When the Duke Found Love

by Isabella Bradford

  Still, she liked the thoroughly respectable sound of the word ironclad. For an elopement, ironclad was likely the best that could be expected.

  “We must change hackneys twice before we reach Oakworth,” he was saying. “While we can pause briefly for refreshment, I’d prefer to continue onward rather than stopping at an inn, not until we are wed. Just because I’ve dishonored you once doesn’t mean I intend to do it again.”

  Her smile turned lopsided with emotion. “Truly? You will wait until we are wed?”

  “I will,” he said. “Which means you must, too.”

  She was proud that he would wish to be so honorable and noble in this regard. To her, having been already ruined by him, it did not seem to matter quite so much if she was ruined another time or two before they were married, so long as they finally were. Still, it was admirable that he wished to wait, even if she wasn’t entirely certain that either of them would show such resolve.

  “However, since we will stop twice to change horses,” he said, “it’s best we use a false name to cover our tracks. I’ll leave it to you to choose one you like.”

  That was another sobering thought. It had been a fine adventure to climb from the window and run away with him as she had. But in the morning, when Sarah came to wake her and would discover her note, the uproar in the house would be considerable. She didn’t doubt that March and likely Brecon, too, would come roaring furiously after them, and it would be better—much better—if she and Sheffield were wed before they were found.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Hart,” she said finally. “Because that is what I have given you.”

  He chuckled. “Very well then, Mrs. Hart, if that is what you wish to be. But only until I can announce you to the world as my duchess.”

  “I’ll like that, too.” She heard a ragged pattering on the roof of the hackney, and she glanced at the first drops as they struck the windows. “Look, Sheffield, I think it’s raining.”

  “Blast, it is,” he said, leaning forward. “Pray that it’s only a shower, so the roads don’t become muck and slow our progress. I want this journey to be a question of hours, not days.”

  She sighed and pillowed her head against his shoulder. She thought again of Charlotte’s wish for her, that she find the same love, trust, and happiness with the man she wed as Charlotte had found with March. She’d no doubt that she loved Sheffield, and already he’d made her happier than anyone else in the world. Now she trusted him, too, not only with her heart but with her future and honor as well. She had to; it was too late to turn back now, even if she’d wished to.

  “I do not care how long it rains, Sheffield,” she said softly, “so long as I’m with you.”

  “And I with you, my love,” he repeated, pulling her close to kiss. “So long as I’m with you.”

  Sheffield was sure he’d thought of everything.

  Remembering how easily Brecon had discovered the details of Lady Enid’s elopement, he’d planned this one entirely himself, not trusting even Marlowe with the details. He’d only the day to make his arrangements, but still he believed he’d thought of everything, from not hiring the hackney in advance, but simply on the street, to having Bishop Pence waiting at Oakworth to marry them the moment they arrived. The special license had been the most difficult, but he’d managed that, too, though it had cost him a sizable amount. He’d even sent word to have the duchess’s bedchamber at Oakworth readied for her arrival, and filled with roses from the gardens. He wished he could have offered her the grand ducal wedding that she deserved with all her family around her, but under the circumstances, he thought, he’d done admirably well.

  Earlier this night, Diana had told him he was perfect. He wasn’t, not at all, but for her he’d done his best.

  If only it hadn’t rained.

  They’d not even been a mile from Marchbourne House when it had begun, a light spring shower that he prayed would pass. But before long the shower had swelled to a driving torrent that lashed so hard against them that it felt as if entire bucketfuls of water were being heaved against the coach. The weary old hackney was far from a seaworthy vessel, and sprang leaks not only at the windows but through the roof.

  At first it all had made Diana laugh, merrily shifting seats to dodge one leak, and then another. But as the storm had continued, there soon were no dry places left, and though he wrapped her in his cloak, he still could feel her shivering against him from the damp. Adding to general gloom was Fantôme, who hated being wet and moaned and groaned like a rheumy old man on the seat across from them; Fig answered with her own yowls of feline misery.

  But the worst was happening on the road itself. The hackney’s horses were laboring hard against the wind and rain, and Sheffield could feel how the wheels slipped and pulled in the near-flooded roads. Their progress became so slow that it felt as if they were moving only from side to side and not forward at all.

  “Where are we, Sheffield?” Diana asked at last. “Can you tell?”

  “Not far enough, sweet, I can tell you that.” He peered through the rain and darkness, striving to make out any landmarks. “Nearly two hours, and I doubt we’re much beyond the city walls.”

  “Truly?” she asked, the wistfulness in the single word enough to break his heart. She knew as well as he did that speed and distance were imperative, and the last thing either of them wished was to be overtaken before they were legally and finally wed. It wasn’t just the humiliation of having to face Brecon and March, either. Sheffield was certain the righteous pair of them would contrive a way to steal Diana from him and perhaps even return her to Crump.

  And there wouldn’t be one blasted perfect thing about that.

  “Perhaps we should step down and walk,” she said, only half in jest. “Likely we’d go faster if we did.”

  “Or swim,” he said. “Diana, I’m sorry that—”

  “Hush, hush,” she said, placing her fingers across his lips to silence him. “Why should you apologize for rain that’s not your fault? Do you think Noah apologized to Mrs. Noah for the rain then?”

  “Noah had nothing to apologize for, having a better ark than this wretched old vessel,” he said, his mood darkening by the minute. “Besides, Mrs. Noah was already Mrs. Noah, which you are not.”

  “Duchess of Noah,” she mused. “You must agree it has a pretty sound to it.”

  “Not so pretty if we float clear away to Galilee,” he said. “We’ve stopped completely now. What the devil is that rascal of a driver about now?”

  “I hope he hasn’t drowned,” Diana said, then gasped as the man’s face appeared at the window. He did in fact look perilously close to drowned, his sodden coat plastered to his body and water streaming from his hat down his face.

  “F’give me, sir,” he shouted, “but th’ horses can go no further, not wit’out droppin’ where they stand.”

  “Damnation, man,” Sheffield said crossly. “You can’t mean to leave us stranded here. My wife’s exhausted, and nearly as wet as your infernal horses.”

  “Hush now, Mr. Hart, I’m well enough,” she said beside him, assuming her new role with remarkable ease. “Is there an inn nearby, sir? A modest place where we could wait out the storm?”

  “There is indeed, mistress,” the driver shouted, pointing off into the rain. “Not a hundred yards hence. I meant t’ suggest it myself.”

  “That would be most kind of you,” Diana said, smiling so warmly that the man tugged the brim of his hat to her before he climbed back up on the box.

  “You didn’t have to beguile the rascal,” Sheffield grumbled. “Mrs. Hart.”

  “Mrs. Hart is not nearly so stuffy as the Duchess of Sheffield must be,” she said, drawing closer to him inside his cloak. “Besides, no matter the rank, a smile generally accomplishes more with a man than cursing and name-calling.”

  She smiled up at him, determined to prove her point. He kissed her, as far as he would go toward admitting she was right, and then turned to peer through the rain at the inn.

/>   “I can only guess what manner of infernal den he’s taking us to,” he said. “We’ll be fortunate not to be robbed and murdered in our bed.”

  She leaned close to the glass beside him. “Why, it looks quite agreeable,” she said. “Not an infernal den at all. Quite welcoming, actually.”

  But as they lumbered into the inn’s yard, Sheffield swore. He couldn’t help it. He’d good reason, too. He recognized the inn at once, and while it might not appear an infernal den to Diana’s innocent eyes, it was damnably close. The Green Turtle was an inn pleasingly situated on the river, not far from Bagnigge Wells and barely outside the city. The house kept an excellent cellar and better cook, and was famous for the sherry-laced turtle soup that provided its name.

  But the Green Turtle was far more famous for ill-fame than soup, and widely known for discretion and for assignations. It was the place where philandering gentlemen brought nubile actresses, and wayward noble wives could meet their latest cicisbeo for an afternoon’s dalliance. Everyone in London knew of the Green Turtle, though no one ever admitted to having been there. Sheffield had been there himself, once or twice when he’d been much younger and lured by the infamy of the place—not that he would admit it now.

  But to be cast on this particular doorstep with Diana seemed the cruelest of ironies, and the most unseemly. He had wanted to behave as honorably to her as he could, not spend their first night together—or what was left of it—in an expensive bawdy house.

  “I cannot wait for a pot of hot tea, all to myself,” she said as the hackney finally ground to a halt. “Though I might be persuaded to share it with you, Mr. Hart.”

  “We can’t stay here, Diana,” he said. “It’s not proper.”

  She peered out the window as the stable boy came hurrying through the rain to open the door.

  “It looks perfectly proper to me,” she said. “Beggars can’t be choosers, Sheffield, especially wet beggars.”

  Before he could explain further, the door had opened and she’d hopped out with Fig’s basket in her hand. His last glimpse was of her racing toward the inn’s door with Fantôme trotting at her side, leaving him to settle with the hackney’s driver.

  By the time he entered the inn himself, Diana was already addressing the keeper with the horrifying self-assurance of a frequent visitor.

  “They’ve only one room left, Mr. Hart,” she said, greeting him. “I took it.”

  “We’re filled up with weary travelers this night, sir,” the man said, his face impassive, or merely just wishing he were back in his own bed. “The one room’s all we have left, but a fine room it is, sir, with a fine bed and a fine view of the water. The river, I mean, sir, not the rain. We’ve all had enough of that this night, haven’t we?”

  “One, ah, bed?” Sheffield asked. “Only one?”

  “Aye, sir,” the keeper said, patting the front of his green apron. “A fine bed it is, too. There’s a looking glass in that room, too, I believe.”

  “A looking glass?” repeated Diana curiously. “I should expect there would be one.”

  “Aye, ma’am,” the keeper said blandly. “A large one, secured on a stand so as to be adjusted however one pleases.”

  “It’s for looking, Mrs. Hart,” Sheffield said hurriedly, even as his own wicked thoughts raced off to imagine all the things to be seen in that large looking glass. Damnation, why was it being so blasted difficult to behave honorably toward her? “That’s, ah, what large looking glasses are for.”

  “Oh, aye,” the keeper said. “You and Mrs. Hart won’t complain, I am certain of it.”

  Yet still Sheffield hesitated, imagining Brecon and March discovering him and Diana in a fine bed at the Green Turtle.

  “Is there, ah, no room set aside for ladies’ lodgings?” he asked. “My, ah, wife prefers to sleep among others of her sex while we travel.”

  “I do not, Mr. Hart,” Diana said, regarding him suspiciously. “I’m not so odd a duck as that.”

  “That’s well, Mrs. Hart,” said the keeper, “since we keep no separate lodgings for ladies alone. We find our guests are all wedded folk like yourselves, and wish to keep to their beds together. This way, Mrs. Hart, Mr. Hart.”

  Sheffield was sure the man was smirking over those names. Why hadn’t Diana called them Mr. and Mrs. Sweetheart and been done with it?

  She was already following the man up the stairs when Sheffield called them back. “Stop, keep, if you please. I’ve, ah, another request.”

  Slowly the man returned, while Diana waited on the bottom step. “What is it, Mr. Hart? We try to oblige our guests as best we can. Is it a special dish you wish prepared, or a favorite spirit you’d like brought up?”

  In silent manful misery, Sheffield shook his head. He thought of the special license in his pocket and the emerald ring beside it, of the waiting bishop and the duchess’s bedchamber filled with roses at Oakworth, and he weighed all those good and noble symbols of respectable matrimony against a room with a fine bed and large looking glass at the Green Turtle.

  “Honestly, Mr. Hart,” Diana said, coming to tuck her hand into his arm. Her clothes were just wet enough that they clung to her body, outlining the curves of her breasts and waist and bottom in a way that was making being honorable almost impossible. “You are being dreadfully skittish this night.”

  “A reverend minister,” he blurted out abruptly. “A gentleman of the cloth. Any fellow from a nearby church will do. That is what I require, at once.”

  “A minister, sir?” The keeper looked at him dolefully. “Forgive me, Mr. Hart, but while we seek to oblige our guests, there are limits to—”

  “You wish to marry me here?” Diana asked, her smile wobbling with emotion. “Now?”

  “You wish to marry, ah, Mrs. Hart all over again?” the keeper asked. “Our guests don’t usually do that, either, sir, but if—”

  “Here.” Sheffield pressed three guineas into the keeper’s hand. “Find the man as soon as possible. I do not wish to wait a minute longer than necessary, and neither does Mrs. Hart.”

  Less than a half hour later, an elderly minister was miraculously produced, his eyes bleary from sleep and his jaw unshaven. In that time, too, the word had spread as to the noble names on the special license, and by the time the minister arrived, the Green Turtle’s front room was crowded with people from the inn and the nearby village, as well as drovers and farmers on their way to the London markets. All were eager to be witnesses to the wedding, especially after Sheffield announced he’d reward every witness with a dram to drink to his bride’s health.

  A quarter hour after that, as the first light of day filtered through the front windows, Sheffield had put the ring once again on Diana’s finger, and soundly kissed her as his new wife. A cheer of goodwill rose around them and she laughed, all the incentive he needed to sweep her from her feet and into his arms.

  She shrieked with surprise and more laughter, too, her legs dangling shamelessly from her skirts as she clung to his shoulders. “Whatever are you doing, Sheffield?”

  “I’m going to make you forget that skittish Mr. Hart forever,” he declared. “Skittish, my foot.”

  He carried her up the stairs amidst the general roar of good wishes for their future and predictions for the number of their children. At the top of the stairs, she wriggled free, racing ahead down the passage as he chased after her. He caught her at the door, exactly as he suspected she’d planned, and as he kissed her, they heard the obvious sounds of another couple making noisy love in the next room.

  Diana’s eyes widened and she giggled. “Very inspiring.”

  “For us,” he asked, leering as he unlatched the door, “or for them?”

  He caught her up and carried her through the door, kicking it shut after them. He tossed her on the bed and she laughed again, not caring that she lay sprawled with her skirts already in inviting disarray. Lying on her back, she began to unfasten the front of her bodice, her gaze never leaving his as he tore off his coat and waistco
at.

  “I know you’d planned it otherwise,” she said, breathless, shrugging free of her bodice. “I know you’d wanted us to wed at Oakworth with a bishop and all, but I wouldn’t wish it any other way than this, Sheffield. This is perfect.”

  “I can make it much more perfect than that, sweet,” he said, tearing at the buttons on his breeches. He was already hard just from looking at her, aching and ready to make her his wife in the only way that really mattered. “And I’ll make you forget that sorry bastard Mr. Hart ever—”

  “Listen, Sheffield, listen.” She sat up, then rolled from the bed and ran to the window that overlooked the inn’s yard. “Oh, by all that’s holy, Sheffield, look! It’s March!”

  “Damnation, no,” Sheffield muttered, joining her at the window. There was no mistaking the carriage with the Marchbourne crest on the door, or the half-dozen mounted footmen in livery that rode in accompaniment. Another footman jumped down from the carriage to open the chaise’s door, and March himself stepped out, which Sheffield had expected, but then Charlotte appeared as well, which he had not, both of them striding purposefully toward the inn’s door.

  “Quickly, we must dress again,” Diana said, now dressing with the same frantic haste that she’d been undressing only a few moments before. “I don’t want them to find us like this.”

  “Like what? Like man and wife?” Sheffield said, though he, too, was pulling his clothes back on. “They could find us naked and it wouldn’t matter now.”

  “Yes, yes, but they don’t know that yet,” she said, slipping her feet into her shoes. “How do I look?”

  To him she looked like a woman who’d just been caught with her lover, her clothes on but so askew that she might as well have left them off.