The Dream of a Duchess

by Sande, Linda Rae

  Or shouted it, rather.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Stunned by the curse—by the anger she witnessed in his face and in his voice—Isabella Tolson immediately stepped away from Octavius, her expression displaying a combination of confusion and dismay. She took another step back as if she’d been punched in the stomach. Well aware Ares had begun pawing at the ground, Isabella held out the flat of her hand in his direction but kept her attention entirely on the duke—on how he scowled at her. She held out her riding habit to the sides and dipped a deep curtsy. “I... I apologize for... my reaction, Your Grace,” she managed, still not exactly sure why he seemed so angry with her.

  Perhaps she’d been too forward with her embrace, she thought. It was an improper greeting for a duke, of course, but it was hard to think of him in that way. Not after living under his protection for so long.

  Even if she rarely saw the man.

  For a moment, she was sure he returned her hug of welcome in equal measure. She was sure his arms had tightened around her to pull her as close as possible. Even his dour expression seemed to have softened a bit for that moment her boots had left the ground. Now he was glaring at her and giving his head a shake as if he were the impatient horse she was trying to finish breaking.

  “That’s not why I’m angry...” Octavius started to say, his gaze going to the black horse who looked as if he might bolt at any moment. “Christ, you’re out here alone with...” He stopped again as Isabella seemed to ignore him.

  “I am not alone. Nelson is here.” Turning to Ares, Isabella allowed an audible sigh and moved to recapture the reins. “Really, Ares, you must practice patience, or you’ll be forever frustrated,” she said in a hoarse whisper, rather relieved the beast hadn’t taken his leave of the meadow. “Trust me, as I’ve certainly had to,” she added in a quieter whisper.

  Ares could have bolted, she knew. He had done it the first time she had brought him here as she rode one of the older horses. Ares had fought the lead rope around his neck until he realized he was about to get some exercise. Once in the meadow, where the pond offered a source of water and the clearing a place he could run in a circle, he had done so once, twice, three times before he had finally slowed and rejoined her and the other horse.

  And then only because she held out an apple as a bribe.

  It was two more weeks before she could get a bit on him, and she’d had to do that in the small corral next to the stables.

  “Come, Ares. You’re in the presence of the Duke of Huntington. You must show him your very best bow,” she said as she gripped the reins and pulled them down until Ares finally capitulated and lowered his neck until his nose was nearly in the tall grass. She loosened her grip on the reins, relieved when Ares didn’t rear his head but rather slowly raised it up. She could swear he added a bit of a nod at the end.

  Octavius watched in wonder as the horse responded to Isabella’s command. He probably would have, too, given how her gloved hand smoothed over the side of Ares’ head and down his neck. He noted how she barely touched the beast, and a frisson shot down his back when he imagined her fingers doing the same to his bare skin.

  Jesus. How long has it been since I’ve been with a woman?

  He blinked away the thought, stunned he would think such a thing in the middle of a meadow. And with such a young woman! She was his ward! Even if there wasn’t a contract making it official, Norwick had seen to it his daughter was under Huntington’s protection.

  “You have managed what even those in Parliament are unable to do,” Octavius murmured then, closing the space between them with a few steps. Poseidon followed even though the duke had let go of the reins when he dismounted.

  Isabella regarded him a moment, her posture ramrod straight, her shoulders pulled back to reveal what he realized had to be a perfect figure beneath the fitted riding habit. “Anger you, apparently,” she offered in reply, her eyes suddenly downcast. All the fight seemed to go out of her just then as her shoulders slumped and her breath left in a long sigh.

  “Render me speechless, actually,” he countered with a sigh. “I spend most of my time in Parliament angry.”

  Isabella lifted her eyes to meet his, wondering if he was teasing her. “I didn’t bring a groom with me because... because there are only the two now, and I would feel awful that they have to work a longer day because I have kept one of them out here whilst I see to training a horse.” The words came out in a rush, frustration evident in their tone. “Besides, they can be such a distraction with their comments—”

  “Why are you training my horses?” Octavius interrupted, his scowl firmly in place.

  Isabella flinched, mostly because the words came out in a sort of disbelief of her ability to do such a thing. “What else would I do all day?” she countered, one hand going to a hip in a rather indignant manner. The move only accentuated the tight fit of her riding habit.

  “Wash windows, apparently,” he remarked with a hint of disgust. “You’re a lady, Isabella. The daughter of an earl. You cannot be doing the work of the housemaids and footmen,” he admonished her.

  Isabella rolled her eyes, clearly annoyed with the duke’s words. “The windows looked as if they hadn’t been cleaned since the day the house was built! Besides, it was raining. The whole day! I couldn’t go for a ride. I was bored, Your Grace. What would you have me do instead?”

  Octavius shook his head, stunned by her arguments. “Embroidery, perhaps? Read a book. Write letters.” The last words were out of his mouth before he remembered that other than him, she really had no one to whom she could send correspondence. At least, not as long as they were keeping her whereabouts a secret. “To me,” he added, a bit too late.

  Blinking, Isabella was ever so glad she had Ares to lean back against just then. “Would you read them?”

  It was the duke’s turn to blink. “Of course. I read all my correspondence.”

  “Then, in the future, I shall do that on the days when it rains,” she replied with a nod.

  “Good,” Octavius replied, his curt nod matching hers. Although he should have felt a bit of satisfaction at having won this particular argument with the headstrong chit, he couldn’t help the niggling feeling he had missed something important.

  The clause in the contract, of course.

  She had only agreed to write letters on the days when it rained. She hadn’t agreed to cease training his horses or working with the servants, and he was about to bring up the point when he noticed Ares give a snort.

  Isabella allowed a sigh and rolled her eyes as Ares dropped his nose to her hip. He nudged her until she was forced to take a step sideways. Well aware the duke was poised to do something should Ares continue his impertinent behavior, she reached into her pocket and pulled out an apple. Holding it on her outstretched palm, she gave Octavius a shrug as the horse helped himself.

  “That reminds me,” Octavius said suddenly, rather stunned at how confident she was with the beast. “I’m starving. I told Peters to see to a luncheon. Will you join me?”

  Isabella’s eyes widened in surprise. Despite admonishing her for the past ten minutes—both with his words and with the way he scowled at her—the duke suddenly seemed friendly. She nodded. “Of course, Your Grace.” She turned to the dog. “Come, Nelson.”

  The puppy hurried to her stand before her, his tale wagging. She lifted him onto Ares, straddling him over the front of the saddle before she slipped a boot into the stirrup and mounted the horse. It was then Octavius realized the saddle wasn’t a sidesaddle and that her riding habit had been designed for riding astride.

  He couldn’t help the combination of shock and arousal he felt just then. She was still a maiden. She shouldn’t be riding a horse like that! What if—?

  “I only ride sidesaddle when I’m riding with Miss Fitzwilliam,” Isabella stated from her perch atop Ares, well aware he was about to put voice to a protest. And with that, she kicked her heels into Ares and allowed him t
he run he had been waiting for all morning.

  Cursing under his breath, Octavius jumped onto Poseidon and raced after her, not quite sure he wanted to catch up.

  He rather liked the view of her from behind.

  Chapter 25

  Luncheon with a Distracted Duke

  Twenty minutes later

  Isabella dared a quick glance out her bedchamber window, worried the duke was admonishing the head groom with whom he had been in a discussion since his return from the meadow.

  He didn’t seem angry as they stood facing one another, but then it was hard to tell from this far away. At least Octavius wasn’t waving his arms about. And she couldn’t hear him bellowing at the man. Not that he would bellow. He was entirely opposite of her father in almost every way.

  If Reeves lost his position because of her, Isabella would feel awful. Watching the two a moment longer, she noted how Poseidon occasionally pawed at the ground, his head tossing until the duke seemed to do something to settle him. Missing whatever it was—one of his hands was blocked from her view—she made a note to ask.

  She was sure Octavius would have caught up to her whilst she made the return ride to Huntinghurst. Ares was fast, of course, but she didn’t allow him full rein knowing Octavius would probably lecture her on her poor judgment. Instead, she had forced the Thoroughbred to keep to an easy run. Poseidon should have been able to outrun Ares given the duke’s experienced riding skills. There was another reason, as well, but she didn’t follow the thought as she washed her hands in the basin and then saw to a repair of her hair. Several pins had escaped during her ride.

  A quick sniff of her riding habit had her undoing the buttons down the front and stepping out of it in favor of wearing a sprigged muslin gown. She had left the pale yellow frock splayed out on the bed in anticipation of wearing it for tea later that afternoon. Spending most of her day in a riding habit, she rarely changed clothes.

  Isabella was in the middle of pulling on the gown when one of the household maids appeared in the open doorway.

  “Why, my lady, the duke is back in residence. You really must remember to shut your door,” Thompson whispered.

  Stunned she hadn’t closed the door to her bedchamber—had she really been in that much of a hurry?—Isabella gave a nod. “Could you help me with my boots?”

  The maid was quick join her, making sure the door was latched before moving to pull off the riding boots. After a struggle, the two finally managed to get them off. “I think it’s time the duke buys you a new pair,” Thompson commented as she studied the soles. She aimed them in Isabella’s direction. “You’ve a few holes.”

  Isabella sucked in a breath. After more than a year of almost daily wear, they were in need of repair. “Indeed,” she replied. “Do I look... presentable? I’m having luncheon with His Grace.”

  Her eye’s widening, the maid gave a nod. “Well, you’ll need some slippers,” she hinted, disappearing into the dressing room.

  Isabella took the opportunity to move to the vanity. Studying her reflection in the mirror, she wondered if she would be considered a handsome woman in London. Would a young buck find her attractive? Not gorgeous like her mother, certainly, but pleasing to the eye?

  She remembered the moment she had met Constance Fitzwilliam—and the odd sensation she had felt at seeing herself alive and five years older in another woman. Although a bit disconcerting, she thought she rather liked the idea of one day looking just like Constance. Sophisticated, but not as proud as she remembered her mother appearing. She conjured the image of the woman in her mind’s eye, wondering if any of their features matched. Other than the color of her hair and the shape of her face, Isabella possessed only a passing resemblance to her mother.

  The image of her mother dissolved into her watery reflection when the maid reappeared and stood staring at her.

  “Oh, there’s no need to cry, my lady,” Thompson said. “I’ll just get that smudge removed, and you’ll be right as rain.”

  Smudge?

  The maid knelt and held the slippers until Isabella stepped into them. Then she hurried off to find a linen.

  Turning her head to discover what the maid had noticed, Isabella wondered how she had missed the rather indecorous smudge of dirt that discolored her left cheek. She sighed in dismay, wondering if it had been there when the duke found her in the meadow. Before she could put voice to a complaint, the maid had returned and was seeing to its removal.

  “Right as rain,” Thompson stated.

  “And my hair?” Isabella wondered, taking the linen so she could wipe the rest of her face.

  Angling her head to one side, Thompson reached up and plucked a pin from the bun. A lock of hair unwound and fell past Isabella’s shoulder, the slight curl at the end resting just above her collarbone.

  The memory of Constance Fitzwilliam flashed before her eyes. Sophisticated, she thought with a slight grin. “I like it,” she said in a whisper. She gave the maid a nod and said, “Thank you for your help. I know it’s not part of your position to play lady’s maid.”

  Grinning, the maid gave a curtsy. “Och, I don’t mind a bit, my lady. We’ll have to see what we can do with your hair for this evening’s dinner.”

  Isabella blinked. “Dinner?” She hadn’t given a thought to the duke being at dinner that evening.

  Given his reaction to her greeting in the meadow, she wondered if she had done something unforgivable or if she would be able to return to his good graces with better behavior. At least the man hadn’t immediately left to go back to London like he had done the last time he visited.

  “Aye. His Grace has requested a dinner be served.”

  “For how many?” Perhaps he had invited others to join him at Huntinghurst.

  The maid blinked. “The two of you, of course,” she replied.

  Isabella’s eyes widened. She supposed he planned to tell her at luncheon, the reminder of which had her gasping. “I have to go down. Now,” she said, hurrying to the window. The duke was no longer speaking with the groom, which meant he had probably come into the house and was waiting for her.

  The maid curtsied as Isabella took her leave of the bedchamber, nearly colliding with the duke as she did so.

  “Pardon me, Your Grace,” she managed as she dropped into a deep curtsy.

  Octavius blinked, his brows furrowing so he appeared far older than his three-and-thirty years. He glanced at the doorway from which she had emerged before returning his attention to her and then giving her a nod. “How is it you’ve managed to change your clothes, your hair...” He dared a glance down at the hem of her gown. “And your shoes in the five minutes since you left the stables?” he asked, clearly incredulous. Jesus! Did I lose track of time again?

  It was Isabella’s turn to blink. “I believe it’s been more like fifteen minutes, Your Grace,” she countered. “I didn’t wish to keep you waiting.” When he continued to stare at her, the look of disbelief still quite evident, she added, “You said you were starving.”

  The reminder had him giving another quick nod. “Indeed.” Holding out an arm, the duke gave her another quick glance before leading her down the stairs and to the dining room. “Am I to believe the level of light in the house is entirely due to cleaner windows? Or did you have the servants add more candles?”

  Inhaling sharply, Isabella nearly stopped walking. “I would never do such a thing, sir,” she claimed. “They’re far too expensive—”

  “I’m teasing,” Octavius said with a sigh before suddenly stopping just outside the dining room. “I wish to apologize for my outburst earlier. I think you... misunderstood just why it was I raised my voice.”

  Isabella furrowed a brow. “It wasn’t because I behaved like a... hoyden?” she asked in a quiet voice. She knew there were two footmen just inside the dining room waiting to begin their luncheon service, and she certainly didn’t want them overhearing the duke admonishing her.

  Octavius frowned again. Did she think her greeting was inap
propriate? It was, of course, or rather would have been if they had been in the presence of anyone other than the two horses and the dog who were watching them. “I admit I was rather surprised by your manner of welcome,” he hedged. “I always am. But pleased, in fact.” At Isabella’s widened eyes, he added, “My arrivals don’t usually involve young women throwing themselves at me.”

  Her mouth dropped open in an effort to put voice to a protest—by no possible measure had she thrown herself at the duke, even if her feet had left the ground for a moment—Isabella found she had to swallow her complaint. Octavius had placed a finger on her lips and leaned a bit closer.

  “I am teasing,” he whispered.

  Isabella took a deep breath and allowed a nod.

  “My reaction was entirely due to the fear I felt at seeing you alone with Ares.”

  Isabella’s eyes widened again. “Fear?” she repeated, her mouth once again about to drop open. She clamped it shut lest the duke put his finger there again.

  Not that she minded him touching her. A sort of buzzing sensation along the surface of her lips had been set off by his last attempt to quiet her.

  “Fear, yes. At what might have happened given there was no one with you out there. The last time I was in the presence of Ares, he was an unbroken beast capable of trampling anyone who got within ten feet of him.”

  Swallowing, Isabella remembered all too well how difficult it had been to get close to Ares. After days of trying, she found she had to pretend to ignore the Thoroughbred so it appeared to be his idea to approach her.

  Thank the gods he liked apples.

  When she didn’t respond to the duke’s comment, he led her to the opposite end of the dining room. Pulling out the chair to the right of his carver, he waited for her to be seated before he said, “I know you must be...” He paused before remembering her comment to Ares. “Frustrated with me. I haven’t visited as often as I should have, especially these past few months. I apologize for that.”

  Isabella watched as a footman hurried to help the duke with the carver, but she waited until the servant had taken his leave of the dining room before saying, “You needn’t apologize. I am well aware you have your duties in London.”