The Dream of a Duchess

by Sande, Linda Rae

  Octavius regarded her a moment, a bit startled by her words. He did have affairs to see to in London, not the least of which was Parliament. But since she had been moved into Huntinghurst, he found more excuses to stay in London rather than face her. And face the memories of what his life had at one time been like when Jane was still alive. He was just about to recall a particularly charming luncheon with his late wife—the one during which she hinted that she might be expecting a babe—when he realized Isabella was staring at him. Staring at him as if she were expecting him to say something.

  Had he missed a comment? Had she put voice to a query? He had thought he was beyond his extended reveries, but apparently he had been lost in thought just then. The chit probably thinks I’m a candidate for Bedlam, he considered. “What is it?” he asked.

  “Did you fire Mr. Reeves?” Isabella asked in a whisper, ready to argue on behalf of the overworked servant.

  Octavius gave a start. “What makes you think I would do such a thing?”

  “I saw you speaking with him, and I worried you might have blamed him for something I did entirely of my own volition.”

  The duke gave a sigh of frustration. “Reeves is in charge of the stables. It’s his job to look after my horses. That means he has to be responsible if you take one of my horses on a jaunt—”

  “It was not a jaunt,” she interrupted, immediately regretting her words. “Your Grace,” she added with a pained expression. If only the floor could open up and swallow me whole, she thought. She dared a glance at him, rather surprised he didn’t seem angry just then. Instead, he was regarding her with an expression that suggested he was lost in thought.

  A footman settled a plate on her charger, the surface covered with a cold collation of piped ham and peas. He did the same for the duke whilst another footman saw to the delivery of a loaf of sliced bread fresh from the oven whilst yet another footman poured wine and water.

  She was sure the three footmen were all there were in the entire household!

  “Leave us,” Octavius ordered.

  Suddenly afraid, Isabella stiffened in anticipation of running from the room. Although his order hadn’t been said with a hint of menace, Isabella had no idea what the duke intended to do once they were alone in the dining room. She hadn’t spent enough time in his presence to know his moods. To guess what he might do next.

  Now, if she were standing and facing him, she was sure she could hold her own in an argument with him. And she would know when to let him think he had won. Not like last time, when she had pushed just a bit too hard and had the man stalking off in anger over her insistence that what she was doing with one of the horses was the best for its care.

  A colt had shown obvious signs of developing crooked front legs, and Constance had explained how to treat the affliction. But the duke was obviously unfamiliar with the wooden braces she had made for Endymion. Quite incensed, the duke and she had argued, and then she had watched while he stalked off, unaware he simply continued to where his coach was still parked in front of the manor, stepped in, and ordered the driver to head back to London.

  When she realized what was happening, she immediately realized she needed to apologize, but the coach was already pulling away from the front of Huntinghurst. Despite her effort to run after it—to catch it before it made the turn to Cocking—she was too late.

  For the first time since her arrival at Huntinghurst, Isabella retreated to the first story salon, took a pen to paper, and wrote a letter of apology.

  Dear Duke of Huntington,

  I write with a heavy heart, made so from our Unfortunate Encounter this afternoon. Despite my attempt to apologize in person (my stockinged ankles were on display as I chased your coach all the way to the main road with the hope your driver might see me and stop), I was unable to do so.

  I wish to Apologize for having upset you. It is never my intention to vex you so, but it seems I manage to do so with your every visit. I am left to wonder if all ladies are a vexing problem for you, as I cannot believe I am the only one who speaks her mind when she holds certain beliefs near and dear.

  My mother, may she Rest In Peace, taught me that when I am certain of my position, I must stand and fight for it lest tyranny be allowed to prevail. (Not that I believe you to be a tyrant, for I do not hold that opinion of you. At least, not usually.)

  Please believe me when I tell you that I hold your horses in high esteem, for they are magnificent beasts, and I only wish to see them Healthy and Happy and Prepared for when you are once again interested in the Horse Races. If my plans work as I believe they will, you will have at least two horses ready for next year and two more the following year. Perhaps three.

  As for the reason for our argument, the colt is already showing signs of improvement. I will return him and his dam to the pasture when his legs appear straighter.

  Despite the way in which I argued with you, I hold you in high esteem as well, for I do not know where I would live or what I would do with my days if it wasn’t for your stables.

  Thank you for taking me in. Thank you for use of the beautiful bedchamber overlooking the stables. Thank you for providing me protection from Craythorne. I cannot help but believe I would be dead if not for you.

  Despite what you may think, I look forward to when you return to Huntinghurst. Please believe me when I assure you I only have your horses’ best interests at heart. Even Ares.

  Very sincerely yours,

  Isabella Tolson

  The duke’s response had arrived only four days later, the words written in an even, easy-to-read script.

  Dear Lady Isabella,

  You are forgiven.

  Most ladies hold their tongues except in matters of gossip. You are the only one who vexes me.

  I have never before been accused of being a tyrant.

  I am glad Endymion is recovering despite your unorthodox treatment.

  You are welcome.

  Hunt

  Post scriptum: Do not waste your efforts on Ares.

  When Isabella had read this last line, she took it as a challenge rather than an edict. Now she realized he was quite serious with his words.

  Once the three servants disappeared from the dining room, Octavius took a sip of wine and regarded his plate before turning his attention back to Isabella. “I did not fire the groom, nor would I. Apparently, he’s the only one left out there besides Master George since no one informed me the other groom had left my employ some six weeks ago.” The measured tone of the words suggested he was doing everything to contain his annoyance—his anger—at having just learned of the situation with Mr. Campbell.

  Isabella regarded Octavius for a moment, stunned by his comment. “Mr. Campbell left your employ because he died Your Grace,” she said in a soft voice. “Quite suddenly. I’m certain he would have given notice had he known he was about to expire. He was very loyal servant.”

  Staring at her as if she had suddenly grown another head, Octavius gave his own head a sudden shake. “Now you’re teasing me,” he accused.

  Isabella shook her head. “I most certainly am not,” she countered. “I didn’t attend his funeral, of course, but we did have a small gathering here at the house on his behalf. His intended cried the entire time, poor thing. They were due to marry next month.”

  Replaying the head groom’s words in his head, Octavius realized he had completely misunderstood the man’s comment. “So, when Mr. Reeves said Mr. Campbell had ‘gone’, he meant he... he died?” Jesus, he had thought the man had run off with Mrs. Fraser, the widow he was courting!

  Isabella winced at hearing how Mr. Campbell’s passing had been described by the head groom. “Indeed. When I inquired as to when he might hire a replacement, Mr. Reeves claimed he didn’t have the authority. So we’ve simply made due with the three of us.” When it appeared as if the duke wasn’t going to press the issue, Isabella returned her attention to her plate and resumed eating.

  “You don’t find it... unseemly to work in t
he stables?” Octavius finally asked. “You’re a lady...”

  “I am happy to do it, sir. Truly,” she said quietly. “Besides, training horses is hardly work. Other than Miss Fitzwilliam and Nelson, the horses are my only friends. Who else can claim to spend their days in the company of their best friends?”

  Octavius could think of a few ne’er-do-wells in London who spent their days with so-called friends, but he didn’t put voice to his thoughts just then. Instead he concentrated on his meal until he realized Isabella was regarding him with a look of concern. “What is it?” he asked as he set down his fork.

  “May I ask what you did to calm Poseidon? When he seemed unsettled earlier?”

  Furrowing his brows, Octavius thought for a moment and then wondered how she knew he had needed to calm the beast. “I gave him an apple,” he said with a shrug.

  “Oh, of course,” Isabella responded with a nod. She supposed she should expect Poseidon and Ares to be similar in their temperaments—and their likes—given their lineage.

  “What do you mean by that?” he asked, careful to avoid looking directly into her eyes. Her gaze would have him mesmerized, thinking of what it might be like to have those eyes watching him from the other side of a ballroom, or from the other end of a dining table. What it would be like to wake up with those eyes watching him every morning. As if she could see into his very soul.

  She would learn entirely too much if she did.

  “Ares will do anything for an apple,” she claimed, deciding it was the perfect time to bring up the matter of Ares. “Poseidon and Ares are brothers, are they not?”

  Octavius gave a start, wondering how she knew. “They are. I suppose Mr. Reeves mentioned it?” he half-asked, never intending for her not to know of common pedigree of the headstrong horses.

  “He didn’t have to,” Isabella replied with a shake of her head. “I’ve been studying the lineages of your horses. Ares and Poseidon share so many of the same traits. Earlier, in the meadow... when they were facing one another, it was like seeing them in a mirror,” Isabella explained. “Were you the one who broke Poseidon?”

  The duke nodded. “About killed me, which is why I realized Ares was a mistake. I never should have allowed Poseidon’s sire and dam to mate again.”

  “Ares is not a mistake,” Isabella said softly. “He’s the fastest horse in your stables.”

  Sighing, Octavius furrowed a brow. “How... how did you break him? Without him breaking you?” She had never shown signs of being injured by a horse. No broken bones or obvious limping. No scars or bruises.

  Isabella allowed a wan grin. “By making it his choice to be broken,” she replied. At the duke’s look of confusion, she gave a shrug. “Every morning, I exercise three horses. I start by going into the stables carrying a bit and a lead. All the horses watch as I choose one I haven’t ridden in a few days. I put the bit on, all the time making small talk and praising the horse. Then I lead it out of the stables to where Master George has a saddle ready. Within a few minutes, I’m off riding. Fifteen minutes later, I’m back, and I repeat the process with another horse.”

  Octavius shook his head. “Where is Ares during all this?”

  “In a stall. Right near the door.”

  “How did you get him in a stall?” the duke asked, obviously surprised the beast would tolerate an enclosure.

  Isabella gave a one-shouldered shrug. “He wants to be with the other horses, of course, so when I call them in for the night, they come and each go to their own stall. Ares is always the last, of course, so I make sure he can go directly into the first stall. Then, in the morning, he has to watch as each horse parades by for their opportunity for a run. Once three horses have run, I let them all go out to the pasture for the day,” she explained.

  “How did you get a bit on him?”

  At this, Isabella inhaled and then frowned. “One day, I chose him as my third horse. I held the bit up like I do with any other horse, and I started to put it on him.”

  “He allowed it?” Octavius asked in surprise.

  “Oh, goodness, no. He backed up. Shook his head. Complained bitterly. You would have thought I had tried to strangle him. So I went to the next horse, who was more than happy to have the opportunity at a run.” She paused a moment. “It took five more tries before I got it on him,” she admitted with a wry grin. “But then, I knew I couldn’t have George put a saddle on him. So I led him to the enclosure, and George brought another horse—Enyo—to help settle him. I rode Enyo in the pen while he raced around in circles.”

  “How long until you got him saddled?”

  “A few weeks, but by then, he didn’t mind the idea so much.”

  Octavius dipped his head. “Lots of patience, then,” he commented, remembering he hadn’t had the time for it with Poseidon. He wanted a horse suitable for London traffic, figuring he would leave the coach-and-four for his duchess to use when she went about her calls. When his last mount came up lame, Poseidon seemed the obvious choice as a replacement. Once he was broken, he proved perfect for the task. Breaking Poseidon nearly proved the duke’s undoing, though.

  “A lot of apples is more the thing,” Isabella replied, a dimple appearing. “Rather fortuitous you have an orchard on your property.”

  Octavius allowed a grin. “Indeed. However did you manage the first ride?” he asked, remembering how Poseidon had bucked and fought until they were both exhausted.

  “I wasn’t the first to ride him, of course. Mr. Campbell managed it. “I was on Enyo at the time, and he’s always been rather sweet on her, so I think he allowed it just to show off.” At Octavius’ snort, Isabella gave him a quelling glance. “The first time I took him to the meadow, he was saddled, but I was riding Enyo,” she claimed. “He followed us the entire way. Never tried to run off. Just ran around the meadow as fast as he could once we got there. Showing off, I tell you,” she claimed. “Then, when he finally settled down, he came closer and watched as I trained Enyo to canter and to back up. After a few days, he came even closer and started doing what she was doing. After that, she was the one watching while I trained Ares.”

  Finally allowing a nod, Octavius sighed. “That’s how you do it with the others then, too?” he wondered.

  Isabella bobbed her head back and forth. “Most are quicker to accept a bit, mostly because I get one on them when they’re younger. They seem to want to learn when they see the racers being timed on the track. Why, when three of them are racing side-by-side with the grooms and George on their backs, all the horses in the pasture hurry over to watch. It’s as if they want to race, too.”

  Octavius stared at Isabella, awed by her enthusiasm and by the way her face lit up whilst she described his horses. He wanted nothing more than to be one of those horses she exercised in the mornings. Wanted nothing more than to have her undivided attention. Why, he would even welcome having to stand next to the orangery for a half-hour or so learning patience if it meant she would come and untie him and lead him back to his stall at night.

  He gave his head a shake.

  What the hell?

  “Has something happened?” she asked then, wondering at his odd expression.

  Octavius gave a shake of his head. “No,” he replied. “Other than the need to find a replacement for Mr. Campbell, all is well, actually. I’ll see to it a notice is posted in Chichester. Peters can see to the particulars.”

  “Miss Fitzwilliam might know of someone,” Isabella suggested. “Someone with... with a suitable character, of course,” she added, realizing the duke wouldn’t allow just anyone to be employed in his stables.

  This had him giving a nod. “When is she next due to join you on a ride?”

  “Day after tomorrow. Can you stay that long?”

  Octavius thought the question odd until he remembered he rarely stayed more than one day at Huntinghurst. The last time, he had left—in a huff due to their argument—without even spending the night. He later cursed himself for his shortsightedness. The coa
ch had been forced to stop at The Angel, a coaching inn in Guildford, when it was too dark to go on to London. He realized he could have simply gone to his apartments at Huntinghurst and spent his time sequestered there, avoiding Isabella until they could discuss the issue of Endymion’s treatment in a more calm manner.

  “Perhaps.” He paused a moment. “I was ready to forbid you from going near the stables when I last left you,” he added suddenly. At Isabella’s look of shock—fright, even—Octavius allowed a wan grin. “But I figured you would simply vex me more by running away.”

  Isabella realized then he knew her better than she thought he did. “You have the right of it,” she admitted with a sigh. “Tell me, Your Grace. Is it really so unseemly for me to spend time with your horses? To train them? It gives me joy and a sense of... a sense of accomplishment when I’m able to ride a horse I’ve broken.”

  Octavius finished off his wine and regarded her for a moment. “Let us come to an agreement,” he suggested. “You can continue to do what you do with my horses, but you must also see to your training as a lady.”

  Isabella blinked. “Training?” she repeated, her eyes wide.

  “Do you know how to dance?”

  “Of course.” She paused a moment. “Although I’ve not had occasion to do so since my arrival. And I do not know the steps of the new dance, the waltz, that is becoming so popular in the capital.”

  Arching a brow, Octavius briefly wondered how she even knew about the waltz and then remembered The Tattler was a source of information in Miss Fitzwilliam’s household. “Then you shall learn it. After dinner this evening,” he announced. “What about serving tea?”

  Isabella blinked, allowing a slight shrug. “I do it twice a week with Miss Fitzwilliam,” she replied with a nod.

  “Can you speak French?”

  “Oui, monsieur. Bien que je n’ai pas l’occasion de m’exercer à le parler,” she managed to say. Although I don’t have the occasion to practice speaking it.