When You Wish Upon a Duke

by Isabella Bradford

  Brecon bowed. “Very well. I’ll go to Andover and present your compliments, and make the other arrangements as well.”

  He reached out and patted March’s shoulder, an old and familiar show of affection between them. “Take care, cousin, and spend this time with your lady well. Good-bye, Charlotte, and be easy. This is a serious affair, yes, but I believe we can trust in your husband’s aim and God in his mercy that matters will go well.”

  Charlotte didn’t answer, which was never a fortuitous sign with her. Brecon realized it, too, and the look he shot March as he left the room was so brimming with male commiseration that, under other circumstances, March would have laughed aloud.

  But there was nothing to laugh at now with Charlotte. March wrapped his arms around her and drew her close. At first she was stiff against him, her anger with him and his decision like a palpable barrier between them. Gently he threaded his fingers into her hair at the back of her neck, below the bristle of her hairpins and above her nape, and rubbed his fingers in small circles, the best way he’d discovered for calming her.

  “I know you’re unhappy with me, sweet,” he said softly. “I know you’re angry about this duel. And I know you believe me the greatest ass in Christendom for sending Brecon off to act as my second.”

  “Because you are the greatest ass in Christendom!” she cried miserably, pushing back far enough in his embrace to stare up into his face. “There is no believing about it, but only the same sorrowful knowledge that women have always, always learned of the stubborn, wasteful stupidity of men!”

  She’d been so distraught this day that she’d given up blotting her tears hours ago and had instead let them run unchecked down her face. Her eyes were puffy and red with them and her lashes spiky and wet, and the salt and likely the bitterness as well had blotched her cheeks and nose. By most standards, she wasn’t very pretty like this, but because each one of those salty tears represented her love for him, he’d never seen her look more beautiful.

  “Charlotte, please,” he said gently. “Please. I wish you would trust me that this is for the best for both of us, to preserve our family’s good name.”

  “How can anything as dangerous as a duel be for the best?” she demanded. “What do I care about your good name at the cost of your life?”

  He sighed again, and not for the first time with her, he longed for some magical words to explain that she’d accept. “I won’t deny that there is danger, Charlotte.”

  “Don’t treat me like a child, March,” she said, cutting him off. “I know what will happen. I’ve sat here while you and Brecon discussed this whole foolish affair, haven’t I? I know that at dawn tomorrow you will meet Lord Andover beneath the two oak trees that mark the beginning of Hounslow Heath. I know that Brecon and Andover’s second will pretend to stop you one last time, and then explain the rules of your idiocy. And I know that you will then both shoot guns at each other with the intention of making the other bleed.”

  “It’s called drawing first blood, Charlotte,” he said patiently, “and it means that whoever bleeds first has lost. We’ll only fire a single shot apiece, too. It’s not as if we’ll be hacking away at each other with swords. But this will be as good as having him apologize to you, and it will end the scandal forever. In that way, perhaps it’s even better than an apology.”

  “Oh, yes, better, better, better,” she said, drumming her fists against his chest. “He will be aiming at you, too. What if you are the one who does this ‘first bleeding’ instead? What if you are maimed, or crippled, or blinded, or any other of a score of misfortunes that can occur when a lead ball meets a mortal’s flesh and bone? Pray, how can that be better?”

  Why had this made so much more sense when he and Brecon had discussed it in a calm and manly fashion?

  “Because it simply is,” he said softly. “For the sake of honor, it is.”

  She closed her eyes and didn’t answer, her mouth twisting with silent emotion. He wished there’d been time to bring her mother to town to support her through this. Of course, he’d dutifully written to Lady Hervey, explaining what had happened and assuring her that Charlotte would be provided for, but having her here now would have helped immeasurably.

  “I want you to go to bed and rest now,” he said, kissing her forehead. “You’re exhausted, and you’ll make yourself ill. I must go out for a short while, but I’ll be back soon.”

  “You’re going to your solicitor’s,” she said forlornly, eyes still shut. “You’re going to make certain your affairs are in order in case you die.”

  That was exactly where he was going, among other places, and her prescience was unsettling. He was confident, yes, but he wasn’t so confident as to believe he was immortal.

  “It’s my duty to make certain preparations for the, ah, for the future,” he said awkwardly. “Because I love you and our child.”

  “If you truly loved me, March,” she countered quickly, “you wouldn’t want to leave me a widow and our child without a father or so much as a memory of one, and—and—”

  She couldn’t finish. She gulped, fighting a great, racking, shuddering sob, and sank against his shoulder.

  “Oh, my love, my love,” she said through a fresh wave of tears, her fingers feverishly twisting and clutching at the lapels of his coat. “Didn’t you promise you’d never leave me again?”

  “I told you, I won’t be gone long,” he said. “I’ll be back so we can dine together.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” she said sorrowfully. “I meant leave me forever, which is what you will do if Andover kills you.”

  “Oh, Charlotte,” he said. “Please don’t.”

  “No,” she said, her voice at once soft and fierce. “No. I won’t have it, March. You say you’re acting from love, to protect me, and I mean to do the same. I love you too much to let you go. You’ll see. I’m going to fight for you, March, and honorably or not, I don’t intend to lose.”

  “What the devil is that supposed to mean, Charlotte?” he asked, frowning down at her. But she only shook her head and slipped free, and before he could catch her, she’d run from the room and toward the stairs.

  “Charlotte!” he called. He began to follow her, then stopped. He’d be wise to let her go, off to Polly’s solicitous care and her own bedchamber to rest. There wasn’t anything that, as a woman, she could do to stop the duel now. Her words were brave and blustering, but empty of any real threat, the kind of thing that someday they would laugh over together.

  At least he hoped they would, and with that lonely thought and the front of his coat soaked with her tears, he left the house for his carriage, and the offices of his solicitor.

  Charlotte paced back and forth across the soft carpet in Aunt Sophronia’s parlor, too agitated to sit. Dusk was beginning to settle on the square outside, and the candles had already been lit. It had taken Charlotte longer than she’d thought to develop her plan and collect the pieces she’d need, and she was so weary now that she wondered that she could walk at all. Her pregnancy did that to her; she’d no stamina. She’d need her aunt to help her tonight, need her very much, but the sorry truth was that she wasn’t sure her aunt would agree.

  The footman opened the parlor door and Aunt Sophronia bustled in, her small white dogs bounding before her.

  “Oh, my poor, dear Duchess!” she exclaimed. She paused to curtsey, then seized both of Charlotte’s hands in her own. “I have heard the terrible news. Whatever possessed His Grace to make such an impulsive challenge, and to such a man as Lord Andover?”

  Charlotte took a deep breath to steady herself. She had resolved not to cry before her aunt, nor to show any other sign of weakness. If she did, then her aunt would surely refuse her. If she was to be of any help to March at all, she must be strong and she must be confident.

  “He believes he is defending my honor,” she said carefully as they sat. “He believes he has no choice but to fight Andover like this, to preserve my good name and our family’s with it.” />
  “That’s a very noble endeavor, to be sure,” Aunt Sophronia said, patting her lap for the dogs to join her, “and I’ve no doubt that the duke intends only to win. Gentlemen always believe they’re invincible, don’t they? Brave oaths and pistols at dawn, then pop, pop, one man is dead in the grass and the other’s off to France to avoid being charged with murder. Very noble indeed, I am sure.”

  Charlotte’s fingers spread over her belly, as if she could cover the ears of her unborn child to keep it from hearing that.

  “Forgive me, Aunt, but I would rather be more optimistic,” Charlotte said as firmly as she could. “For the sake of my child.”

  “Of course, of course,” her aunt said, glancing down at Charlotte’s waist. “I’ve not seen you since you became enceinte. I congratulate you on your efficiency, Duchess.”

  “Thank you, Aunt,” Charlotte murmured. “We were blessed.”

  “The duke has proved to be quite the virile gentleman, hasn’t he?” Aunt Sophronia laughed and winked, bawdy enough to make Charlotte blush. “Now that he’s filled your belly properly, we can only hope that you carry a boy to secure the dukedom no matter tomorrow’s outcome. I’ll never forget the dreadful trial for your poor mother, those long uncomfortable months in mourning, only to give birth to another daughter and lose your father’s estates entirely.”

  Why must her aunt say such dreadful things, thought Charlotte unhappily, as if her father’s early death and her mother’s grief-stricken last pregnancy weren’t already mixed in with her fears for March?

  But she must not cry. For March’s sake, she must be strong.

  “I don’t intend for the duel to have that sad outcome, Aunt,” Charlotte said. “I mean to have it end before it’s begun, with no one grievously hurt, let alone killed.”

  Her aunt made a puffing sound with her lips puckered together. “How would you accomplish such a thing? Surely you must know by now that when gentlemen have determined their course, no mere woman can deter them, no matter how she wishes it.”

  “But I will, Aunt Sophronia,” Charlotte said, her voice resonating with resolve. “That is why I have come here.”

  Her aunt frowned suspiciously. “What manner of mischief is this, niece? Need I remind you of your rank, or that your husband is willing to risk his life to defend your honor?”

  “You needn’t, because that is exactly why I must do this,” Charlotte said, and quickly she shared her plan.

  Her aunt listened, her head tipped skeptically to one side as she slowly combed her ring-laden fingers through the curling fur of one of her small dogs.

  “None of that will be easy, child,” Aunt Sophronia said when Charlotte was done. “You are counting on a great many things falling exactly your way to make such a plan succeed, and there is still much room for disaster.”

  “I know all of that, Aunt,” said Charlotte, and again she felt her eyes well perilously with tears. “But I cannot sit back and be idle, not when March’s life is at risk.”

  “Fah, at risk from his own male foolishness, you mean to say.” Aunt Sophronia raised her head and thrust out her chin, her nostrils flaring, and all Charlotte could think of was how March called her the dowager dragon. “Truly, it is not to be borne. But then, you are a Wylder, and it’s not in your constitution to be idle in such a circumstance.”

  “Will you help me, Aunt?” Charlotte asked. She came as close to pleading as she dared; she’d no other recourse if her aunt refused. “Please?”

  “Of course I shall help you,” Aunt Sophronia declared. “We have all gone through a great deal of trouble to secure His Grace as your husband, and I will not see him wriggle free to the hereafter without a fight.”

  “How can you tell me Her Grace is gone?” March glared at the line of servants before him: coach driver, housekeeper, butler, footmen, grooms, parlor maids, Giroux, and Charlotte’s maid, Polly. “She is the Duchess of Marchbourne. She cannot simply vanish into nothingness.”

  “Forgive me, sir, but it’s as we said before,” the driver said, beads of sweat thick in his eyebrows. “We carried Her Grace to Lady Sanborn’s house in St. James’s, an’ she told us t’ leave her there, that she’d stay the night, an’ return tomorrow in her ladyship’s coach. I saw her go inside myself, sir, wit’ my own eyes.”

  “Then why the devil did Lady Sanborn tell me that she hadn’t seen Her Grace at all?” March demanded. “Where could she have gone?”

  Not one of them answered, their eyes staring straight before them.

  A mystery like this was the last thing he needed tonight. His various errands had taken much longer than he’d expected, and when he’d returned home he’d found that Charlotte had vanished, with no message or clues. He had gone to her aunt’s house but learned nothing from the dragon. He had then tried every house where Charlotte had an acquaintance, and received only pitying denials. Then he’d come back to Marchbourne House in the hope that she’d returned, but there was still no sign of her.

  He was worried beyond measure, and desperate beyond reason. It wasn’t that he feared she’d met with foul play, though he couldn’t entirely put that grim thought from his head.

  No, what he feared most was Charlotte herself. He remembered how distraught and angry she’d been before he’d left, and how she’d told him she meant to fight for him. He’d discounted those last words, blaming them on her distress and her pregnancy. Now he knew he shouldn’t have.

  This wasn’t an ordinary woman. This was Charlotte.

  He was certain she was off busily hatching some sort of plot to stop the duel. He had appalling visions of her appealing to the king himself to beg for his interference, or worse, to Andover to change his mind. He could even imagine her appearing through the morning mists brandishing pistols of her own like a pirate maid. The only thing he knew for sure was that if Charlotte did not wish to be found this night, she wouldn’t be, and nothing he could do would change that.

  He retreated to the drawing room, determined to wait there until she returned. If she returned. Instead of the fine supper (he refused to call it his last) he’d planned to share with her, he ate in his armchair, alone before the fire. To keep himself busy, he cleaned the matched pair of dueling pistols, then cleaned them again, refusing to trust this task to a servant. Then he carefully replaced them in their fitted case, ready for the morning. As the hours passed on that same ormolu clock, he remained where he was, unable to bear the thought of his bed without Charlotte in it beside him.

  At last he must have fallen asleep, because Giroux was gently touching his shoulder to wake him.

  “Good morning, sir,” he said. “It’s time to rise.”

  It didn’t seem like morning. The drawing room was dark except for the candlestick in Giroux’s hand, the windows darker still. With a start he remembered his appointment at dawn beneath the oak trees, and he was instantly awake.

  “Did Her Grace return?” he asked. “Is she home?”

  Giroux shook his head. “No, sir,” he said sadly. “Her Grace is not at home.”

  He missed her more than he’d dreamed possible. He loved her more than any man should love a woman.

  But most of all, he could not bear to consider that he might die this morning without kissing her again.

  “Are you certain this is the place, ma’am?” Aunt Sophronia’s footman spoke cautiously through the carriage window, not unlatching the door until Charlotte spoke. “This place, ma’am?”

  “Of course she is certain, Pratt,” Aunt Sophronia said, leaning toward the window. “She is a duchess, while you are a cowardly ninny.”

  “Aye, my lady,” Pratt said patiently. “It’s just that it’s a terribly dark and lonesome place to put a lady like Her Grace down.”

  “But that’s exactly why we’re here, Pratt,” Charlotte said. “Duels aren’t held on the Horse Guards Parade, for all the world to see. They’re supposed to be secret. Now will you please open the door so I can climb down?”

  Contritely Pratt did, an
d Charlotte clambered down into the grass. It was dark, with the sky still full of stars. The quarter moon was setting, low in the sky, and the slightest gray of the coming dawn showed on the horizon. Against this she could make out the darker silhouettes of her landmarks, the old twin oak trees with their branches widespread and sprawling, and nothing else around them except open fields and scrub.

  “It’s just as well that it’s dark, Charlotte,” Aunt Sophronia said. “No one would ever mistake you for a duchess dressed like that.”

  “That’s my purpose, Aunt,” Charlotte said, “as you know perfectly well. I don’t want anyone knowing who I am.”

  She settled her hat more securely on her head. She’d needed to dress for practicality, not elegance, and she was thankful she hadn’t tossed away her old boy’s clothes from Ransom, as she’d been ordered to do. She wore her fisherman’s jersey, which still smelled faintly of the sea, and her most comfortable, broken-in boots. To her despair, she’d been unable to fit into her old breeches and had had to borrow a pair in a larger size from the servants’ laundry. She’d braided her hair tightly and tucked it up into a dark knit cap, and for the first time in months, she wore no jewelry beyond her wedding ring, and that only because it was hidden by her gloves. Everything was calculated to blend in with the dark.

  “Should I take down one of the lanterns, ma’am?” asked Pratt. “You’ll need to light your way.”

  “Thank you, no,” she said briskly. She pulled the cloth haversack from the coach and slung the strap over her shoulder. “I’ll see well enough.”

  “You are certain about this, Charlotte?” asked Aunt Sophronia, a quaver of worry in her voice. “It’s all quite mad, you know.”

  “It is quite mad.” Charlotte smiled up at her aunt. Now that she was actually on her way, she was more excited than fearful. “But so are duels.”

  “Take care, Charlotte,” Aunt Sophronia said. “And may God be both with you and with His Grace.”

  “Thank you, Aunt,” Charlotte said. Excited or not, she knew she needed all the heavenly protection she could muster. “Hurry now, Pratt, I don’t have time to lose.”