Proposing to a Duke

by Claudia Stone

  “I suppose everybody likes music, regardless of their social status,” Isabella ventured tactfully, thinking that Cortnay, for all his smooth charm, was in fact a bit of a snoot.

  They were seated with Lavinia and Jack in the Viscount’s private box, which gave a panoramic view of the pit, the stalls and the boxes on the opposite side of the stage. Huge chandeliers hung from the ceiling, illuminating the large room, and allowing for one to observe the other attendees, many of whom glittered impressively in jewels. The opening night of an opera or a play was more about being seen than actually seeing, Isabella thought wryly as she observed ladies take their seats, bedecked in all their finery.

  As the opera began, and the roar of the crowd hushed, Isabella became aware of many faces staring curiously up at her, and the Viscount who was seated beside her. No doubt the society pages in the papers would allude to them being seen together, further fueling rumours that the Viscount would propose.

  “Do you enjoy the opera my Lord?” Isabella asked, turning her face from the audience towards Courtnay, who was veritably preening from the attention.

  “I do,” he said with a wicked smile, his hand brushing lightly against hers; “But I enjoy it even more when I can share the experience with a beautiful woman.”

  Isabella glanced at Lydia and Jack, who were seated in the box with them, but they both seemed engrossed in the scene unfurling below on the stage.

  “I am sure you have been seated here with much more beautiful women than I my Lord,” Isabella deflected primly, turning her face away so that he would not see her flush. The heat that crossed her cheeks was not from excitement at his compliments however, more frustrated confusion.

  She was seated beside one of society’s most eligible men, and yet she felt nothing more than trapped. She longed to flee from the box and the staring eyes of the audience and return to Devon,leaving London behind.

  “Call me Damian,” the Viscounts fingers squeezed hers; “My dear Isabella.”

  She could not run away back home - not now that she had none. Viscount Courtnay was the best chance she had of making a new home of her own; so she smiled, in what she hoped was a sultry manner.

  “As you wish Damian,” she whispered, feigning shyness by turning her face away from him. She turned her eyes to the stage, but her attention was caught not by the soprano who stood there, but rather by a familiar face in one of the royal boxes.

  Goodness was that Lydia?

  Isabella squinted across the pit, to where the large royal box was, and saw that it was Lydia, her face sullen as she watched the stage below, her back practically fully turned against the Marquess of Sutherland who was seated beside her.

  Isabella bit back a giggle, even the handsome Marquess could not sway Lydia’s determination to be independent. The Dowager Duchess sat to Lydia’s left, and beside the dowager sat one of the most perfectly beautiful girls Isabella had ever seen in her life. An abundance of blonde curls shone like a halo around a porcelain face of such beauty that Isabella could see people below straining to catch a glimpse of the Aphrodite.

  And beside the Aphrodite? Isabella felt her stomach drop; seated beside the girl, in plain view of the whole of the ton, looking cheerful and relaxed, was the Duke of Blackmore.

  “Are you alright?”

  It was a second before Isabella could respond to the Viscount; her breathing had become laboured and she felt as though she might cast up her accounts at any second. The memory of Michael suggesting that she do just that to attract men flashed before her, and for one wild moment she felt as though she would laugh.

  “I am fine,” she said, smiling at Courtnay, whose face wore a frown.

  “No, really, I’m fine,” she insisted to Lavinia and Jack, who could not have failed to notice her attack of the vapours; “I just saw a rather large spider and it gave me a fright.”

  This explanation satisfied the Viscount, who gave a chuckle and said something along the lines of “women” to Jack, who tactfully pretended he hadn’t heard. The only person who seemed suspicious of her tale was Lavinia, who kept glancing at her from the corner of her eye, a worried expression on her face.

  “I’m fine,” Isabella mouthed to her behind Courtnay’s back, though she could see Lydia was not convinced. Her sister gave her a knowing look, pursed her lips unhappily and went back to watching the opera, which was nearing its conclusion.

  “I am fine,” Isabella thought sullenly, allowing her gaze to fall back onto the stage, her eyes studiously avoiding the box on the opposite side of the theatre where the Duke of Blackmore sat.

  The King's Proxy was the longest, dullest opera that Michael had ever attended in his life. This was perhaps because from the moment he had taken his seat, his attention had been fixed on the sight of Isabella seated beside the Viscount Courtnay in their box on the opposite side of the Theatre Royal. Michael could feel the rage bubbling in his chest as he watched the blonde head of the Viscount dip as he bent close to Isabella to whisper in his ear.

  “Is your Grace enjoying the opera?”

  Aurelia St. Claire, the very reason he was there, was looking at him with curious, fearful eyes. Michael supposed that his expression had been darker and more forbidding than usual.

  “It’s rather long,” he said bluntly, not caring to become engaged in idle chatter with the young lady. She was a friend of Lydia’s, a guest of the Marquess of Sutherland and his sister, and a possible object of affection for his brother Sebastian - though the inverted snob would never admit it.

  “She needs to be seen with powerful friends,” was all his half-brother had said when he had asked the Duke to accompany her alongside Sutherland to the theatre. Michael had not thought to inquire more into the background of her tale, for Sebastian, whose businesses brought him in contact the seedy underbelly of London.

  “He’s in up to his head,” Sebastian had told him the previous night. They had been seated in the office of his gaming hell in Pickering Place, their conversation competing with the sounds of drunken men carousing in the rooms below.

  “With you?” Michael asked curiously.

  “He owes me a small amount,” his brother conceded; “But you know me, I am loathe to extend credit to the aristocracy.”

  Michael had snorted with laughter at this comment, his half brother was loathe to have anything to do with the ton after his time at Eaton - bar fleece them for every penny they had. The exception was his close friend the Marquess of Sutherland, and even he was often victim to Sebastian’s acerbic put-downs.

  “Well who does he owe money to?” Michael asked again.

  “A nasty chap called Hamley in Whitefriars,” Sebastian said uncomfortably; “He deals with the heavy gamblers no one else will touch, your friend owes him thousands.”

  Thousands which he was intending to pay off with Isabella’s dowry no doubt.

  The curtain fell for the interval and Michael pushed back his chair to stand.

  “Are we going for refreshments cousin?” Lydia asked cheerfully, but she was speaking to Michael’s back. He had already left the box, determined to find Isabella.

  “Isabella!” Lydia’s loud voice caused several heads to turn, as the young lady pushed her way through the crowd of theatre goers, a large feather bobbing above her head.

  “There you are,” she said breathlessly as she reached Isabella and Lavinia, who were waiting for their escorts to return to them with lemonade.

  “My Lady Longleaf,” Lydia said with a smile; “Allow me to introduce my close friend Aurelia St. Claire.”

  The blonde beauty who had been seated beside the Duke, emerged from behind Lydia, her tiny frame had been concealed behind Lydia’s enormous headpiece.

  Greetings and introductions were exchanged, Isabella allowed Lavinia to take the lead while she scrutinised this Miss St. Claire. Closer inspection of the girl showed her to be even more beautiful than Isabella had first feared; huge blue eyes were framed by lush dark lashes, her skin was completely flawless an
d her mouth the perfect rosebud. Worse still, she seemed perfectly nice and friendly, inquiring as to how the two sisters were enjoying the opera.

  “Aurelia has run away from her wicked Uncle’s home,” Lydia whispered with excitement, as Lavinia momentarily left the girls alone so that she could seek out her husband who seemed to have disappeared.

  “Lydia!” Aurelia squeaked, giving Isabella a worried glance.

  “Oh Isabella won’t tell,” Lydia reassured her, throwing Isabella a winning smile.

  “You are here as a guest of the Duke?” Isabella ventured, sensing that Miss St. Claire desired a change of conversation.

  “Actually Blackmore is here as my guest,” a velvety smooth voice interjected.

  Lydia’s face turned thundery in annoyance at the arrival of the Marquis of Sutherland.

  “You disappeared so quickly I thought I’d lost you both,” Sutherland continued, deliberately ignoring Lydia’s unwelcoming glare as he handed both her and Aurelia glasses of lemonade.

  “My apologies Miss Peregrine I did not realise you would be here,” Sutherland said with a charming smile to Isabella.

  “My brother in-law has gone to fetch me a glass my Lord,” she replied, searching the crowd for any sign of her sister, Jack or even Viscount Courtnay, who all appeared to have become lost in the crush.

  Her attention was caught by the sight of a familiar tall, broad figure and she bit back a groan.

  “Miss Peregrine.”

  “Your Grace.”

  Honestly, did Blackmore not have the manners to leave her alone having rejected her? It was as though he wanted to revel in her humiliation.

  “I-I,” he began softly, swallowing his words as he was jostled from behind by someone trying to push past him.

  “I-I,” he began again, much softer this time, before stopping - it appeared he had lost his voice.

  “I must find my sister,” Isabella said loudly and curtly, cutting across him before he could spit out whatever it was he wished to say.

  With a bobbed curtsy to the foursome - including Lydia who was glancing none too subtly between her and the Duke in confusion - Isabella took her leave.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sebastian arrived back from his morning ride through Green Park breathless and covered in sweat from the vigorous exercise. Luckily he was most unfashionable in that he preferred to rise at dawn - unlike the rest of the ton who did not get out of bed before noon - so there was seldom anyone to witness his unkempt appearance when he returned to Blackmore House, his towering St. James’ residence. Except this morning as he strode across the chequered marble tiles of the entrance hall, a tired voice called out in greeting.

  It was his cousin Lydia, who seldom followed society’s fashions except if they involved sleeping well into the afternoon.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure dear cousin?” Michael asked convivially, striding towards where she stood in the doorway to the Blue Drawing Room, her eyelids heavy with sleep.

  “I wish to speak to you about Isabella,” Lydia replied stifling a yawn, before looking him up and down with a sniff; “Though I can wait until after you’ve washed.”

  With no further explanation his cousin turned and disappeared into the drawing room to wait for him, leaving Michael standing flummoxed in the hallway, what could she possibly wish to ask him about Isabella?

  He returned a mere ten minutes later, his hair still damp but his appearance much tidier. Lydia was standing by the window, gazing out onto the quiet square.

  “I trust my appearance is to your satisfaction?” Michael said sarcastically, seating himself in an overstuffed armchair.

  “It was not your appearance but rather your odor which offended me Michael,” Lydia said lightly; “But your valet seems to have solved that problem.”

  Michael rubbed his brow; his cousin was the oddest of fish, but he was terribly fond of her. Lydia had not had the easiest start in life, and though her eccentric approach to the world confused both the ton and his mother, Michael had only ever felt protective towards the harmless Lady Beaufort.

  “I shall pass your compliments on to Rowley when I see him next,” Michael said with a smile; “Now tell me what it was you wished to speak to me about. It must have been quite important if it got you all the way over here from Mayfair at this early hour.”

  “Why did you say no when Isabella proposed to you?”

  His years of education at Eaton had thought him many things, among them a familiarity with the feeling of sucker-punched, but the unexpectedness of Lydia’s comment left Michael nearly breathless with shock.

  “S-s-she t-t-old y-you?” he stuttered, noting Lydia’s eyebrows raise as she registered his struggle to speak.

  “Eventually.”

  A silence fell between them, Michael sat struggling to form the questions he wished to ask of his cousin, while Lydia watched him curiously from under her soot black lashes.

  “I have a stutter.”

  He broke the silence first and the comical look of shock on Lydia’s face made it almost worth the loss of pride that he felt at revealing his deficiency of speech.

  “You?” Lydia coughed, choking apparently on her surprise; “You have a stutter?”

  “Yes.”

  “But that’s ridiculous, I have never head you stutter in my whole life - except for just now. You’re too big and petrifying to stutter, I think you’re having me on cuz.”

  “I had terrible difficulty forming words when I was a child,” Michael replied mildly, trying to keep control of his emotions so that he could explain himself; “ I learned to control my speech many years ago and it only emerges now when I am overwrought.”

  “Overwrought by emotion?” Lydia’s voice sounded gleeful.

  “Yes,” Michael cleared his throat uncomfortably, where was she going with this line of questioning?

  His cousin sprang to her feet and began to pace the length of the Blue Parlour with excitement.

  “So Isabella proposed to you and you could not reply as you started to stutter?” she asked, her eyes dancing. Without waiting for Michael to reply, she continued with her surmising of the situation.

  “But you only stutter when you can’t control your emotions - therefore you felt something when Isabella proposed. Oh,” Lydia gasped and turned to look at Michael accusingly; “You’re in love with Isabella.”

  “I-I-I-I-”

  What Michael wanted to say was “I am not”, but of course his brain would not allow him. As the back of his throat closed over his words and his tongue morphed into a large slug, Michael came to the conclusion that yes, he was in love with Isabella Peregrine. And so he nodded his head and Lydia gave a broad grin of delight.

  “Wonderful, now I have a plan…”

  For the second time in a fortnight Isabella found herself on parade in Hyde Park, this time with the Viscount Courtnay, who appeared to relish the attention being paid to them.

  “Oh look, Lord Downtry and his wife,” Courtnay said, with an elbow to Isabella’s ribs to attract her attention.

  The elderly couple smiled back with amusement as Courtnay vigorously waved his arm in greeting. To her right Isabella could feel Lavinia shaking with mirth, her hand covering her mouth as though to keep back the laughter which threatened to bubble forth.

  “It’s endearing that he’s so proud to be seen with you,” her sister whispered, as once again Courtnay waved down a fellow member of the ton in excitement. Isabella nodded in agreement, the Viscount did seem rather fond of being seen with her, but not overly fond of speaking to her. In the two weeks that Courtnay had been courting her Isabella had danced with him at various balls at least a dozen times, gone riding in Hyde Park twice, spent most of the evening at Lady Jersey’s musical rout together and yet… Isabella considered Courtnay’s profile as he stared ahead, his hand casually on the reins of the two horses who pulled the curricle. Despite having spent so much time together, there was very little that she actually knew about the Viscount - ot
her than that he was a bit of a snob.

  There were plenty of women who married men that they did not know, and Isabella was luckier than most of those women, in that the Viscount was handsome to look at and his manners were charming. Today he was dressed in a fine merino riding coat in deep blue, which complimented his eyes, his Hessians gleamed, his breeches were the perfect shade of fawn - essentially he was the epitome of style. Isabella couldn’t hep to compare his appearance however to that of the Duke. Where Courtnay dressed ever so slightly like a dandy, Blackmore’s style was more classic, more masculine.

  “Will you be attending the Ruxbridge’s Ball my Lord?” Isabella asked once the traffic of other carriages dissipated and the trio were quite alone on Rotten Row. Lavinia began to hum and look off into the distance, trying to make the pair feel more alone, which was nearly impossible in a curricle.

  “I will, I have business outside of London, which will take me away for a few days but I will see you at the Ruxbridge’s,” Courtnay answered. Isabella’s ears perked up with interest at the mention of business, the Viscount rarely mentioned his estates which she knew were mostly in the North of England.

  “Is Highfield Abbey very beautiful?” Isabella asked, for she knew that this was the name of his seat in Yorkshire.

  “The North of England is one of the most miserable parts of God’s great planet,” Courtnay replied glibly, his eyes cold.

  “Oh,” Isabella fell silent, surely if one was interested in marrying a lady they would attempt to persuade her that the home she was destined for had some merits. As if realising the error, the Viscount gave a chuckle and smiled, though it did not meet his eyes.

  “I mean of course compared to London, Miss Peregrine,” he said hastily; “I am a city boy in my soul.”

  The curricle was traveling towards Bond Street and the traffic was heavy, with horse led carts as well as traveling carriages and lone riders. A gang of ragamuffin children were gathered at the side of the road, foraging for small pieces of coal that might have fallen as it was being transported from the docks and quays. A small boy of no more than four, sighting a piece in the middle of the road ran forward, oblivious to the curricle carrying the Viscount and his companions.