An Inconvenient Beauty

by Kristi Ann Hunter

  Isabella laughed. It felt good to laugh without restriction or conscious thought of how loud it was or whether or not her slightly crooked teeth were showing. There was no need to impress the duke or string him along. That would be Frederica’s job, assuming the duke hadn’t decided she was too delicate to court. “Yes, we shall.”

  Bella casually slowed her pace under the guise of getting one last look at some of the park’s trees. Frederica was not going to be happy with their quick return. The entire afternoon wouldn’t be long enough for Frederica now that she had found Arthur again.

  Of course, that was assuming the lieutenant was actually interested in having a reunion of any kind with his former love interest. He had come by the house for the express purpose of telling her to find someone else. What if he’d escorted her inside the coffee shop and then left her with the maid? Even now, Frederica could be fending off the unwanted attention of a myriad of other officers, intent on practicing their charms on a lonely woman with features that some would consider less than fashionable.

  Isabella sped back up, walking perhaps a little faster than they had as they approached the park.

  The abrupt change in pace drew the attention of the duke. “Is something wrong?”

  “Oh, no.” Isabella forced a smile even as worry threw idea after idea into her head of all the agonies Frederica could be suffering. “I simply cannot be selfish with your attentions any longer. It is quite unfair, as you came to visit Miss St. Claire.”

  She cut her eyes in the duke’s direction, peeking at him around the edge of her bonnet. “You did come to visit Miss St. Claire, didn’t you?”

  He turned his arrogant ducal expression toward her once more, the one that made her feel as if he were examining her and finding her wanting—a thought that disturbed her more than she liked. “Yes. I came with the intention of calling upon Miss St. Claire this afternoon.”

  “Oh.” Isabella swallowed. “That’s good.”

  They strolled down the less busy Dover Street, speaking amiably of inconsequential things until they passed an elaborate display of fine wooden items in a shop window. In the center was a quaich, the bowl of the small cup polished to a sheen and the two handles carved with Celtic knots and sprigs of thistle. Though of a much higher quality, it was similar to the one her family drank from on special occasions, and it reminded Isabella of home, of her parents. She stopped in front of the window and let the conversation lapse into silence.

  “Miss Breckenridge? Are you well?” The duke’s deep voice rumbled out of that massive chest and seemed to roll into her ears like water over rocks.

  “Yes, I am well. Only missing a bit of home. My father has a quaich very similar to that one. He and my mother share a drink from it on their anniversary.” Isabella tried to force a smile onto her face as she looked up at him. “I was not expecting to miss them this much.”

  He watched her a while, jade green eyes roving over her face as if looking for something. She wished she knew what it was so she could give it to him. At that moment, despite the fact that his interest was in Frederica—where it truly belonged—Isabella didn’t want to give him a reason to find her lacking.

  He shifted to the side and reached for the door without a word. As he disappeared into the shop, Isabella looked back at her maid. Until that moment she’d been doing a wonderful job of acting as if the woman wasn’t there. Mostly because she had forgotten the maid was there. Isabella didn’t have to be constantly shadowed back home.

  The maid looked as confused as Isabella felt. Were they supposed to follow him in?

  Movement at the window drew her attention, and she saw the duke waiting while the shopkeeper removed the quaich from the window. He dropped a few coins into the shopkeeper’s hand in exchange for the small two-handled wooden cup, and then the duke was heading for the door.

  Isabella couldn’t have moved if she tried.

  The duke walked back out onto the shadowed street and handed the quaich to her. “I know what it is to be away from home. Consider this a token reminder that you are not alone here in London. One thing I’ve learned over the years is that family goes with you even when you travel on your own.” He tapped the quaich now clutched in Isabella’s free hand. “A little reminder never hurts, though.”

  She stepped to the side and carefully placed the bark and the quaich into her reticule. The duke waited patiently while she did and then took her arm to escort her down the crowded pavement. They walked on, turning the corner onto busy Bond Street and moving in the direction of the coffee shop.

  His arm was solid under her hand, and the weight of her loaded reticule bumped her hip, both strong reminders that this afternoon had not gone as she thought it would.

  Frederica was watching and departed the shop to meet them on the pavement. She didn’t look happy, but neither did she look like her time in the coffee shop had been torturous. The duke slid his arm from beneath Isabella’s and offered his other one to Frederica. His head was bent as he asked after her health and assured her they would return to the house at whatever pace she wished.

  Was it gentlemanly honor or something else spurring his consideration?

  As they began to stroll back down Bond Street, Isabella cast a glance back at the coffee shop, where Lieutenant Saunderson had once more taken up his position against the outside wall. His expression held the same shadow of sadness that Frederica’s had. Whatever had transpired in that coffee house was not the happy reunion Frederica had hoped for.

  As they made their way back to the house, Isabella fell back a couple steps. Not so far as to be walking with the maids, but far enough to distance herself from the strolling couple.

  And they were a couple. He hadn’t simply offered Frederica his arm. He’d placed his free hand over hers, where it lay against his forearm. Isabella had to consciously shorten her stride as their walk slowed to nearly half the pace it had been coming from the park. Obviously the duke was trying to make the most out of every moment he could get with Frederica.

  That was good. It was good that someone in London looked past her cousin’s unfortunate nose and saw how wonderful she was. Someone who was actually willing to do something about it.

  Any jealousy Isabella was experiencing could be considered her penance for sinking into a life of deceit. The agony of finding something she could learn to want but never have was nothing more than she deserved.

  It was another hour before Isabella managed to get alone with Frederica to learn what had happened at the coffee shop. When they’d returned home, Uncle Percy had still been visiting with Mr. Emerson and cornered them into sharing tea in the drawing room.

  But now they were alone and nothing was going to stop Isabella from getting the details.

  “Napoleon is back.”

  That had not been the detail Isabella expected. “Well, that’s not very romantic.”

  Frederica shook her head with a sad smile. “Arthur wrote me. I never got the letters, though. He said that lots of mail never quite seemed to make it back from the war. We both know that any letter that did make it through probably got thrown in the fire by my father.”

  Isabella opened her mouth to defend Uncle Percy—it wasn’t good for a girl to think ill of her father, after all—but this was the same man who had forbidden his daughter from seeing Arthur before, had told her that Arthur had died in battle, and was now using his niece to convince the noblemen of London to cast their votes in a particular direction. No, it wasn’t difficult to imagine the man destroying his daughter’s letters.

  “Arthur was going to come calling.” Frederica somehow looked sad and joyful at the declaration. “He planned to come right through the front door and tell my father how he would be a suitable match for me. But then they learned that Napoleon was back and the Royal Dragoons might have to return to France. He refuses to court me and leave me to mourn a second time.”

  “You have to admit there’s something admirable about that.” Isabella sat on the edge of Frederic
a’s bed and wrapped her hands around Frederica’s cold fingers. “It shows he cares.”

  “Does he think I won’t mourn him all over again, regardless? Arthur is alive. And should that change, my heart will break all over again.” Freddie turned and buried her face into Isabella’s shoulder.

  Tears pricked Isabella’s eyes as well. Love like this, though painful, was beautiful. And Isabella suddenly felt the loss of it, even though she’d never had it.

  But could she? Could she stay and try to find someone who could inspire half of the devotion Arthur inspired in Frederica? Perhaps reclaiming her integrity and grasping for love would be worth the gamble. Uncle Percy couldn’t truly ruin her family, could he? If she got the money elsewhere, was there really anything he could do? Could she make a man fall in love with her enough to move beyond all the lies and pay her family’s debts before her uncle figured out what she was doing?

  No, she couldn’t do any of those things, because to seek out a man of means would make her as cold and calculating as her uncle. Even if she could bring herself to accept that path, how could she know the man wasn’t lying about his circumstances as much as she was?

  She felt a dampness seep through her dress to her shoulder and realized that while she’d been wrapped up in her own musings, Frederica’s despair had overwhelmed her enough to drive her to tears.

  And Isabella could do nothing. Real life held heartbreak, and all the platitudes in the world couldn’t keep it at bay. She’d cried buckets when her father first injured his leg, hoping by sheer will and emotion she could help him heal into the man he’d been before the accident. But he hadn’t. The leg had healed, but it was weak and crooked and he’d never be able to get around the way he used to. Devastation for a farmer.

  “You need sleep.” Isabella tilted Frederica’s face up and wiped a thumb beneath her cousin’s eye. “Why don’t you take a nap? If you’re not feeling up to the musicale tonight, I’ll make your excuses. Uncle Percy won’t mind as long as I still attend.”

  Frederica nodded and gave a watery sniffle before crawling up the bed to bury her face in a pillow.

  Isabella slid into bed next to her, telling funny stories about the animals back home and rubbing Frederica’s back until the hiccups slid into an easy breathing. She waited a few more moments before rising and slipping out of the room.

  Isabella had no illusions that her life would ever hold a passion such as the one she saw in Freddie. She knew all the young men back home. The few who hadn’t been scared off by her legendary beauty weren’t willing to take on her family situation. It was why she remained unwed at twenty-four.

  It was why she hadn’t felt like she’d be losing much to give Uncle Percy what he wanted.

  The reason seemed so flimsy now.

  She stepped into her room, feeling suddenly exhausted and wondering if she should have joined Freddie in taking a nap.

  On her dressing table, however, beside the jewelry she’d worn the past two evenings, was a folded letter. Her mother’s familiar handwriting scrawled across the front, and Isabella pounced on it with renewed energy. Uncle Percy had assured her parents he would pay the postage on any letter they sent, but considering Uncle Percy had also declared an intent to purchase Isabella a new wardrobe, she hadn’t been sure her family would ever take him up on the offer of paying for postage as well. It was quite dear to send a letter from Northumberland to London, after all. But Mother could not have any idea how much money Uncle Percy had already spent on her, and how insignificant the postage for a single letter was in comparison.

  The letter contained no news of great import, mostly tales of the same life she’d left behind when Uncle Percy had come to collect her, but every few lines her mother reiterated how much she missed Bella, even though she knew this opportunity was a good one. The close of the letter stabbed Isabella in the heart, though.

  Her brother Hugh was considering going to work in the coal mines. They had to face the fact that the farm might not be around for him to inherit, and he was going to need to make his way in the world. Bella knew what he truly wanted was to join the church, but without schooling, without support and recommendations, that wasn’t going to happen.

  Isabella could make it happen for him, though.

  She turned the letter sideways to read the last few lines her mother had scrawled up the side of the page in order to save paper.

  My darling, I am so thankful to God for taking you to London. I know you will do well there and I won’t have to worry about you anymore. At least one of my children will have a solid future. You have worked so hard. You deserve it. We pray for you every morning. Blessings, Mother.

  The letter blurred as Isabella’s tears welled up. Whatever thoughts she’d had before, she knew she’d be going to the musicale tonight, smile at the ready, waiting for her uncle to point her toward the next man he expected her to enthrall. Love might be a gamble that could gain her everything she wanted for her and her family, but as the sleeping woman in the next room could attest, it was a gamble that was all too easy to lose.

  Chapter 11

  Griffith liked order. He liked traditions and routines. He especially liked when those around him followed them, because predictability meant a minimum of surprises. Unlike every attempt he’d made to court Miss St. Claire, which had thus far been one surprise after another.

  Never would he have guessed that he’d spend the afternoon strolling more with Miss Breckenridge than Miss St. Claire.

  Or that he would enjoy it.

  It didn’t make sense. Even if Miss St. Claire’s affections were already given—something he hadn’t seen coming because her name had never been publicly linked with a suitor’s—she had to know that marriage was something she needed to do. Since her father had not remarried and produced another heir to the title, Miss St. Claire would be at the mercy of some distant cousin after her father passed. Surely she was too pragmatic to leave her fate up to such questionable circumstances.

  Why, then, did his attentions never seem to get him anywhere?

  He took a hack—which reminded him why he so often avoided hiring hacks—across Mayfair to Pall Mall. He could have walked the distance, but the hour was approaching when people would start scattering for their evening festivities, and he wanted to catch his sister before she did the same.

  And he needed to do it before he lost the nerve.

  Ryland’s enormous butler, Price, filled the doorway. “Your Grace,” he said with a nod of his head. “His Grace isn’t available, I’m afraid.”

  A twitch of the butler’s lips drew a smile from Griffith’s. This was exactly why the family left titles at the door when they got together. It tended to get a bit ridiculous. “I’m here to see Her Grace.”

  Price gave in and allowed one side of his mouth to kick up, pulling the scar that ran across his cheek. “Of course, Your Grace.” He stepped back to allow Griffith entrance. “Her Grace is in the family drawing room.”

  Griffith nodded and didn’t wait for Price to show him up the stairs. Had Miranda been indisposed, the butler would have directed him to the main drawing room to wait. The fact that he’d done nothing more than wave Griffith into the house meant Miranda was available for visitors or at least available for him.

  As he approached the parlor, more than one feminine voice drifted down the passage, making him groan. It wasn’t the fact that Miranda was entertaining that distressed him—it was that all of the voices he heard were rather familiar. Were all the feminine members of his family in that room? If so, there’d be no hope of getting Miranda alone. She could have dismissed a stranger or acquaintance, but family was another thing entirely.

  He couldn’t simply leave either, because Price would take great joy in making sure everyone in the family knew he’d been a coward about facing the ladies. Why couldn’t his family have any normal servants?

  Griffith stepped into the open doorway of the drawing room and waited for the conversation to quiet.

  His sist
er Miranda, Duchess of Marshington, sat directly across from the door on a sofa covered in deep blue. Her green eyes widened when she noticed him, and a large, welcoming smile alerted the rest of the women.

  Georgina sat with her back to the door, while Amelia, Marchioness of Raebourne, sat to Miranda’s left in a delicately carved armchair. Trent’s wife, Adelaide, finished the circle. At least his mother wasn’t present. He had a great respect for the woman who had raised him and taught him how to be a duke, loving the land, the people, and the Lord as much if not more than he loved his country. That didn’t mean he wanted to tell his mother about his romantic inclinations.

  The urge to come to Miranda had been bad enough.

  “Griff! Come sit.” Miranda slid to one end of the sofa and patted the upholstered cushion next to her before frowning at the scattering of dishes on the tea tray. “I’m afraid we’ve finished the tea. Shall I ring for more?”

  “Er, no.” Griffith coughed as he settled into the seat next to his sister. Ryland’s servants were nosy former spies and reformed criminals. He didn’t need to call any of them into the vicinity.

  “Overwhelmed any young ladies today?” Miranda asked with a cheeky grin.

  The back of Griffith’s neck felt tight and itchy against his cravat. If he was flushing from that simple statement, he would never make it through this conversation without contracting a full blush. Perhaps if he caught them off guard and shut down their teasing before it really got started he could avoid any outward sign of embarrassment.

  “As a matter of fact, I did go visit a lady today. Two, actually.” Two? What was he doing bringing Miss Breckenridge into the conversation? He hadn’t meant to. She was simply Miss St. Claire’s cousin. That was all he would allow her to be.

  Otherwise he was afraid she’d become a major thorn in his side.

  Miranda clasped her hands in her lap and bounced in her seat until she’d turned nearly sideways on the sofa. Georgina was more refined in her response, but her excited smile and rapt attention were impossible to miss. Even Adelaide and Amelia were intent enough to move their teacups aside and lean forward in their seats.