When You Wish Upon a Duke

by Isabella Bradford

  But Charlotte had already turned back toward the other portrait.

  “Nan Lilly.” She tipped her head to one side, thoughtfully touching one of the tear-shaped pearls. “Did the king give her the earrings before he made her a duchess, or after?”

  “Before,” he said, looking up at Nan’s face. “In the portraits of her after she’s a duchess she’s, ah, more completely dressed.”

  Charlotte rose and went to stand before the painting. “But of course she and the king never married.”

  “Of course not,” March said. “Nan never married anyone. She was a duchess in her own right, without a duke.”

  “So while she was faithful to the king, he wasn’t constant to her,” she said. “I mean as constant as he could be to her, along with his true wife, the queen.”

  “No, he wasn’t constant,” he admitted. He generally avoided speaking of his family’s scandalous history, but with Charlotte it wasn’t difficult at all. “Breck’s family descends from another mistress, and I’ve two more cousins, Hawkesworth and Sheffield, who can say the same. They were his favorites. I’ve heard there are at least a score of others whose bastards weren’t legitimized or granted titles. It’s what makes my family so different from those of other peers.”

  She looked back over her shoulder at him, the pearls swinging gently against her cheek.

  “I suppose the rules are different for kings,” she mused. “But do you know if he gave Nan the earrings as payment to her for being an accomplished strumpet, or as a gift because he loved her, enough to make her a duchess because she couldn’t be his wife?”

  “How can I answer that, Charlotte?” he said, mystified by why she’d ask such a curious question. He left his chair and came to stand behind her, resting his hands lightly on her shoulders as he, too, looked up at the portrait. “Everything happened a hundred years ago, and I doubt anyone knows the truth now, least of all me.”

  “I hope he loved her,” she said with a fervor that startled him. “I hope he loved her passionately, and with all his heart.”

  “I hope she loved him as well,” he said. He did, too, and he always had, though he doubted he’d ever said it aloud. “Nan was said to have been a merry, cheerful creature, able to make the king laugh no matter how grim his royal duties.”

  “If she hadn’t, then we wouldn’t be here today, together in this house, would we?”

  “No, we wouldn’t,” March said. “It’s a strange, disgraceful conundrum on which to base one’s entire family and fortune.”

  “It is,” she said softly. “How strange, too, to consider how very little difference there is between an actress and a duchess, or a bad woman and a good one.”

  Abruptly she turned to face him, resting her palms on his chest to smile up at him. “High time we dressed and began our day, yes?”

  Their day did begin, another full day that included wedding calls, visits to her mantua-maker and his bookbinder, and a dinner in their honor given by some of his friends. Everywhere they went, Charlotte was her usual charming, beautiful self, dazzling all she met, and when he was congratulated again and again on his good fortune to have gained such a prize of a wife, he could only agree, and grin like the happy bridegroom that he was.

  Yet throughout the long day, he couldn’t help but feel as if their conversation before the painting somehow lingered with Charlotte. He hoped she didn’t have second thoughts about joining a family with such a shameful history, not that anything could be done to change that now. He understood if she did; there’d been plenty of times at school when he’d fervently longed for a more ordinary pedigree. True, his children would carry Nan’s lowly blood, but they’d also have a share of the king’s stock as well, and there could hardly be any shame in that. At least he’d always believed the one compensated for the other, and he prayed that nothing as foolish as a century-old scandal would come between him and Charlotte.

  There was no doubt, however, that something wasn’t right between them, and he couldn’t begin to fathom what it might be. He’d followed Breck’s advice to the letter. Not even his royal ancestor could have treated her with more kindness or generosity.

  Yet once again when he’d gone to her bed and performed his duty toward her in the most respectful way he could, she’d wept. Not with sobs or wails, but quietly, as if she’d known she’d no cause for complaint. She hadn’t complained, either, even when he’d asked what was wrong.

  Nothing, she’d said, nothing, even as the tears slid silently down her cheeks.

  And afterward, as he’d walked the long hall back to his own bedchamber, he’d never felt more helpless, nor more alone.

  “Are you certain you’re at ease in that saddle?” March asked, his brows drawn together with concern as once again he nudged his horse closer to hers. “An unfamiliar saddle can be the very devil, especially a sidesaddle.”

  “March, please,” Charlotte said, no longer able to hide her exasperation. She’d been excited beyond measure to come out this morning with him. As he’d promised, he’d surprised her with a smart chestnut mare, and she’d surprised him with her new scarlet riding habit, tightly fitted and bristling with brass buttons like a soldier’s uniform in the very newest fashion, and topped by a quite magnificent black plumed hat. The sun had just risen, the dew still sparkled on the grass, the park was nearly empty, and everything looked so new and fresh that anything seemed possible—or it would if only he’d stop acting as if this were the first time she’d ever climbed on a horse’s back, and insisting they walk at this ridiculous snail’s pace.

  “I’ve told you before that I’ve been riding forever, March,” she said as calmly as she could, which, under the circumstances, wasn’t very calmly at all. “I am not an idiot on a horse. If the saddle weren’t right, I would have said so in the yard. The saddle is right, the bridle is right, the horse is divine, and the weather and the morning are perfect.”

  “I’m glad you are pleased, and I thank you for it,” he said. “Though I can take neither fault nor praise for the morning.”

  She sighed, wishing he wouldn’t be quite so serious. “That is true,” she said, “and if I topple from my horse, then it would not be your fault, either, but entirely mine.”

  “I don’t wish it to be anyone’s fault,” he said. “What I wish is that it won’t happen at all.”

  “Well, then, I’ll grant you that wish.” She shifted her reins to one hand and fluttered her fingers toward him like a country fair conjurer. “There, Your Grace. It will not happen.”

  Still he didn’t smile. “I’m only trying to make you happy, Charlotte.”

  She sighed, and despite the glorious morning, her heart sank a little lower. If he truly wished to make her happy, then he would have stayed with her the night through, instead of leaving as if she were somehow distasteful to him. Yesterday things had gone so well between them. She’d loved how he’d trusted her enough to tell her about his great-grandmother and the king, and she’d loved, too, that he’d given her Nan Lilly’s pearl earrings. He spoke so seldom about his family that she’d realized the significance of that confidence, and it had pleased her far more than the earrings themselves.

  And if he saw no real shame to Nan’s humble beginnings and her illicit love for the merry old king, then perhaps, too, he might be persuaded to be a bit more merry himself, especially in the bedchamber. For her part, she certainly wouldn’t have objected to being a little less like a duchess and a little more like an actress. But he hadn’t been merry, not at all. If anything, last night he’d seemed even more respectful and somber, as if she were made of twice-glazed porcelain instead of flesh and blood. She couldn’t begin to think of it again from fear that she’d begin weeping with despair here in the park.

  Instead she forced herself to smile. “I am happy, March. I only wish that we could—”

  “Halt, Charlotte, please,” he ordered, guiding his horse directly before hers so she’d have no choice. At once he dismounted, bending down to peer at her
boots. “There’s something not quite right about that stirrup.”

  But to Charlotte’s mind, there was something not quite right about everything, and at last she could bear it no longer. She dug in her heels and cracked her reins, and before March could stop her, she was gone.

  The mare was equally happy to rebel, as Charlotte had suspected she would be, and given rein, she flew across the dewy grass. Charlotte didn’t know the park and she didn’t know where she was headed, nor did she care. For the first time since she’d left Ransom she felt free and alive, and the exhilaration overcame everything else. She could forget propriety and being a duchess. With the wind in her face and the reins in her hand, she was once again simply Charlotte, and it was a glorious feeling.

  She could faintly hear March calling to her. Of course he’d follow, and she’d a pang of remorse when she remembered how he hadn’t wanted her to race in the park. Yet she didn’t want to be caught, not yet, and besides, it was exciting to have him chasing after her.

  Just ahead of her was a thick copse of trees and mulberry bushes, and she swiftly guided the mare away from the open grass, over a shallow gully, and into the shadows of the trees. She didn’t exactly intend to hide from March, but she wouldn’t mind if he had to do a bit of hunting to find her, either. What better way to prove that she was at ease on horseback?

  Breathing hard, Charlotte reached forward to pat the mare fondly on her shoulder. She was delighted with the horse for both her speed and her spirit, and she had to admit that despite all his worry and concern, March had found her an excellent mount. She leaned forward across the horse, craning her neck to look for her husband. She’d expected him to be here by now; she hadn’t had that much of a head start on him. Uneasily she hoped he hadn’t fallen or suffered some other mishap because of her.

  “Have you escaped the villain, sweetheart?”

  Charlotte gasped and twisted around in her saddle. How had she not heard the man come up behind her? He was thickset and ruddy-faced with sandy hair, and from the way he effortlessly controlled his large black gelding, he was clearly as strong as he appeared. At least from his dress—a dark blue coat with silver buttons and fawn-colored leather breeches, much the same as March’s—he must be a gentleman, though true gentlemen would not come creeping up behind ladies in the park.

  “I beg your pardon?” she said in as frosty a voice as she could muster.

  “Come now, don’t play coy with me,” he said, smiling warmly. “I saw how you came racing through the trees there. You’d only do that if the devil himself were after your soul. That, or your husband.”

  She flushed. “My reasons are none of your affair, sir.”

  He laughed. “So it was the husband. Pity. I’d rather it were the devil, with some interesting reason for desiring your soul. Though who could blame him, when there is so much of you worth desiring?”

  She gasped again, this time with indignation. “You’ve no right to speak so boldly to me,” she said. “You wouldn’t dare if you knew who I was.”

  “You’re a lady who likes to take risks,” he said, sweeping his black cocked hat from his head, “and that’s sufficient for me. John Tinderson, Marquess of Andover, your servant, and your savior, if you’ve need of one.”

  “I am the Duchess of Marchbourne,” she said, borrowing Aunt Sophronia’s haughtiness, “and I need nothing from you, Lord Andover.”

  “Marchbourne’s bride?” For a moment he stared in astonishment before he quickly recalled himself, and he bowed as much as he could from his saddle. “Forgive me, Your Grace, I’d no idea. His Grace should take better care of such a prize.”

  “He does,” she admitted, not wanting March to be faulted. “Or rather, he tried to. I’m the one who ran away.”

  “A runaway bride.” His respectful smile became much friendlier. “If you’re ever in need of a sanctuary, ma’am, please consider my home as yours. I wouldn’t want to think of a lady like yourself wandering about London like a lost lamb.”

  “Charlotte!” March appeared around the bushes, and sharply wheeled his horse to a halt to come to her. “Damnation, I’ve been hunting all over for you!”

  In the short time Charlotte had known March, she’d judged him to be a temperate man, even mild-mannered, but not now. She’d never seen him so angry, his face flushed and his dark eyes flashing, and at once she realized that absolute contrition was her best—no, her only—course.

  “I’m sorry if I caused you trouble, March,” she began, “very sorry, but I only wished—”

  “Have you any idea of how I feared for you?” he thundered. “This isn’t Dorset, Charlotte. This is London, and you can’t begin to understand the perils that wait for a woman alone.”

  “But I wasn’t alone,” she protested. “At least, not for long. Lord Andover has been with me.”

  March stared at the marquess as if seeing him for the first time. “Andover. Good day.”

  “Good day, Your Grace,” the marquess said, his expression cordial. “May I offer my congratulations upon your marriage to this beautiful lady?”

  “No, Andover, you may not,” March said curtly. “The last thing I wish is to have my wife dallying in the park with you.”

  “Dallying!” Charlotte exclaimed. She wasn’t sure which was more shocking: his suspicion, or his rudeness toward Andover. “March, I was not dallying. I was waiting for you, and Lord Andover greeted me while I waited. That scarce constitutes dallying.”

  “It does with Andover.” March continued to glare at the other man, and it was almost as if he’d inexplicably redirected his initial anger at Charlotte toward the marquess. She could sense it like a wall between the two men, so thick that Charlotte wondered if some longheld rivalry existed between them, some ancient, bitter insult that had nothing to do with her.

  “I assure you, sir, that there is absolutely no cause for concern on your part,” Lord Andover said, and Charlotte was sure that the marquess’s knowing little smile was not helping his case with March, or hers, either. “Even I can stand before you in perfect innocence, and your lady as well. But I will say that Her Grace rides most splendidly. Perhaps you both would honor my hunt this season.”

  “We must decline,” Marchbourne said. “My wife does not hunt.”

  “But I’ve always wished to try it,” Charlotte said, hoping that the notion of hunting might distract March into a better humor. “It sounds most exciting.”

  “I have declined, madam,” he said, his words brisk and clipped. “Now let us return home, if you please. Good day, Andover.”

  Again Lord Andover raised his hat, his smile so winning that Charlotte couldn’t help but smile in return. If there was in fact some bad blood between her husband and the marquess, then it must be entirely on March’s side, because Lord Andover didn’t seem at all disturbed.

  “Now that you reside here in London, ma’am,” he said, “I’ll look forward to the frequent pleasure of your company.”

  “That, Andover, will be a pleasure I reserve entirely for myself,” March said, already turning away. “Come, madam.”

  The sun had risen high enough to dry the dew and lift the mist, and bright beams slanted through the trees. There were more riders in the park now, as well as babies with their nursemaids and older children tossing bread to the ducks in the canal and flying bright paper kites. From the parade ground in the distance came the martial sound of drums and shouted orders as the Horse Guards held their morning review, and closer by a man trundled his hurdy-gurdy to a prime place beneath a shady tree and began to crank his wheezing, rattling instrument, his hat on the grass for coins.

  But despite so much gaiety around them, March rode beside Charlotte in stony silence, a silence Charlotte didn’t dare break until they’d nearly reached Marchbourne House. Mama had always maintained that disagreements were much better dealt with at once, rather than being allowed to fester and grow worse. Although Charlotte was certain that applying the lancet to this particular disagreement was going to b
e painful, she was determined not to let it poison her marriage any more than it already had.

  “I have told you I am sorry for riding off as I did,” she began, “and I’m sorry to have worried you.”

  Still his steadfast silence remained, but Charlotte plunged onward.

  “I’ve told you, too, that I was innocent of anything beyond a handful of words with Lord Andover. What more do you wish me to say, March?”

  He didn’t look at her, but continued to stare resolutely ahead. “Not now, madam. I will not have us observed and gossip spread that we are quarreling already.”

  “Why not, when it is true?” she said tartly. “And please do not call me ‘madam,’ as if I were Aunt Sophronia.”

  “What else would you have me call you?”

  “You could begin with my name,” she said. “Then you could progress to the kinds of things ordinary men call their wives, such as ‘sweetheart,’ or ‘dearest,’ or—”

  He drew his horse up sharply, forcing her to do so as well. “Would you like to know what you’ll be called if you insist on familiarity with men like Andover? A strumpet, and a harlot, and a whore, because that is how he treats married women, seducing them and destroying their names so thoroughly that their husbands and children disown them.”

  “Did he do that to you, March?” she demanded. “Did he steal away some other lady you fancied?”

  He stared at her, appalled. “No, Charlotte, he did not. There has never been any other lady but you.”

  “Then why can you not believe that it’s like that for me as well, March? That you are the only gentleman for me?” The curling plume on her hat fluttered forward over her face, and furiously she batted it aside. “If I speak a handful of words to Lord Andover or to your cousin’s mistress, Mrs. Shaw, no harm will come to me. Riding my horse fast will only give me pleasure, not magically transform me into some dreadful, debauched woman.”

  “You’re my duchess, Charlotte,” he insisted doggedly. “I can only treat you one way.”

  “Why can’t you treat me less like a duchess and more like a woman?” she pleaded. “Why can’t you trust me enough to act for myself? Consider your great-grandmother Nan. She managed to be a woman, a mistress, a mother, an actress, and a duchess, and quite nicely, too.”