When You Wish Upon a Duke

by Isabella Bradford

  With the footman trudging respectfully behind her, she led the way across the grass to the larger of the trees and looked up into the branches. The tree was old, the branches weaving and thick, with plenty of leaves. She couldn’t imagine a better tree to climb.

  “Give me a hand up, Pratt, if you please,” she said to the footman.

  “Ma’am?” he asked uncertainly.

  “I need to reach the first branch,” she explained, “and then I’ll do well enough. Pretend you’re helping me mount a horse.”

  “Very well, ma’am.” He linked his hands together to make an impromptu step, and helped her up.

  She was glad of his help. She was heavier than her old self, and she doubted she could have climbed up to the first branch without him. Now she’d be fine.

  “Thank you, Pratt,” she said, breathless more from excitement than from exertion. “You may go now, and tell the driver to leave.”

  “Ma’am?” asked the footman, his upturned face pale beneath her. “You’d have us leave you here alone, ma’am?”

  “Yes, yes,” Charlotte said. “I won’t be surprising anyone if they see my aunt’s coach, will I?”

  “But ma’am, Lady Sanborn’s orders—”

  “My orders are that you leave me here, and at once,” she said, striving to sound again like a duchess and not a thick-waisted boy in a tree. “I’ll be well enough. I’ll be returning home later with His Grace.”

  “Very well, ma’am,” Pratt said, his reluctance obvious. “Take care, ma’am, and good fortune to you.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and resolutely began climbing deeper into the tree. It was easy to see where the duel would take place. The branches of the two trees arched together like a natural roof, with a wide flat place beneath that was bare of grass. The branches were so wide that the climbing was easy, and she soon found a comfortable place where she’d be in perfect position, yet well hidden by the leaves. She braced herself against a crook, then took the haversack from her back and settled it in her lap. All she must do now was wait.

  When she’d made her plans this afternoon, it had seemed wonderfully clever and daring, sure to succeed. Now reality was stealing away much of the cleverness, and the danger and uncertainty of what lay ahead took the excitement from the daring. As she watched her aunt’s carriage lumbering off into the darkness, she shivered, and not from the early morning chill, either. If she couldn’t make this work, then all she’d have accomplished was securing a splendid view of March being shot.

  She tucked her hands beneath her arms, trying to stay as calm as she could. She hoped March wasn’t too terribly angry with her for avoiding him last night, but just as he’d said he was fighting this foolish duel for her sake, what she’d done was for him. She hoped he’d slept well and was feeling keen and refreshed this morning. She hoped his pistols were ready, and that Giroux had made sure he’d had an excellent breakfast.

  She hoped he was thinking of her with some kindness and not simply irritation, and most of all with love.

  She felt tears sting her eyes and quickly dashed them away. She had to succeed. She couldn’t lose March, her husband, her duke, her lover, and her best friend. She wished he were here beside her, laughing and teasing her and kissing her, to make her feel more cheerful and less lonely.

  No. Sternly she reminded herself that she wasn’t alone, and she put her hand over her belly.

  “Isn’t this an adventure, lamb?” she whispered softly. “What a tale you’ll have to tell one day, ah? How you and Mama climbed up a tree and surprised Father by saving his life against his will!”

  That made her chuckle, and as she did she saw the two carriages coming her way. Almost time, almost time, and quickly she opened the haversack to draw out her weapons.

  She’d made them herself, and was proud of her ingenuity: a dozen (better to be overprepared) apples, each armed with shards of broken glass poked into the skin. She arranged them gingerly before her, wary of the sharp glass. As hazardous as glass-studded apples might be, she prayed they’d be a much safer way of drawing that dreadful first blood than any lead ball could be. She’d also brought a bag of smaller missiles—acorns, in honor of the oak tree.

  Her heart racing, she watched the carriages draw up beside the road. Andover had come in a hired hackney (for secrecy or economy?), while March arrived in his usual ducal splendor. It took all her willpower not to call out to March as he stepped down. Though she couldn’t make out his face, she could tell by how straight he stood and the way he squared his shoulders that he was ready, confident, and a bit nervous as well. He was dressed entirely in dark clothes, without so much as a hint of white linen. Of course, she realized with shock: no white on the chest to serve as a clear target.

  She prayed to God that her little trick would work.

  She watched the men walk quickly toward the tree. There were six: March, Brecon, Andover and his second, a gentleman with a lantern, and another carrying a case. This last must be the surgeon, and again Charlotte felt fear ripple through her. The men didn’t waste any time on small talk or chatter, with March and Andover standing apart with their seconds. The duelists removed their hats and cloaks and stood before the starter, who again asked them to consider reconciliation. When they refused, Brecon presented the pistol case, and Andover went first, testing and balancing each gun in his hand before choosing one. Quickly the rules were announced—twenty paces, a single shot, the winner to be determined by first blood.

  To Charlotte, it all seemed like a foolish play, a play with the most serious consequences imaginable. By the light of the single lantern, their faces were taut and serious, and she had to swallow her own anxiety. March and Andover counted out their steps and took their places.

  To Charlotte’s luck, Andover was almost directly beneath her. He looked down at his gun, fiddling with the lock. His ginger-colored hair looked pale and oddly vulnerable in the moonlight. A fine target, she decided, and before he moved away, she threw one of the acorns directly at it.

  “My God, what was that?” he exclaimed, clutching at his head. His second hurried over, ready to assist.

  “Here’s the culprit, my lord,” the second pronounced, pouncing on the acorn. “A nut.”

  Andover swore again, and composed himself as best he could. As he did, Charlotte threw an acorn toward the surgeon, just to make sure the falling nuts appeared random. The surgeon exclaimed and flailed about.

  “Who the devil picked this infernal place, anyway?” snapped Andover.

  “The choice of location was previously agreed upon by both parties, my lord,” said the starter solemnly. “You cannot change it now without forfeiting.”

  Charlotte prayed he would. Alas, he did not.

  “Begin again,” he barked, and once more the paces were counted.

  An apple ready in her hand and her heart beating painfully in her breast, Charlotte looked to March, and breathed a silent little prayer toward him.

  Be safe, my love, be safe, be safe …

  She listened for the starter’s final count to begin. She’d have to time this exactly: too soon and they’d stop the count; too late, and—well, she would be too late.

  “One,” intoned the starter. “Two.”

  She hurled a glass-studded apple at Andover’s hand precisely on the three.

  Everything else happened in a single roaring instant. A shockingly loud crack, a flash, and a cloud of acrid smoke as March’s gun fired. A howl of pain from Andover as he staggered to one side, clutching his wrist as he dropped his unfired pistol. At once his second and the surgeon hurried toward him. The surgeon took his wrist, holding it up for inspection.

  “Blood, Your Grace,” he announced gravely. “A profusion.”

  “Congratulations, Your Grace,” the starter called to March. “You have your satisfaction.”

  Waves of relief washed over Charlotte, and she had to cover her mouth with her hand to keep from laughing with joy. She’d done it. She’d saved March, and her honor
with it.

  “Blast him, he doesn’t!” Andover shouted, pulling his hand away from the surgeon. There was a profusion of blood, covering his hand and wrist. Furiously Andover shook it as if he could shake away the pain. “Damn him, he fired first! I was struck before the last count, before I could fire, before—”

  “What is this, my lord?” Andover’s second bent over, and to Charlotte’s horror he picked up the apple, the shards of bloody glass glinting red in the lantern light. “What manner of foul cheat is this?”

  He looked up into the tree, and the other men looked up, too. But Andover grabbed his pistol from where he’d let it drop and cocked it again. His face livid with fury and pain, he pointed the pistol upward, directly into the branches at Charlotte.

  “No!” she wailed, scrambling along the branch with one hand over her belly and her child. “No, no, no!”

  She heard the gunshot and shrieked, expecting the pain that surely must follow. Beside her a branch cracked and shattered, dropping to the ground, but no pain followed. Weeping, not understanding her deliverance, she dared to look down again, and saw March wrestling with Andover to hold him down to the ground. There was blood everywhere, on the dirt and on the two men.

  “March!” she cried, praying that the blood wasn’t his. “March!”

  The other men caught Andover’s arms and dragged him back, and at once March was on his feet, staring up into the tree.

  “Charlotte, are you there?” he shouted. “Charlotte, are you hurt? Damnation, are you there?”

  His voice so full of desperate love, love for her, that Charlotte’s throat tightened with love of her own, and she was so overwhelmed that she almost couldn’t answer.

  “Here, March,” she managed to croak. “Here. I’m fine, and—and I love you, March!”

  At once he rushed to the trunk of the tree. “Stay where you are, Charlotte,” he ordered. “Be easy, and I’ll come and rescue you.”

  He’d used almost exactly the same words when he’d tried to rescue her once before, when they’d first met in that tree long ago. It was so perfect, so gallant, that she wept, thinking of how ridiculously much she loved him.

  Then she also remembered how very bad he was at climbing trees and what had happened the last time he’d attempted it to rescue her. As quickly as she could, she made her way down the length of the branch, down the trunk, and into his arms.

  “You saved me, March,” she said, laughing and crying at once. “Exactly as you said you would.”

  “You saved me, Charlotte,” he said, holding her as tightly as he could. “Exactly as you weren’t supposed to do.”

  “Well, no,” she admitted. “But at least you have your satisfaction.”

  “Satisfaction.” He smiled and kissed her, then kissed her again. “Satisfaction, indeed.”

  As was to be expected, the duel was the talk of London for the rest of the year. There were so many delicious aspects to discuss and dissect, from the bravery of the duchess to the devotion of the duke. It was declared by both the surgeon, who inspected the injury, and the seconds, who served as witnesses, that Lord Andover had been wounded by March’s shot before Charlotte’s apple had added its own insult, and therefore the duel was in fact honorable and complete. The fact that the marquess not only had lost but then had attempted to fire at the duchess instead was regarded by all as the lowest infamy, so low that some of the papers called for him to be taken and tried for attempted murder, or horsewhipped at the very least. The calls became sufficiently loud that Lord Andover decided a sojourn on the Continent was in order, and quickly departed.

  But the duke and duchess soon found their own celebrity wearying as well. With the impending birth of their child as an excuse, they retreated to Greenwood, where the only conflict between them rose from predicting whether the babe would be a boy and heir, or a girl for both of them to indulge. But to everyone’s delight and amazement, it was discovered in the spring that both parents were correct, when the duchess was brought to bed with twins, a boy and a girl. It was just as well that there were two babies. When the duchess’s mother and aunt and sisters descended as promised, there was so much female spoiling and coddling and cosseting and baby talk that the duke was said to be overwhelmed by it. Overwhelmed, and never happier.

  But what made London talk most was the gift that the duke presented to his duchess on the birth of their twins. Most gentlemen in such a circumstance would have offered a piece of costly jewelry, or perhaps a priceless painting. The duke, however, was more original. He chose the largest tree at Greenwood and had an elaborate, elegant tree house built within its branches for his duchess—where, it was rumored, the duke and duchess spent much of their time in seclusion together.

  “This truly is heaven,” Charlotte said, lying close beside March in the oversized hammock that hung between the branches. The hammock swayed slightly in the breeze, and Charlotte smiled, staring up through the leaves to the stars strewn across the summer night sky. “And you, my own love, are quite heavenly for having thought of it.”

  “You deserve it,” he said, kissing the side of her neck. “Besides, it was the only way I could think of to keep you from climbing any more trees.”

  “Ha,” she scoffed, lazily running her fingers through his hair. “That’s only because I’m much better at tree climbing than you shall ever be.”

  “Perhaps,” he said. “But there are a great many other areas in which I excel. Areas, I’m told, that are much more interesting than tree climbing.”

  “Truly?” she said, laughing softly. “Then perhaps you should demonstrate, Your Grace.”

  “With pleasure, my love,” he said, pulling her close. “Only with pleasure.”

  Acknowledgments

  Traveling back to the eighteenth century is no easy voyage, but fortunately I didn’t have to do it alone. Warmest thanks are in order to:

  Janea Whitacre, Mark Hutter, Sarah Woodyard, and Neal Hurst of the Margaret Hunter Shop, Colonial Williamsburg, for sharing your endless knowledge (and patience) in explaining everything from shirt buckles to pocket hoops

  Meg Ruley and Annelise Robey of the Jane Rotrosen Agency, for their support, optimism, and laughter when I need it most

  Kate Collins, my editor at Ballantine, for making things even better the second time around

  And, of course, Loretta Chase, my fellow Gemini-writer, for being the other half of my nerdy-history-girl-self

  Read on for an exciting preview

  of Isabella Bradford’s next novel

  When the Duchess Said Yes

  London

  April 1762

  It was duty that had drawn the Duke of Hawkesworth back to England. More specifically, duty, and lawyers, and a woman he’d never met but was bound to marry.

  Bored already, Hawke sprawled in his chair in the playhouse box, pretending to watch the abysmal opera before him. He’d been away nearly ten years, long enough that he suspected those in the other first-tier boxes were desperately trying to decide who he must be. It wouldn’t be easy. He knew he’d changed, grown from a schoolboy to a man, and he’d grown into both his broad frame and his title with it. Thanks to a long-ago Mediterranean grandmother, he’d dark hair and dark eyes, and his face was so unfashionably tan after the long voyage that those in the other boxes had likely all decided he was swarthy, even foreign.

  The thought made him smile. Well, let them peer at him with their opera glasses and whisper behind their fans. They’d all come to recognize him soon enough.

  “Those two dancers with the scarlet stockings,” whispered the Marquis of Petershaw, an old friend and the first to welcome him back to London. “The ones with the golden hair. A delectable pair, eh? Sisters, I’d wager. Should I send our compliments for a late supper, the way we did in the old days?”

  “We were randy schoolboys in those ‘old days,’ Petershaw, ready to mount anything female that didn’t kick us away,” Hawke said, bemused. “We weren’t exactly discerning.”

  Pe
tershaw’s round face fell. “I judged them a fine pair of doxies.”

  “They are, they are,” Hawke assured him, not wanting to belittle his friend’s tastes. But the truth was that Hawke’s own tastes had changed with the rest of him, and in comparison to the vibrant, voluptuous women he’d left behind in Naples, English females seemed pale, bland, and thoroughly insipid, just as English food now tasted underseasoned and overcooked. “I’m not in the humor for such entertainment, that is all.”

  “You, Hawke?” His friend’s brows rose with disbelief. “I’ve never known you to refuse feminine company.”

  “You forget my reason for returning,” Hawke said, as evenly as he could. “I am to be wed, and my days with that manner of strumpet are done.”

  “Perhaps on your wedding night,” Petershaw said, “but not forever. Not you.”

  Hawke only smiled, letting his friend think what he pleased. Petershaw would anyway, regardless of what Hawke told him.

  “No, not you,” Petershaw declared with a suggestive chuckle that also managed to be admiring. “Not at all! I’m going to send a note down to the tiring room for those little dancers, and I’ll wager you’ll change your mind before the evening’s done.”

  He went off in search of a messenger before Hawke could answer. Hawke sighed, sadly wondering if he’d lost his taste for English friends, too. But then Petershaw could afford to be impulsive with dancers, milliner’s assistants, and whatever other pretty faces caught his fancy. He was a third son with no need to wed or sire heirs, and he was completely free to scatter his seed wherever he pleased.

  But the truth was that Hawke’s smile masked a great many misgivings about his own upcoming marriage. He was, of course, obliged to follow through with the betrothal that Father had long ago arranged for him. It wasn’t only a matter of honor, of not abandoning some poor lady of rank at the altar. No, Father had mistrusted his only son so thoroughly that he’d bound this marriage and his estate together into a tangled knot of legal complexities and obligation that could never be undone. Father couldn’t prohibit him from inheriting the dukedom, but he could—and had—restricted the estate necessary to support the title. In other words, unless Hawke married the lady of Father’s choosing before her nineteenth birthday, he would become a duke without a farthing.