When You Wish Upon a Duke

by Isabella Bradford

  March frowned. Constancy, marriage, fertility, and birth seemed like a great burden for any ring. It came too close to tempting the fates, too, invoking so much with a single jewel.

  “A pretty ring, yes, but I do not think it would suit Lady Charlotte,” he said, returning it the box. “What is next?”

  Boyce hurried to oblige. “This is a lovely table-cut diamond, sir, placed within a pyramid setting, and surrounded by other stones,” he said, handing March the next. “The very finest quality, sir. I believe the diamonds were purchased in Florence.”

  March recognized this ring immediately, and he’d no pleasant memories of it, either. His mother had worn the ring so frequently that it had become associated with her, as was often the way with grand ladies of fashion.

  But what March remembered was how, when he’d been very young, he’d broken a favorite Chinese vase of his mother’s. At once she’d struck him for his clumsiness, and the ring’s sharp setting had cut into his cheek, so deep that he’d the scar still. His mother had then burst into tears over what she’d done, but the raging quarrel that had resulted between his parents later that night had been far, far worse than the cut.

  “Not that one,” he said, snapping the box’s lid shut himself.

  “Then what of this, sir?” Quickly the jeweler handed him another. “An old-fashioned style, perhaps, with the silver foil behind the diamonds for brightness, but the stones are of a quality that they could be reset to her ladyship’s taste.”

  March did not know himself if the ring was old-fashioned or not. It was large and weighty, with a cluster of rose-cut diamonds set together like a bouquet of white flowers, much like the white roses he’d sent her from the Greenwood gardens. The band of the ring was a warm, rich gold, worked with a curving vine that curled completely around the finger. The back of the setting was gold as well, and engraved with two hearts, intertwined. Surely it must have been meant as a token between lovers, and yet the ring clearly had never been worn, the band still a perfect circle and the curving lines of the engraved hearts crisp and new.

  “Do you know the history of this?” he asked. “Who in my family wore it last?”

  Boyce’s face fell. “Alas, sir, I do not know,” he said sorrowfully. “Most of the pieces have a connection to certain noble ladies in Your Grace’s family, but I could find nothing concerning this ring.”

  Chagrined at having no better answer, the jeweler held his hand out for the ring, expecting March to discard this one, too, as he had the others, but instead March kept it.

  “Then we shall leave it to Lady Charlotte to create her own history with it, Mr. Boyce.” March smiled with satisfaction, pleased that the task had been so easily accomplished. “This is the ring.”

  The jeweler bowed. “A most excellent choice, sir. Though I would be remiss not to show you the others—”

  “Another time, perhaps,” March said. “I’m sure in time Lady Charlotte would like to see them all for her own choosing.”

  He looked again at the ring, turning it this way and that in the bright sunlight. It was easy to imagine the clustered diamonds on Charlotte’s slender hand, even if that hand was endearingly marked with scratches from tree climbing and her infernal cat. She’d like this ring. He was sure of that, though he couldn’t quite say why. It would suit her.

  And, of course, he hoped it would come to mean the world to her because he’d been the one to put it on her hand.

  He tipped it toward the jeweler to show the back of the setting. “Is it possible to engrave our initials there, inside the hearts?”

  “Of course, sir, of course.” Mr. Boyce smiled indulgently. “A pretty notion, sir, and easily done.”

  Behind him the door opened, and a footman announced a visitor. “His Grace the Duke of Breconridge.”

  “Breck!” March rose, turning eagerly to greet his cousin. “Come, see the ring I’ve just chosen for Lady Charlotte. I mean to give it to her next week, when we’re formally betrothed.”

  Brecon entered with his usual reserve, every movement and expression thoughtful and considered. Though he and March were cousins, there was fourteen years between them, and in many ways Brecon had acted as both an elder brother and a father to March, particularly once March’s parents had died. They shared the same dark good looks and strong-cast features, an undeniable family resemblance.

  But Brecon also understood the challenges of a dukedom founded on illegitimacy, for they shared the same portion of royal blood, with the same profligate king for a great-grandfather. Brecon’s great-grandmother had been an elegant French lady who’d shrewdly traded her virtue and honor for the considerable rewards of a royal mistress, and there was probably still a good deal of Gallic perspicacity in the third Duke of Breconridge.

  There was also undoubtedly a sizable appreciation of Gallic fashion. While most English gentlemen dressed for a June afternoon in the dark breeches and simple coat that they’d wear for riding, Brecon wore a fawn-gray suit with silver flowers embroidered down the front and cuffs of the coat and across the waistcoat beneath, extravagant silver filigree buckles on his breeches and on his shoes, and silver lacing on his dark gray beaver hat.

  If any man could pass judgment on a lady’s betrothal ring, it would be Brecon, and eagerly March held it out for his cousin to see.

  “A sweet bauble,” Brecon said, squinting as he appraised the ring. “Sizable, too, with all those stones. I wonder that it won’t be too large for the lady, however. Most young creatures seem to prefer a more dainty offering on their finger.”

  “I don’t believe it’s too large,” March said confidently. “Not for Lady Charlotte. She’s not one of those over-nice, missish ladies who’d require a dainty ring.”

  Brecon smiled, cocking a single black brow. “You’re very certain of the lady’s tastes. Or are there diamonds to be found in the trees?”

  March flushed. Brecon was the only one of his London acquaintances to whom he’d told the truth of his injured shoulder. Everyone else believed he’d fallen from his horse, not from a tree, and certainly not with Lady Charlotte on top. For her sake, he wished that belief to remain, and quickly he turned away from his cousin and back to the jeweler.

  “Have it engraved and back to me tomorrow, Mr. Boyce,” he said. “I’ll summon you again for sizing if the lady requires it.”

  “Very good, sir,” Boyce said, carefully tucking the ring back into its plush-lined box. “I thank you for your custom, sir, and the honor of your patronage.”

  March nodded, determined to keep silent until Boyce and Carter and all the ring boxes left. Boyce’s family had served his for at least the last century, but March doubted that even such a degree of loyalty would be able to resist spreading a delicious tale of the Duke of Marchbourne up a tree with Lady Charlotte Wylder.

  “I’ll thank you, Brecon, not to mention my first meeting with Lady Charlotte before others,” March said as soon as the door was shut and they were alone. “My own people can be trusted not to speak of it, but tradesmen are altogether different.”

  “What, you worry now of what people will say of you chasing the lady up the tree?” Brecon grinned, unable to resist teasing. “First intercepting her coach on the road, then climbing to reach her among the lofty limbs! Upon my soul, you’ve been a veritable highwayman of love where this lady is concerned.”

  March groaned, dropping heavily into a nearby armchair. “It was not the wisest action of my life, no. I see that now. I was impulsive. I was foolhardy. I was—”

  “Cease flogging yourself,” Brecon said mildly. “No one enjoys a martyr, particularly when your martyrdom is of your own doing. You acted the ardent bridegroom, that is all. With her entire household clustered beneath you, there’s hardly any question of your compromising your fair lady on a branch.”

  “The ardent bridegroom,” March repeated with despair. “More like the ardent ass. I had my doubts even as I rode to meet the carriage, yet still I persevered. I never seem to know the right step w
ith ladies, Brecon. You know that.”

  “What I know is that most of your missteps have been well intended and without any lasting damage,” Brecon said, smoothing away the sting of his first teasing jests. “You cannot learn to dance without making a few stumbles along the way.”

  “I know, I know.” Glumly March rested his head on his hand. “I cannot become a gallant overnight, no matter how much I might wish it.”

  Talking to Brecon like this usually made him feel better. It wasn’t only that his cousin was older and wiser at forty-two. It was that Brecon had already managed to sail smoothly through most of the greater challenges of life, while March still felt mired upon the shore. Brecon had married happily. He had his heir, and more, for he’d fathered four excellent sons, handsome, cheerful, and accomplished. He spoke regularly in the House of Lords and was as much a favorite at the palace as he was among his tenants. His single sorrow, and it had been severe, was the loss of his wife to smallpox several years before. But after his grief had subsided, even being widowed had turned to his favor, and he’d become the darling of every hostess who wished an extra gentleman at their table as well as the matrimonial target of every spinster and widow in town.

  March doubted very much he’d ever be in that singular position of rivaling his witty cousin’s popularity, nor truly did he wish it. But he did hope he could find a measure of Breck’s happiness before his whole life had passed him by, and he hoped even more to find love to go with it.

  Now he ran his hand restlessly back through his hair, deciding how best to explain all this to Brecon.

  “I want matters to progress agreeably with Lady Charlotte,” he said at last. “She is a most excellent young woman, and exceptionally beautiful. I want to earn her favor and regard.”

  Brecon nodded, encouraging. “That is good. Most gentlemen in your position do not bother to win wives that are as much as given to them.”

  “Well, then, I am different,” March said. “I feel certain she is my one hope for happiness in life.”

  “That’s a sizable burden for the lady to bear alone.” Brecon shifted in his chair, the sunlight dancing over the silver embroidery on his waistcoat. “I trust you’ll be willing to do some of the carrying of this match as well?”

  “I mean to do whatever is necessary for us both to be happy,” March said. He didn’t need to add the rest—that he was determined not to be miserable in his marriage the way his parents had been—because Brecon, more than anyone else, understood that. “I’ll do whatever I must.”

  “Then you will be happy,” Brecon said easily. “Deciding to be so is much of the battle, or so the philosophers tell us. But enough of your love life. Tell me instead how fares the shoulder. If you’re here in town, then your injury must be improving.”

  March smiled resolutely, running his hand lightly over the silk sling. His shoulder did ache, enough that he had yet to visit his clubs or friends, but yesterday with Charlotte had been worth it.

  “My shoulder’s well enough,” he said. “Stapleton and the other doctors would have me still malingering in my bed, but I saw no use to that, and came to town.”

  “Because Lady Charlotte is here?”

  March nodded. He couldn’t lie to Brecon, especially not about this. “Our betrothal is next week, and there are preparations that need to be made.”

  Brecon cocked his brow, more question than surprise. “There’s not much to prepare, is there? A ring is all that’s required from you, and you’ve done that. The solicitors will be the busy ones, negotiating and copying every last farthing of settlements and portions. All you and the lady must do is sign your name to the papers, and then wait until the appointed day.”

  March grimaced. “Precious little romance to that.”

  “There isn’t supposed to be,” Brecon said. “We’re not the pretty folk in sentimental ballads. Marriage for gentlemen like us is more a union of property, a complicated transaction, than anything else. Your only responsibility is to pay sufficient visits to your wife’s bed to produce an heir to carry on your title. Beyond not behaving too outrageously, your obligations to each other are done.”

  March knew this was the truth—he’d already signed enough letters and papers in connection with the match—but he hated the heartlessness of it all.

  “I hope for more than that,” he said. “You’d make it sound more like purchasing a cottage than marrying a wife.”

  Now both of Breck’s brows rose. “Is it so very different? It would seem that you’ve already visited the lady and surveyed her qualities just as you would a cottage. Tested her foundations, as it were.”

  “What do you mean?” March asked defensively, though of course he knew exactly what his cousin meant. Breconridge being Breconridge, he surely would have heard by now of what had happened in Mrs. Cartwright’s shop. Brecon heard everything.

  And, apparently, he read everything as well.

  “Haven’t you seen this?” he asked, drawing a folded news sheet from inside his coat and handing it March. The page had been folded to highlight one particular article:

  We have learned that Cupid’s DART hath struck the lofty Duke of M****b****e most keenly. With a huntsman’s fierceness he yesterday did pursue the beauteous Lady C. W. from his estate in Surrey to her mantua-maker in Oxford Street, & in a private LAIR to the back of that establishment did keep alone with her in close & INTIMATE company for considerable time. Driven by his PASSION, did His Grace forswear the sweet promise of the HYMENEAL BOWER & instead press home his immediate advantage to seize the final PRIZE?

  Too furious to speak, March read the item again before he realized he’d become too furious to breathe, too, and he let out all his breath in a single heated oath.

  “You do not deny it, then?” Brecon asked.

  “How can I deny what is so near to the truth?” With the paper crumpled in his hand, March rose and stalked to the window, staring unseeing at the park before him. He should have guessed this would happen, considering how many others had been in the shop with them. Yet to read the result and see his encounter with Charlotte reduced to a lurid tattle made his stomach churn. “The lady has not been in London a week, and yet in one afternoon I have destroyed her honor and her name.”

  “You say this wretched scribbler has told the truth,” Brecon said. “I trust that this is some exaggeration, and that you did not in fact ravish the lady on the back counter of a mantua-maker’s shop?”

  “There was no, ah, consummation, if that is what you ask,” March said, still turned to the window. “But in the warmth of our conversation, I did kiss her, and embrace her, and in her innocence she—she did not rebuff me.”

  The disapproval in his cousin’s voice was clear enough. “March, she is to be your wife and your duchess. You can’t treat her like some common little strumpet. Thank the heavens that her father’s dead, else it could be swords at dawn on the misty heath after this.”

  “Don’t count me fortunate yet,” March said with gloomy resignation. What if this were enough to sour Charlotte on marrying him altogether? What if she decided she’d had enough of London and of him, and returned today to her quiet old house by the sea? “I wouldn’t put it past Lady Sanborn to send her second with a challenge.”

  “No jesting, now, no jesting,” Brecon said, more concerned than disapproving. “Consider this business from your side as well. You say the lady is an innocent.”

  “She is,” March said firmly, recalling the sweet breathiness of her inexperienced kiss and the wonder that had shown in her eyes. “I do not doubt her at all.”

  “I’m glad of it,” Brecon said. “But what if your impatience had carried you further, and she were to be with child by the time you wed? The world counts months with great glee, and what if your son and heir should arrive as a six-month babe? There’d be plenty of whispers as to whether the child was even yours, whispers that, however false, would haunt you and your son the rest of his life. Given our peculiar shared heritage—”

>   “There must be no more bastards,” March said curtly. It wasn’t enough that he had publicly dishonored Charlotte. How had he not thought of this, of the inadvertent curse he could have placed on their unborn child?

  “Exactly, cousin, exactly,” Brecon said. “You’re fortunate that the lady’s beauty and form inspire such desire in you. If in time you can make yourself fall in love with her and she with you, all the better. But I can assure you that a little decorum, a little restraint, before your wedding will go far toward establishing an honorable marriage.”

  But for March there was another solution, and to him it was the most honorable one as well. Lady Charlotte needed the protection of his name and title, not the slander of it. He no longer saw the need for this prolonged betrothal until a Michaelmas wedding. In fact, he saw no need of a betrothal at all.

  “There must be no more of this tattle about Lady Charlotte in the papers,” he said firmly. “She doesn’t deserve another word of it.”

  “That’s the spirit,” said Brecon with hearty approval. “Lead with your head, not your cock.”

  “Yes,” said March. “There will no betrothal, nor a period of waiting. Instead I intend to marry Lady Charlotte at once.”

  Charlotte stood in the center of the stone-paved path in the garden behind her aunt’s house. After the wild gardens and fields of the old manor in Dorset, this city garden seemed oppressively small and restrained, with tall brick walls on three sides and the house on the other. Everything was bound by geometric precision, with the neat stone paths crossing one another at perfect right angles, and every raised bed of flowers was so neatly trimmed that no leaves or tendril vines dared curl beyond their boundaries. Even the small lady apple trees that were her aunt’s special pride were forced to grow to please her, their branches pinned to low fences in strict espalier and their miniature fruit at a level for Aunt Sophronia to pluck for herself.

  Most of all, there were no tall trees for shade, nor trees fit for climbing, either, which was likely why Charlotte was permitted to be here by herself, unattended and unwatched. She’d come here now in this early hour purposely to be alone, the shadows of the walls long across the paths as she stood with her arms out at her sides and her knees slightly bent. With the paths as her ballroom, she began to count the rhythm of the minuet, striving to recall the steps that the Parisian dancing master had taught her yesterday.