isobel tried to guess the source of the girl’s tears, she found herself increasingly distracted by the close-up vision of her half sister. Here. Before her.

  She had a small nose and bow lips that looked so very much like Isobel’s. The resemblance was undeniable. Her hair was blond, darker than Isobel’s by a shade. She was taller than Isobel (everyone was taller than Isobel), but something about the way she held herself was very familiar. Far too much about Wendy Bask felt eerily familiar.

  Now the younger woman flapped a kerchief and blew her nose, watching Isobel over the top of the linen.

  “I beg your pardon, my lady,” Isobel began, dropping the ring box into her pocket. “I was waiting for—” She wasn’t certain how to finish.

  What honesty or civility did she owe this girl?

  Could Wendy Bask truly have no idea who Isobel was? She appeared clueless. Young and distressed and a little bit self-involved. But clueless.

  Isobel thought of that terrible day in the café, their only previous encounter. She had the vague memory of a sour child who’d stolen her father. In other words, her sworn enemy.

  Isobel glanced at her again. The younger woman stared back with red eyes and an open, curious expression.

  Isobel sighed and opened her mouth, trying to whip up that old resentment and envy. Instead, she felt . . . nothing.

  Isobel was so very weary of being jealous and resentful, and Wendy Bask was innocent of their father’s crimes. Honestly, she looked like any number of Isobel’s fresh-faced clients—girls Isobel adored, girls for whom Isobel loved planning the holidays that would delight and enrich them.

/>   “Was I weeping?” Isobel heard herself ask. “Forgive me. They were not unhappy tears. I’m . . . I’m waiting to be introduced to the duke’s family and the guests . . . as . . . as the future duchess.”

  Resentful or not, Isobel wanted to make her attachment to the duke perfectly clear.

  And it couldn’t hurt to practice saying these words.

  “Are you?” gasped Wendy, stepping closer. “But this is wonderful news.”

  It is? thought Isobel.

  “Actually?” added Wendy. “I’ll say it: thank God!” She clenched her fists before her like a boxer and then jumped up and down.

  Isobel watched this, totally disarmed. With every hop, the skirt on Lady Wendy’s dress filled with air and expanded like an onion.

  “Now perhaps my mother,” sang Wendy, “can stop hounding me about the duke. And I can stop all the preening and pawing like a mare.” She made a rather unladylike gagging noise and grabbed her own throat. “He’s so old—”

  Now the girl gasped, slapping a hand over her mouth. “Oh, do forgive me. I’m certain he is the perfect age for . . . you.”

  “Quite,” managed Isobel.

  “I am Lady Wendy Bask, by the way, and one thing you should know—”

  “How do you do,” said Isobel, her voice a little breathless.

  “Oh yes, how do you do.” Wendy bobbed a curtsy. “One thing you should know about me is that I have no desire to be married—not to anyone. But especially not to an aging duke who lives with his mother and fifty sisters.”

  And now Isobel was given no choice but to feel affection for the girl. The universe would allow nothing else.

  “Have you,” Isobel ventured, “another gentleman in mind, perhaps?”

  Lady Wendy shook her head. “Not a man, a vocation.” She lifted her hands like an archbishop on Easter. “The stage. I’m destined to be an actress. It is my only dream, and I intend to realize it. I don’t care what my mother thinks.”

  Isobel blinked at her, trying to swallow the irony of this revelation. Lady Wendy began to smooth the lines of her dress.

  “The great unfairness is that my late father would have allowed it,” Wendy declared, speaking to her skirt. “I am certain of this. But we lost him to a weak heart—may God rest his soul—and my brother is now earl, and my mother is a tyrant, and neither can be made to see how very essential this is to me.