The Dream of a Duchess

by Sande, Linda Rae

  And then Clarinda was suddenly standing next to him before the altar, glancing up at him with a teasing expression that had him thinking she was Arabella. The moment left him a bit discombobulated, much like when she had first opened her eyes after he kissed the delicate skin of her eyelids the day she had fainted.

  Any thoughts of Daniel stepping in to replace him flew from his head as he stood and said his vows. No, she wasn’t Arabella. But she was so much like his first love—in how she looked, in how she spoke, her demeanor, her soft giggle—he found he was a bit smitten. “I do feel affection for her,” he murmured. “But I think it will be some time before she... trusts me,” he added.

  “Heard about that, did you?” Milton asked in a hoarse whisper. “I have to say, she was quite serious when she said she wouldn’t put up with a philandering husband, but I never expected she would hire a Bow Street Runner to see to it you stayed monogamous.” He paused a moment. “Whatever tipped you off?”

  David spotted his new bride in conversation with Lady Worthington and winked, which had her dimpling and her face turning a pretty shade of pink. “The invoice from the agency,” he replied with an arched brow.

  Milton guffawed, which had several nearby guests glancing in his direction. “Despite what you’re thinking now, it will all be worth it. Get a child on her and enjoy your life whilst you can,” the older man advised. He glanced around the room. “Now, what have you done with your twin brother?”

  Frowning, David did a quick survey of the guests from his taller perspective, but Daniel was no where to be found. “Licking his wounds, I suppose.” At Milton’s perplexed expression, he added, “He claimed he loved Clarinda. Wanted to marry her. Even proposed to her,” he said with a sigh.

  The older earl’s bushy eyebrows furrowed into a single caterpillar across his forehead. “And here I thought that was you,” he said quietly.

  “Only sometimes,” David admitted, both brows rising up on his forehead. His gaze once again found Clarinda in the crowd, and instead of simply winking at her, he watched her until she finally joined him and the earl. He leaned over and kissed the side of her head. “Hullo, beautiful,” he whispered.

  Milton took her hand and kissed the back of it. “Send for me if he does something you don’t like,” he said, sotto voce.

  Clarinda’s face bloomed with color before she gave a nod. “It’s your turn to marry, you must know,” she countered.

  The older earl grimaced. “Not quite yet. A couple of years, perhaps, when I finally decide which one,” he said. Despite his words, his gaze followed one particular woman through the breakfast crowd, and although Clarinda tried to guess just whom it might be, she soon gave up in favor of listening to her new husband’s quiet words of affection.

  Chapter 18

  An Earl Pays a Call, a Duke Pays a Visit

  The following April, 1814

  The trip from London had been far more pleasant than Octavius expected. The weather outside was fine—not a cloud in sight—but given the letter he had received from Peters, his butler at Huntinghurst, he expected to find a different climate inside Huntinghurst.

  He had timed his arrival perfectly, for he had lunched at the last coaching stop just to be sure he was at the front door of the estate no earlier than three o’clock in the afternoon. Given this was Peter’s usual day off, he let himself in and stood just inside the front door, listening intently.

  He found he heard nothing at all.

  Octavius frowned, an expression he realized he was prone to do far too frequently these days. Why was the news never good? he wondered just then, his hand moving to the pocket where Peter’s most recent missive rested. Besides a brief accounting of the household expenses, the butler included a rather unusual addition to his weekly report.

  Your Grace, I fear your charge has become a hoyden, her behavior most uncharacteristic of young ladies of quality. Although Lady Isabella hosts a handsome woman (in the company of her lady's maid) for tea and to go riding on occasion, she continues to exhibit tendencies to toil in a most unladylike manner. Why, just last week, I paid witness to her brushing a horse in the stables...

  At that point in reading the letter, Octavius had been interrupted by the butler of his Mayfair townhouse with news that he had a visitor. For once, the duke actually welcomed the diversion, even if it came in the form of David Fitzwilliam, Earl of Norwick.

  Or maybe because it was Norwick.

  Welcome back to London. How was the wedding trip?

  David angled his head first to one side and then the other. Diverting, he finally replied. I have had my fill of Italy and Greece, however. Entirely too hot, but Clarinda never complained. Never tired at looking at old stuff, either. Upon his arrival, David had given the duke more than a simple nod, nearly bowing when he appeared in the doorway to the study. I hope I haven’t come at an inconvenient time, he added, moving to the chair Octavius indicated with a wave.

  Arching an eyebrow at the comment, Octavius wondered if that was usual for Clarinda or if she had simply been on her best behavior. A trip sounds like a perfect diversion for me right about now. You’ve managed to time your arrival just right. I’ve just received a complaint and was pondering what to do.

  His brows furrowing, David regarded the duke a moment before he allowed a sigh. What has she done now? he asked in dismay, realizing almost immediately the duke referred to Isabella.

  Toiling, it seems, Octavius said as he tossed the letter onto his desk.

  David blinked. What?

  Peters paid witness to her brushing a horse, Octavius stated, barely able to hide his humor behind his mock astonishment.

  David nearly blinked again, but his sigh of relief was quite evident. Jesus, Hunt, you had me wondering if I was going to have to send her to a finishing school on the Continent, he groused. I take it your butler has never worked in a London household. Otherwise, a young lady brushing a horse wouldn’t seem so scandalous. Christ, I’ve paid witness to Mayfield’s daughter brushing her horse, he claimed, referring to Julia Harrington.

  Have you told your countess about her yet?

  Even knowing the duke would ask again as to whether or not he had shared his secret with Clarinda, David still felt a hint of annoyance. I have decided I will do so on the occasion of either Isabella’s twenty-first birthday or Craythorne’s death, he said in a quiet voice. Which ever comes first. Clare will no doubt mention something about the date and Isabella’s mysterious disappearance. And then I’ll have my prompt to explain that she’s under your protection. If she presses and wants to know more, well, then I’ll mention I’m her real father, he said with a shrug.

  Coward, Octavius countered, retrieving the decanter of scotch from behind his desk. He poured a finger’s worth into a couple of tumblers and handed one to David.

  I admit I am on tenterhooks here, the earl replied, taking the scotch with a nod. He waited until the duke had taken a sip before he did so. Then he waited for the smoky fluid to burn his tongue a bit before swallowing. I thought it would be easy to tell Clare because... He stopped and allowed a sigh.

  What is it?

  I aways thought she and I would get on, of course. She’s a very agreeable woman. But I didn’t expect to... He stopped again, his gaze finally rising to meet the duke’s questioning glance.

  To what?

  Feel affection for her, David nearly whispered, his expression looking as if he were doing an imitation of one of his hound dogs.

  Octavius blinked. And then he blinked again. Be careful, or before long, you’ll be in love with your wife! he accused, rather surprised the mention of loving a wife didn’t have a lump building in his throat.

  From the way the duke had said the words, David didn’t know if the man was appalled or impressed. I rather doubt that. And I rather doubt she’ll ever be in love with me, he argued. When he paid witness to the duke’s sudden grin and heard an accompanying chuckle, he added, It’s not funny, Hunt! This is... quite unexpected!

&n
bsp; The duke sobered then. Soon you’ll know how your brother, Daniel, feels, he warned in a quiet voice. He took another sip of his scotch. Where is he, by the way? I haven’t seen him since your wedding.

  David dipped his head. He’s gone back to Norwick Park. He’s still seeing to the books, of course—

  Bleeding you dry, I imagine. That’s what I would do if I was acting as accomptant for a brother who stole my true love from me.

  But he says he cannot abide being in the city knowing Clare is married to me, David went on, ignoring the duke’s verbal jab.

  Octavius sighed. Such are the vagaries of being the second son, I suppose, he murmured. Since he had never had a younger brother, Octavius didn’t know how he might have reacted if he found his affection for Jane challenged by a brother. He was about to consider the topic another moment, but David waved a hand through the air. The duke blinked and gave a nod. What is it?

  When you next go to Huntinghurst, will you take something for me? David asked as he pulled a small box from his topcoat pocket. He reached over and placed it on the desk, holding it a moment before pulling his hand away.

  Octavius regarded the pasteboard box as if it might explode. And whom should I say is giving it to her? he wondered, his tone suspicious.

  Oh, you can let her know it’s from me, of course. And Clarinda. A birthday present.

  But I thought Clarinda was under the impression Isabella is dead?

  David rolled his eyes. I’m sure you’ll sort what to say exactly, he countered. I just... I want her to know someone is thinking of her.

  Octavius gave a nod, not about to admit he spent time thinking of Isabella. Far too much time.

  Octavius continued to listen to the quiet in the front hall of Huntinghurst, wondering where the servants might be. He didn’t bother trying to soften the sound of his boot heels as he finally made his way down the hall that led to the courtyard. Perhaps everyone was outside, or in the village. He nearly stopped in his tracks when he remembered it was market day. Allowing a rather loud sigh of annoyance, he decided to make his way to the stables. He was already out the door and on the crushed granite path before he realized there was someone in the parterre garden.

  And something with her.

  Pausing, he angled his head to one side and watched as Isabella walked through the paths between the boxwood hedges. Wearing an apple green muslin gown and short gloves, her hair gathered into a bun atop her head, she looked as if she could be any one of a dozen chits he might pass in Jermyn Street whilst shopping, except instead of holding onto the handles of a hat box or shopping bag, she held onto a rope that encircled the neck of a colt.

  Isabella had nearly reached the end of one row and was coaxing the colt to turn onto the next row in the pattern when she suddenly glanced in his direction.

  Resuming his walk toward her, Octavius watched as Isabella had the colt turning onto a path that would allow her and the colt to exit the parterre and head in his direction. He met her just as the colt cleared the boxwood-lined path.

  “Your Grace! What a pleasant surprise,” Isabella gushed as she pulled the colt to stand alongside her. She dipped a curtsy and, instead of offering her gloved hand, she stepped forward, wrapped her free hand around the back of his neck, and bestowed a kiss on his cheek. Next to her, the timid colt finally overcame its initial fear of the duke and showed a bit of curiosity by sniffing at his pockets.

  A bit surprised by her greeting, Octavius managed to capture her free hand as she stepped back. He brushed his lips over the back of it. “For me, as well,” he replied, wondering at her affectionate greeting. Had she been taught a version of the French way to welcome an old friend? No one was about the grounds to see what she had done, though, so he decided not to admonish her. “Who do we have here?” he asked, rather stunned to see a colt so soon in the spring.

  “This is Hermés. He’s proving to be as ornery a colt as his older namesake was.”

  Octavius arched both eyebrows, rather surprised to hear the assessment given she had a lead around the colt’s neck. And the colt had seemed to follow her through the garden without trampling the plantings. “Yet he seems to be behaving right now.”

  “It’s early,” she countered with a grin. “Pray tell, do you have something in your pocket?” she asked. “I’m afraid I’m all out of carrots, and he seems to think you have a treat,” she added as she noted how the colt was nosing his topcoat.

  Remembering he carried the pasteboard box David had given him, he was about to pull it out of one pocket and hand it to her, but thought better of it. Instead, he reached into the other pocket and pulled out a small apple. He had intended it for his own mount, thinking he would go for a ride since he had spent the entire trip to Huntinghurst in the coach. He offered the apple to the overly curious colt.

  Isabella rolled her eyes as the horse knickered and proudly downed the apple. Hermés was about to reach over and continue sniffing at the duke’s topcoat when Isabella said, “No, you’ve had quite enough,” as she pulled back on the lead.

  Hermés’ stubbornness became apparent, though, and Isabella finally undid the lead from around his neck. “I’ve had enough of you today. Off to your mum,” she said as she placed a hand against the side of his head and gave a slight push. “It’s probably his dinner time anyway,” she added as she returned her attention to the duke.

  Octavius watched as the colt, realizing it was free of the rope, hurried off to join Maia. The mare was tethered to a post just beyond the parterre garden.

  “Other than the fact that she’s outside of the fence, why is Maia tied up?” Octavius wondered as he squinted in the direction of the brood mare. A descendent of several racing horses, she had the perfect lines and profile to be one herself, but he had never trained her for the track. He rather doubted she had ever had a saddle on her.

  “She’s finally learning patience,” Isabella replied as she turned her attention back to the duke. “She manages to be the first at everything, you see.”

  Octavius resumed his walk toward the stables, offering an arm to Isabella as he contemplated her mention of Maia being first at everything. Could she have been first at the finish line? he wondered. Well, it was too late given her age. She was well past six years, the top age for any of the races that took place in England. “For example?” he prompted, rather entertained by Isabella’s comment.

  “She’s first at the hay, first out of the stables in the morning, first with the stud, first to foal...” She allowed the sentence to trail off as she placed her hand on his arm and walked alongside the duke.

  “I must admit I didn’t expect to find any foals this early,” he said. “How many more will there be, do you suppose?” Ever since Jane’s death, he hadn’t given half a thought to the stables at Huntinghurst. Knowing Isabella took an interest and seemed amenable to spending time with the horses allowed him to continue his ambivalence.

  “Just three,” Isabella replied with a sigh.

  Octavius frowned at her response, not because of the number she mentioned but rather how she said it. “You sound disappointed.”

  Isabella dared a glance up at the duke’s profile, wondering if he was disappointed in her. Although they hadn’t discussed her involvement with his horses, she had simply taken over some of the duties a more involved owner would do—overseeing the match ups of studs with mares, halter-breaking the foals, and documenting pedigrees. “Mr. Reeves says you’re no longer entering them in the racing circuit,” she replied. “You have at least two that could beat Craythorne’s best this year,” she added, hoping he would show some interest. They had just entered the stables, pausing to allow their eyes to adjust to the darkened interior.

  “No doubt,” he responded as he glanced about. “Perhaps next year,” he murmured, his gaze taking in the empty stalls. All had been mucked, and new straw bedding covered the dirt floors. Impressed at how clean everything appeared, he glanced around in search of one of the grooms so he could compliment them. “I
take it the horses are all out in the pasture?”

  “Indeed,” Isabella replied. “I made sure three were exercised this morning, though, including my own. Thank you for allowing me to board him here.”

  Octavius regarded her with a hint of surprise. “Of course.” Then he frowned. “With you doing so much in here, I have to wonder what my employees are doing.”

  “Oh, they’re working, Your Grace. But they have gone to town today. Mr. Campbell wanted to find a new topcoat, seeing as how he wishes to court someone,” Isabella said with an impish grin.

  “Mr. Campbell must be at least fifty!” the duke countered in surprise.

  “I rather imagine the Widow Fraser is at least that old,” Isabella countered. “And Mr. Reeves is in search of some tools. One of the tines on the pitchfork broke last week, and Master George has been making do with the gardener’s rake.”

  Octavius frowned, although he knew if a broken pitchfork was the worst of the stable’s problems, then things were running smoother than usual. “And what of Master George? I don’t see him about.”

  “He’s probably seeing to your coach,” Isabella replied. “I saw him run off toward the front of the house when I was leading Hermés to the garden walk. Thought perhaps the mail coach had come.”

  The duke nodded. “Have you plans for this afternoon?”

  Isabella gave a shake of her head. “Other than untie Maia, I do not.” She glanced about, realizing she was alone with the duke. “Would you like to join me for tea? Or a lemonade? Cook made a batch this morning.”

  “I had a luncheon in Petworth, but I could do with a lemonade,” Octavius said, rather surprised to learn of fresh lemonade. “Pray tell, from where did cook get the lemons?”

  Isabella grinned as she turned to head back to where Maia was tethered. “From the orangery, of course. We’ve had lemons for months.”

  Octavius blinked, rather stunned to learn he had an orangery. “Since I’m rarely at Huntinghurst, could you remind me where that might be?”