Once and Future Duchess

by Sophia Nash

  Dedication

  To

  Carrie Feron

  Thank you for your belief in me.

  And to

  Michel, a true gentleman through and through.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  An Excerpt from Between the Duke and the Deep Blue Sea

  About the Author

  By Sophia Nash

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  There comes a time in a lady’s life when she must lace up her stiffest corset and face what she fears above all else. It’s called a day of reckoning in polite circles. But in the privacy of her mind, Isabelle Tre­mont, the Duchess of March, preferred language far less refined. Base, in fact. Yes, this promised to be a rotter of a day full of sodding answers. Yet she had little choice but to harness pluck and see it through. And so she would wrestle through a forest of indignities to avoid future brambles of regret. Cowardice was just not to be borne. Her father, the Duke of March, had often told her that before he died three years ago, leaving her a duchess in her own right. A rare creature to be sure.

  She only prayed God would not smite her when she did not fully own up to her true sentiments. It was one thing to take on the enemy, or rather . . . the gentleman who owned her heart. It was altogether another to bare her sensibilities. Pride was natural. Indeed, it protected one’s dignity. And one’s dignity protected the soul. And one’s soul . . . Oh, for the love of God, there was no time for pastoral ruminations. Endless speculation was mere procrastination. Procrastination was worse than waiting for someone else to come to his senses.

  And so, at precisely three o’clock in the afternoon, deep in Mayfair on a brilliant, cloudless late summer day, which did not match her mood, the petite duchess descended the stone steps of March House toward her destiny. At least no one else could fathom her inner tumult. Her maid, who not only excelled at pulling corset stays tighter than a French straitjacket, but also kept calm in the presence of silent madness, trailed her steps toward the carriage.

  And then Isabelle saw an excellent sign.

  A single crow alit on the roof of the family’s crested, gilded, well-­lacquered barouche. The onyx-­colored bird appeared disoriented and lost; his murder—­why a flock of crows was called a murder she would never understand—­had forsaken him. Whoever said crows were vile knew nothing of the matter. They provided the finest quills, laid beautiful blue splotched eggs, and were the single most intelligent bird on the Continent. He squawked and flapped his wings with displeasure. She knew just how he felt. But he would soon learn that independence was a lovely thing . . . once you got used to it. The crow flew off, and so would she.

  Yes, a crow was a very good sign.

  She was sure.

  The liveried footman opened the barouche’s door, and as she reached for the servant’s outstretched hand to aid her, she froze.

  Calliope. Perfect hell. Her younger cousin was inside.

  “ ’Morning, Isabelle,” Calliope chirped. Her cousin’s spectacles caught the sunlight and her eyes were hidden. Calliope glanced toward the maid. “ ’Morning, Lily.”

  The maid dipped a small curtsy.

  “Dearest,” Isabelle began. “Whatever are you doing here? Surely Mr. Malforte is waiting for you in the ballroom.”

  “He left. I don’t think he’s coming back.”

  “And why is that?”

  “I told him gentlemen look like wounded partridges bowing and hopping on pointed toes. A jig is all right, I suppose, but the minuet?” She pulled a face. “He didn’t seem to care for my observations.”

  The waiting footman cleared his throat to cover the sound of a snort.

  Isabelle suppressed a sigh. “Calliope?”

  “Yes?”

  “Dearest, we’ll discuss this later. Will you not wait for me in the library until then?”

  Calliope studied her with eyes magnified twice their size and then turned her attention to the maid. “Lily, Her Grace and I need a moment of privacy please. We’ve a matter of some importance to discuss.” She glared at the vastly entertained footman. “You, too.”

  Isabelle ground her teeth. She would be lucky not to spend an hour with the tooth-­drawer if her cousin remained in March House a full year as agreed. “Calliope shall accompany me, Lily.” Lord, she could not be late on this day of all days.

  “Of course, Your Grace.” Her maid’s passive expression gave nothing away. Isabelle knew that every last one of the servants were wagering on how long Calliope would last before being sent back to Portsmouth, where Isabelle’s poor maternal aunt lived with a huge brood.

  She stepped into the barouche and the carriage door closed. Calliope opened her mouth, but Isabelle raised her hand. “Dearest, not now. I need a quarter hour of quiet. On the return you can tell me everything.”

  Calliope closed the blue velvet carriage curtains with a peevish willfulness that only the very young or very old dared to do with genuine flare.

  Isabelle, in the darkness, was silent. She had but one last quarter hour to reconsider. Ill-­ease clogged her throat. She arched her back, exhaled, and attempted to regain the quiet dignity her father had tried to instill in her. No success. She might be able to hide her sensibilities, but the other was another matter. In fact, the only time she achieved stateliness was on cloudy days with the letter P in them.

  Her young cousin pretended to study a random page in the slender volume she held in her lap, and said idly, “I suppose you would prefer the curtains open.”

  Isabelle bit back the truth. “Actually, I find I can’t deny you the bliss of reading in the dark. One of life’s little joys, I always say.” Living with a cousin of four and ten who had mastered the art of a contrary contrarian five times her age was illuminating. Had she herself been like this a mere four years ago? Impossible. She had never thought she would have sympathy for Miss Hackett, her ancient ape-­leader of a governess who had ruled with ill humor and iron discipline.

  Calliope trained her attention on Isabelle, her book forgotten.

  Isabelle gave up any notion of reflection, quiet or otherwise. “Now would be the time for you to say, ‘But Isabelle, I know you’d prefer to take in the beauty of the day.’ ”

  “Why would I suggest such a thing?” Calliope said. “Then you’d agree and I’d be forced to open the curtains. Where’s the fun in that?” Her cousin pursed her lips like a dowager with a secret. “Very well. I can take a hint. I’ll read while you pretend this is an ordinary day.”

  How was she to have a chance of success with the notorious Duke of Candover if she couldn’t manage an adolescent? At least now she had a moment to think. Isabelle resisted the urge to relax her spine against the well-­cushioned squabs.

  Flashes of him fluttered in her mind’s eye. His powerful stature and his harshly chiseled features declared him a noble of the highest distinction. “Austere” was the word most used to describe him out of his hearing. And it had been that mysterious asceticism in his dark eyes that untethered the first romantic yearnings of Isabelle’s young heart six years ago. The depth of his character and the sheer raw masculinity he exuded had left her reeling, a sensation hitherto foreig
n to her.

  He was a paradox—­inspiring such warring emotions within her—­confidence, and yet vulnerability, which she deplored. From the start he was her champion and the man she most admired. And yet, she secretly feared she would never truly earn his esteem. Hell, she didn’t just want his good opinion. That was all good and well.

  She wanted his love.

  And she just knew—­knew without the merest wisp of doubt—­she had not a prayer of a chance. He was not attracted to her in the least. He thought her a child. A capable, willful, very young duchess, whose father had the misfortune of having a daughter instead of a proper son to leave his duchy.

  It was not like her to be such a pessimist.

  Yes, indeed, James Fitzroy could very well condescend to make her the happiest of women. The premier duke in England, infamous for cool reserve, might just scoop her off her feet, twirl her about like the foppish dance master, and unfetter his secret years of grand passion for her. And then they could feed each other chocolates and take turns reading aloud love sonnets until dawn.

  Right.

  Calliope, without gloves as usual, was inelegantly biting a thumbnail, her attention glued to Isabella.

  Isabelle cleared her throat. “So is the book Edgeworth or Byron, dearest?”

  “Not telling,” Calliope replied, not meeting her gaze.

  “Not telling?”

  “No,” Calliope replied. “Unless you tell me what the visit is all about.”

  “I’ve a better idea,” Isabelle replied archly. “I shall tell you why I’m not going to Fitzroy House and you will tell me what you’re not reading.”

  A little smile finally appeared beneath the brim of Calliope’s countrified straw bonnet. “Guess.”

  “Lady Caroline Lamb’s lurid stew,” Isabelle said, referring to Calliope’s tract, meanwhile resisting the urge to straighten the sagging haystack resting on her cousin’s small head. She would drag her to Bond Street tomorrow without fail. Honestly, what creature of the fairer sex did not like shopping for hats?

  The creature known as Calliope.

  Her cousin pursed her lips. “You know nothing of it.” She paused, and raised her pointed chin. “Johnson’s Sermons,” she continued, well-­pleased. “Fascinating, actually.” She turned a page. “All about pride versus duty. And dignity and the soul.”

  She started. God was smiting her already by granting Calliope the ability to read minds. “Liar.”

  The imp giggled. “Killjoy.”

  Isabelle finally allowed herself to laugh. There was a reason she had arranged with her unfortunate aunt to have one of her cousins come to live with her. She was tired of living without any family. At first when she dismissed Miss Hackett and her father’s disapproving, unimaginative advisors the day after attaining her majority, she had reveled in her hard-­won freedom. But freedom did not prevent loneliness. She needed companionship, and her aunt’s family needed one less mouth to feed.

  She was certain Calliope would not agree. Her cousin’s father might have been a poor man, but the huge family had always been jovial—­until he died, leaving them very short on funds.

  Just when Isabelle discarded her last hope for a few more moments of peace, Calliope lowered her head and began to read in earnest. The barouche drew ever closer to St. James Square.

  Isabelle was prepared. She had rebuttals to every possible argument James might wield. And she could retrench using the element of surprise.

  The surprise was in her pocket.

  There was but one thing she could not do—­retreat. Apprehension knitted her mind to the nth degree. The sensation had become all too familiar the last three years. Death in a family tended to do that.

  Something beyond the carriage window snagged her attention. A flower girl hawked her posies on a corner. Isabelle grasped the ivory handle of her father’s old cane, forever resting in its place within, and rapped on the roof. The barouche swayed to a stop and she quickly lowered the door’s brass lever before a groom could descend. A hand clenching a large bunch of violets appeared as Isabelle withdrew tuppence from her beaded reticule.

  “Thanky kindly, yer ladyship,” the girl said before she backed away in awe. A moment later the carriage drove on.

  “Calliope?”

  “Yes?” Her cousin’s eyes danced. “I thought you wanted me to keep to myself.”

  Isabelle was learning the patience of all the saints in heaven. And she was certain her father and governess would agree it was justice due, given the silent, deadly looks of disapproval they had worn ninety-­eight percent of the time. The other two percent of the day Miss Pickering had mysteriously smiled, which was fairly difficult to distinguish from a frown.

  Isabelle offered the enormous posy to her companion. “For you, dearest. Don’t pretend you don’t like them.”

  Her cousin’s brown eyes softened. “For me?”

  “They compliment your eyes,” Isabelle lied.

  “What are you up to?”

  “Why on earth do you insist something is afoot?”

  “Because you have that look.”

  “What ‘look’?”

  “That look that says you’re trying to hide something.”

  “I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about,” Isabelle replied.

  “Yes, you do,” Calliope insisted. “You look like those statues in front of March House.” Calliope paused, considering. “Not the one with the spear in his ribs, dying in misery. But the others—­all deathly pale and frozen. Like you now. ”

  “Did your mother teach you any manners at all?”

  She tilted her head. “Whatever do you mean?”

  There was no need to reply.

  Calliope pulled a face. “Everyone knows honesty is always the best course, especially with family.”

  “Since when does honesty have anything to do with manners?”

  “According to Papa . . . since the day I was born.”

  “Your father was a brilliant man.”

  “I know,” the younger lady replied, her smile slowly disappearing.

  “I’m sorry, Calliope. He was a wonderful father.” She wished she could say the same. “You were very lucky to have him.”

  “I know that.” Calliope ducked her head, fishing a sweetmeat from her pocket to hide her expression.

  Isabelle instinctively felt for the folded note in her own pocket. The barouche swayed as it rounded a corner and she glanced out the carriage’s small window. In the distance, the chimneys of Candover’s magnificent townhouse rose above all others. Isabelle forced her attention back to her cousin.

  Calliope sucked on her candy. “Are you ever going to tell me why we are visiting Old Sobersides?”

  “ ‘We’ are not paying a call on Old Sober—­” She closed her eyes for a moment to regain her composure. “I mean, His Grace. I’ve a rendezvous to discuss a matter of importance, and you will wait for me in one of the salons.”

  “The salon with nothing of interest, or the salon with the odd artifacts? Or perhaps the chamber with the caged military spoils?”

  She sighed. “I don’t know.”

  Calliope blinked her large eyes. “Well, don’t they keep some sort of schedule at Candover’s pile?”

  “Schedule?” she asked faintly.

  “Of course. He should not bore his visitors to pieces by storing them in the same old chamber they’ve seen again and again.”

  “Any other complaints?”

  “Yes. He’s extremely irritating.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Because he’s self-­righ­teous, top lofty, stuffy beyond reason, and refuses to be provoked.”

  Isabelle bit back a smile. “A challenge to be sure.”

  “How can you enjoy the company of someone so unfeeling and heartless?”

  “He has a heart.”

  The girl’s eyes challenged her. “Have you ever managed to quarrel with him?”

  “No.” She feared that might change to
day.

  Calliope muttered, “Why would anyone want to spend time with someone who looks like he has an icicle stuck in his—­”

  “Calliope!”

  “—­throat.”

  Isabelle prayed to a saint known for patience.

  Calliope let out a long-­suffering sigh like a master. “Honestly, have you not ever wondered what is going on in that colossal skull of his?”

  Forever. “You know, Calliope, for one who claims not to esteem the man, you can’t seem to stop talking about him. One might think you actually like him.”

  “I refuse to like someone who always makes us wait forever and a day until His Highness decides he will condescend to give a person fifteen minutes of his time. And not a minute more, by the by.” She smiled. “I’ve timed it.”

  “Calliope?”

  “Yes?”

  “I realize you’ve never been more than a dozen miles from Portsmouth, but do you think you could make more of an effort to embrace the ways of Town?”

  “Does it include kowtowing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you going to send me home if I don’t?”

  “Yes.”

  “Liar,” her cousin retorted with a mischievous gleam.

  Isabelle stuck out her tongue. She knew how to lance a Parthian shot with the best of them.

  Calliope nearly choked with laughter.

  Lord, she hadn’t stuck out her tongue since the day old Hacksaw—­uh, Miss Hackett—­had nearly yanked it out of her mouth.

  Calliope removed her spectacles and wiped her eyes with her hands before Isabelle could remind her to use her handkerchief. At least her expression had softened.

  “So why must you see him by yourself? My mother explicitly told me my main duty was that I’m never to leave you alone with any gentleman. Mama puckered like she’d swallowed a peeled lime when I asked why.”

  Isabelle smiled despite herself.