Once and Future Duchess

by Sophia Nash

  Calliope looked at her with knowing eyes. “You’re not going to set his servants to gossiping, are you? I do have a reputation to maintain.”

  “Do you now?”

  “Yes. If I’m to be your companion, at least I want to be an excellent one.” She paused. “Isabelle?”

  “Yes, dearest?”

  “I know more than you think.”

  “Really?” Isabelle smoothed the folds of the elegant patent net over the pale blue gown trimmed with jonquille ribbon. She pleated her stiff hands, the picture of everything proper. “And what, pray tell, do you know?”

  “I know that nothing good will come of your visit with the Duke of Candover. And I know something is brewing, otherwise you would not have that look.” She handed Isabelle the book of sermons. “Here, you need this more than I.”

  Isabelle glanced down, only to find it was, indeed, that bit of nauseating fluff by Lady Lamb. She opened it. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Calliope part her lips to speak, but she interrupted. “I’m reading, Calliope. As you suggested.” She was abashed to descend to her cousin’s level.

  Calliope snapped her mouth closed and appeared to turn her attention to the world outside their conveyance. Isabelle had all of thirty seconds before her cousin rattled her cage again. She trained her unseeing eyes on the page.

  Dear God, she could not lose her resolve. Yet suddenly she could not remember how she was to say it. She had overprepared last evening. Twenty-­three times repeating the same outrageous question would make anyone feel like a fool. But perhaps he would see the practical brilliance of the idea. Two birds . . . one stone. Two dozen words . . . one idiot. Two friends . . . one soon to be former friend. Then again, could gentlemen and ladies really be just friends? Lady Lamb’s ridiculous tract showed every evidence of the impossibility of it. Johnson’s Sermons warned against it at every opportunity. And her estate library’s section on animal husbandry never mentioned friendship between the sexes.

  But could she go through with it? Even if her pride screamed no, every particle of her heart insisted on it. He was the gentleman meant for her. She had known it since she was thirteen and he arrived on the vernal equinox during one of his twice yearly visits to her father. That visit, James had insisted she learn how to use a pistol, one of the endless number of skills he said she must acquire. It had been unsaid that she would soon be alone in the world when her father died.

  He had shown her how to prime and load a dueling pistol, and when she proved a miserable shot after watching his demonstration, he stood behind her, wrapped his arms about her, and suggested she inhale and exhale with him to steady her breathing. When he placed his warm, strong hands over hers to show her how to take proper aim, his jaw had rested on her temple, and his masculine scent invaded her senses. It had been a miracle she hit the target at all.

  But that had been nothing compared to what he said six months later as her father lay on his deathbed. She’d overheard them speaking about her. Her father was worried, as always, about the duchy and her questionable abilities. James’s words were seared in her memory. “To be sure, she is young. But she is courageous, and intelligent, and a born leader. She will do you proud. Of that, I promise you.” She had tiptoed away when she heard the butler’s footsteps. But she had held tight to James’s words during the weeks and months of difficulties after her father died. James never lied, and if he believed in her abilities, so could she.

  The barouche again swayed as they turned yet another corner. Isabelle’s gaze darted to the window where St. James Square’s well-­manicured central garden loomed. She watched the town houses of the Allens, the Pickerings, and the widowed adventurer Mr. Lyerley slip beyond view. As the carriage horses slowed on the approach to 9 St. James Street, she glanced toward the imposing gray stone town house endowed to the Candover duchy.

  Her stomach lurched and she finally slumped against the carriage seat. Well, “slumped” was not entirely the right word, considering the torture device under her gown. She felt more like the library’s enormous atlas leaning against a shelf.

  And for the first time ever, she spied anxiety in Calliope’s face. Indeed, if her cousin’s expression was any indication, she had not a prayer of a chance at this game. Not that she ever truly thought she did.

  But by God, at eighteen she was a fully grown woman, a duchess in her own right, who very capably oversaw three estates with a myriad of details, and she knew the value of occasional risk and opportunity.

  And so she would play her cards.

  For everyone knew you had to play if you wanted to win—­no matter the odds. And Isabelle Tremont very much wanted to win.

  Chapter 2

  James Fitzroy, the Duke of Candover, replaced his perfectly trimmed goose quill in the stand and studied the letter to his steward in Derbyshire. It was the last of seven letters to seven stewards in seven counties. Sanding it, and then pushing it aside, he exhaled deeply and allowed his tired eyes to roam. Dark portraits of ancestors and pastoral landscapes intermixed with scenes of ancient naval battles won and lost decorated the vast length of this favored chamber. High above him, haloed angels, gods, and their cherubs surveyed all with arrows and pitchforks at the ready. In front of him, a bronze compass, sextant, and other military artifacts rested on ebony and gold Egyptian tables sitting on a vast sea of crimson carpet. There was a peaceful stillness to the great room. Indeed, it was the only place in all of his vast splendor of estates where James enjoyed any real sense of privacy. His servants knew better than to ever disturb him here. Yes, James knew every square inch of this gilded prison.

  And he liked it.

  His hand rose to touch the intricate world globe his mother had specifically bequeathed to him. He traced a journey he would never make to mysterious lands filled with fascinating flora and fauna he would never see, as he had far too many other more important affairs to oversee. At his feet, under the magnificent Roman scrolled desk, the slender, elegant head of his greyhound, Syn, lay on outstretched paws. On James’s other side, Syn’s twin, Tax, raised his head and emitted a soft woof.

  James removed his pocket watch and glanced at the hour. She was on time. That was to be expected. It was only too bad she did not always do the expected. Then again, a duchess in her own right could do whatever she damned well pleased. Just like him . . . as long as he remained in this chamber. Outside, servants, royals, and everyone in between observed his every waking movement. His life was lived in an opulent fishbowl awash with other creatures who were either awed, overly effusive, or silent with fear, indeed never at their ease.

  There were exceptions, of course. He steepled his hands and stared sightlessly at the dust motes glistening in the shafts of sunlight from the windows. His fellow members of the royal entourage, that band of dukes, who preferred each others’ company if only for the fact that there was no fawning or falseness between them. But now, because of his own damnable mistake, something in which James rarely indulged (mistakes, that is), the Prince Regent’s posse of favored bachelor dukes was dwindling in number. It was all due to the future king’s newfound love of marriage, not that the royal’s own union could be considered anything but a debacle.

  A debauched night of events, which had led to James’s bride cooling her heels at the altar the next morning, had incited the disenchanted masses à la française. The Prince Regent’s ire had reached new heights, even if he’d been glued to their sides all night. Indeed, the next king of England was accountable for more than his fair share of the well-­documented mayhem. James only wished he could remember the half of it.

  It had been all well and good until the prince decreed that the most efficient way to quell the masses’ fury was aristocratic reform. This was to be achieved via the time-­honored tradition of leg shackling.

  But James himself was finished. Two matrimonial attempts in one lifetime were more than enough for any nobleman. And that was why, at the advanced age of nearly one and thirty, he would damn well do what he p
leased, marry when and if he pleased, and even how he pleased—­Prinny be damned. He allowed himself no reprieve from a dutiful life, apart from this one exception.

  Perhaps a decade ago—­before his first fiancée’s death—­he had dared to think that love and marriage could go hand in hand. Later, his father, and his godfather, each in very different marriages, had explained the truth about wedded bliss. It was simple. Marriage was a contract and was to be entered into with a clear head and with the sole reason to produce the next generation. Succumbing to the illusion of romantic love only led to disaster. But if one was very lucky, then detached contentment would rule the union, and not indifference or worse. And passion? As described by the great poets? James was made to understand it was an absurd notion that had only ever led to weakness of character. Wildly unguarded happiness was not part of the strict life of the premier duke of England.

  And a third attempt to wed was not something to contemplate until later. Much later. Until . . . he could stomach the entire affair one last time.

  He glanced once more at his pocket watch and rose to his feet in one elegant economy of motion. He would not keep the Duchess of March waiting beyond the usual prerequisite of seven minutes. His dogs silently padding along on either side of him, he crossed the large space opposite the carved oak door and emerged; two footmen guarded the chamber just as their ancestors had guarded his forefathers.

  His butler, Wharton bowed. “Her Grace, the Duchess of March, and Miss Little are arrived, Your Grace.”

  James curtly nodded and turned on his heel toward the blue salon fronting the town house.

  Wharton cleared his throat.

  This was never a good sign. “Yes?” James said, facing the acre of black and white checkered marble that separated him from the visitors.

  “The young ladies are not in the blue salon, Your Grace.”

  James allowed a moment of silence to reign before he turned to face his butler. “And why is that, Wharton?”

  “Her Grace was content with the choice, but her companion”—­Wharton’s sour expression spoke volumes—­“suggested that yellow was a much more suitable color for a Wednesday, and—­”

  James felt the old tic in his eye flare. “Where is she?”

  “In the rose salon, Your Grace.”

  He waited.

  The man cleared his throat. “I understood from the last visit that Your Grace would prefer not to encourage Miss Little.”

  Without another word, James headed in the opposite direction, toward the rose room.

  Wharton’s cough stopped him cold. This was grave. Even Syn whined. “Yes?”

  “Miss Little is in the rose salon, Your Grace. Her Grace awaits you in the garden.”

  “The garden?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  What in hell was going on? Wharton had not disobeyed an order since half past never. “I see.” James turned around yet again, his dogs at his heels and all of them feeling somewhat like idiots. He knew this because Syn and Tax yelped. Wharton did not emit one last bloody sound to stop him.

  He strode down four corridors and two staircases before coming to a halt in front of the French doors leading to the garden behind the great house. Not fifty yards beyond the window she stood in profile beside the small fountain.

  While she was petite in stature, she was perfectly formed. Before he could rein in his thoughts, he imagined tossing her hat in the hydrangeas and letting loose that heavy coil of lush hair she now always pinned under a hat very properly. And then he would—­ For Christsakes . . . only the worst sort of bastard would continue thusly. He ruthlessly censored his thoughts as he narrowed his eyes.

  Her regal posture bespoke of education and station in life. She was a lady of great standing, and breeding. The fifth largest duchy and fortune in En­gland rested on her shoulders—­a formidable thing for a very young innocent lady. She did remarkably well, considering. Actually, she was better than most of the other dukes of the realm. What she lacked in experience she made up in determination and sense of duty.

  It was a moment before he realized he was smiling, an action in which he rarely indulged. He frowned and nodded to the footman to open the terrace door.

  The duchess turned toward him, her delicate oval face pale but her expression neutral.

  James snapped his fingers and his dogs obeyed the signal to investigate the garden at large. He closed the distance to her and brought the back of her hand, gloved in yellow kid, to his lips. The fine scent of jasmine rose from her fine-­boned wrist and met his nostrils. It was such a poignant old-­fashioned perfume. He knew no one else who wore it. It unleashed the familiar wave of the potent attraction before he harnessed the desire he took extreme measures to ignore.

  “James,” she said with a small curtsy.

  “Isabelle,” he replied solemnly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Such a delightful fountain,” she noted with a forced smile. “I’ve never really noticed it before.”

  “It’s been here for six generations.”

  “Of course. And what is it made of?”

  “Common marble.”

  “I see.”

  She studied the simple fountain and he studied her. Her large, intelligent eyes, the intriguing color of the finest whiskey, had not witnessed enough of life. She was just beginning to bloom, her adolescent coltishness giving way to feminine mystique. Wings of silky light brown hair framed her face, which when animated was quite beautiful. Indeed, sometimes it hurt the eye to see such uninhibited exuberance. Yet today there was not an ounce of liveliness to her remote countenance, now hiding below the brim of her elegant bonnet. He tried to turn his attention from her plush, rosy lips, which promised utterly forbidden sweetness for which he would give his fortune to taste.

  “What brings you, Isabelle?” He spoke evenly, without showing a hint of the worry her blank expression now inspired in him.

  She glanced toward the French doors and returned her gaze to his face. Her unusual golden eyes gave nothing away.

  “Well, you see, the thing of it is . . . we’ve both of us a dilemma.” She paused.

  “Are you referring to your cousin? I’m afraid she’s a problem of your own making. She will not do as a companion. You need someone of age who can attend societal functions.”

  “This has nothing to do with Calliope,” she insisted. “I don’t know why the two of you do not get on.”

  “I do,” he replied.

  She looked at him expectantly.

  “She’s the devil.”

  Her lips trembled with amusement. “Don’t I know it.”

  He relaxed his guard. This was the young duchess he knew. A breeze rustled the leaves in the trees and dislodged a lock of her hair from her coiffure. Instinctively, he reached forward and brushed the curl away from her lovely face. He could feel the warmth of her face through his glove, and he longed to lean in and catch her scent again. These tortuous emotions were getting completely out of hand with each passing month.

  Her expression returned to ill-­ease, and she picked at the tip of one of her kid gloves when he refused to fill the lengthening silence.

  “Did you not receive a letter from the Prince Regent?”

  “I did.” He made it a point to never answer more than what was asked.

  She pressed. “Well . . . mine contained a royal command to marry. Prinny mentioned that you and also Barry were to follow suit.”

  “Hmmm.” A word, or rather a sound, that suited every occasion.

  “So what do you plan to do about it?”

  Ah, the quandary of the decade. “I think it unnecessary. The recent sacrificial lambs of our circle have appeased the zealots.”

  “I don’t think the prince shares your view,” she retorted, darting a glance to her pale kid boots.

  “Of course he does,” he replied. “He’s just using the occasion to ensure the rest of us are as miserable as he.”

  “Perhaps,” she said, the hint of a sm
ile curling her lips, “but we’ve always been very frank, have we not?”

  “Speak, Isabelle.”

  “Well, I hope you’ll pardon me for reminding you that the prince considers you the prime instigator of the current state of affairs.”

  “I was, indeed, to blame for that night of—­”

  “We both know it wasn’t your fault. It was Kress’s,” she insisted. “None of us could have known the potency of that French absinthe. It was revolting and—­”

  He interrupted. “You tried it?”

  She avoided his gaze. “Perhaps. What did you expect? You left your sister, me, and—­”

  “My sister drank that frog water?”

  “I beg your pardon,” she said, not begging his pardon at all. “You are not one to read me a lecture. You were forty-­seven sheets to the wind along with the rest of our friends. You missed your own wedding!”

  He ignored her. “You can be certain I’ll have a word with Verity’s abigail about this. Today.”

  “Amelia Primrose is here?”

  “She returned from Scotland last evening.”

  “It was not Amelia’s fault. You can blame it all on me if you must.” Isabelle excelled at that guileless expression of hers. She forged on before he could speak. “But seriously, you didn’t think we would pluck harp strings or embroider while the rest of you were cavorting about London to celebrate what turned out to be not your last night of bachelorhood?”

  “I suppose improving the mind by reading would have been out of the question . . . Virgil, Homer, Epictetus are always excellent, or perhaps even Johnson’s Sermons in a pinch.”

  She rolled her eyes. “No one reads Johnson’s Sermons.”

  “Really? That will be news to his publisher, I’m certain,” he replied, hiding his amusement. He was so happy she was back to rolling her eyes. “I know you prefer Epictetus.” He relished the rare occasions he managed to lead her off course.

  She wrinkled her nose. “Well, Virgil’s epics are epically boring and no one will say it. And Homer—­” She stopped.