Why Dukes Say I Do

by Manda Collins

  “But I do not see the difference,” she pressed on as they neared the stables of Nettlefield House. “Surely the tenants of the Ormonde estates are just as deserving of your care as your tenants here are. Surely they, too, have a need for schools and oversight and compassion.”

  “You know nothing of the matter,” the duke said sharply. “Now, let us speak of it no more. I believe you have agreed to accompany me to my magistrate’s duty two days hence, have you not?”

  “But, Your Grace,” she said, her voice high with frustration, “I do not understand how you can say such a—”

  “Enough, Lady Wharton,” he barked. “Enough. My responsibilities at the Ormonde estates are my affair and I hope that you will allow me to be the best judge of how to manage them.”

  Knowing that she had pushed him far enough, Isabella did not speak. She simply nodded and allowed the mare, who had seen that they were close to home, to hurry down the rise to the stables below.

  Isabella might have allowed him to silence her now, she thought, staring at the duke’s back as he and his mount led the way, but this was not the end of their discussion of the Ormonde estates. She might have become distracted by their visit to the tenant farms today, but no more. She was here to convince him that his place was with the Ormonde estates, and she would not stop until she had gained his agreement.

  * * *

  After a quick change from his riding clothes, Trevor retired to his study to go over some correspondence with his steward. Though he tried to keep his mind on the business at hand, he could not help but remember some amusing tale Lady Isabella had told him on their ride and how easily she’d interacted with his people on their visits with the tenants. Her compassion for the Joneses’ situation had touched him. She might seem on the surface to be a selfish beauty, but there was genuine interest in people beneath her veneer of sophistication.

  His mother, who had been brought up not terribly far from Nettlefield, would have liked Isabella, he thought. She had always been welcomed by the locals as one of their own, but there had also been just the slightest bit of resentment from the people who thought she’d gotten above herself. Though Isabella was clearly not from the local stock, she had a way about her that set people at ease, just as his mother had. It was an odd thing considering how cold he’d thought Isabella when they first met, but he supposed that might have been chalked up to nerves.

  When he’d left off the same column of figures for the third time, Trevor decided it was time to quit for the day. He hadn’t been so distracted by a woman in a very long time. Perhaps it was time he took a trip to York on his own to visit the discreet widow he sometimes called upon when the need for female companionship became too pressing. He disliked the notion, but it was a practical enough arrangement and there was no danger that either of them would get emotionally entangled.

  He’d just poured himself a much-deserved brandy when a knock sounded on the study door.

  “Enter,” he called out without turning to see who the person was.

  “Your pardon, Your Grace,” his head groom said from the doorway. “I wondered if I might have a word.”

  Wondering if there was some problem with the horses, Trevor gestured the man in and resumed his seat behind the desk.

  “Of course, Woods,” he said to the man. “What’s amiss?”

  The groom, who had been with the family for more than twenty years, nodded with the authority that long acquaintance afforded. “Peters found this when he was unsaddling Dolly, and I knew you’d want to hear it right away. Especially what with the damage to Her Ladyship’s carriage.”

  Trevor saw then that Woods held a leather girth strap in his hands, and gestured for the man to bring it forward. Taking the leather from the man, Trevor saw at once what had bothered the grooms. The thick leather strap that was used to hold the saddle in place had been sliced three-quarters of the way across.

  “This is the strap from Dolly’s sidesaddle?” Trevor asked curtly. At the groom’s affirmative nod Trevor let out a vile curse. If he and Lady Isabella had allowed the horses to gallop that afternoon, Isabella would surely have been unseated. There was no guarantee that she would have been harmed, but the cut strap would certainly have made it likely.

  “I’m that sorry Peters didn’t notice it this afternoon when he was readying the horses for you to ride out,” Woods said with a shake of his head. “I’ve given the lad a strong talking to, but if you want to dismiss him, Your Grace, I will of course do as ye wish.”

  But Trevor, too distracted by the mental image of Isabella broken and bleeding on the trail side, dismissed the notion. “I know you run a tight ship, Woods,” he told the older man. “And who’s to say that the cut wasn’t made after Peters saddled them? If he saw nothing amiss when he tightened the girth then it’s likely that the blackguard did it while they were waiting for us to come down.”

  Relief crossed over the groom’s face. He bowed his head in obeisance and said, “Thank you, Your Grace. I know Peters is that upset by it and he won’t let anything like this happen again.”

  “I should hope not,” Trevor said. Then thanking the man for bringing the matter to his attention, he dismissed the groom.

  When the door closed behind the servant, Trevor cursed again. Something was very definitely amiss with Lady Isabella. First the carriage she’d traveled in from London had been tampered with, which might have resulted in a very dangerous accident for all the passengers on board. Now the saddle of the horse she’d ridden today had been tampered with. It was clear to him that someone was intent upon harming the widow. And he’d be damned if he’d let them succeed while she was a guest in his home.

  He drank the rest of his brandy and stood. He had little doubt that the lady would be reluctant to speak to him about the matter. Especially considering their disagreement earlier in the afternoon.

  Considering the matter, he decided to leave off discussion of the matter until after dinner, when she was likely to be in a better frame of mind. But he would have answers from her before the day was through.

  Of that he was certain.

  Striding from the study and toward the stairs, he made his way to his chamber to dress for dinner.

  Seven

  Though she was not normally one to rest in the afternoon, Isabella found herself agreeing with her maid that she could do with a nap once she returned from visiting the tenants with the duke.

  She had never guessed the amount of information a landowner needed to keep at his disposal when it came to maintaining a cordial relationship with his tenants. She had met at least twenty farmers and easily three times as many wives and children in her trip with the duke that afternoon. And to her surprise and admiration, Ormonde not only knew everyone’s names, but he also was able to ask after their siblings and parents and children and grandchildren and in some cases great-grandchildren, with an easy manner that indicated he had been doing so for years. He clearly cared for their welfare beyond just ensuring that they were able to produce a good crop yield. He cared about them as people.

  She was a little ashamed that she’d never thought beyond the fact that such relationships existed to wondering what differences might exist between one landowner and another. Certainly her father had never revealed the slightest concern for the tenants on his own entailed properties in Kent. And the same held true for her husband, who had visited his country house a grand total of three times during the whole of their marriage.

  All of which made it difficult for her to understand how the duke could possibly dismiss the tenants who relied upon him at the Ormonde country estates. It was a disconnect that she found hard to reconcile.

  Her mind still teeming with the faces and conversations she’d seen and shared that afternoon, she drifted off to sleep with barely a thought for how unusual it was for her to do so.

  She woke up some two hours later feeling refreshed and famished. She pulled the bell for her maid and walked across the plush carpet to the dressing table to bru
sh out her hair.

  Propped against the powder jar she noticed a small box wrapped in plain brown paper. Her name was written in a loose scrawl across the top, the hand almost but not quite illegible. Thinking to the note she’d received before, Isabella felt a shiver run down her spine, even as she began to unwrap the package.

  She bit back a gasp as she saw that beneath the paper was a beautifully enameled snuffbox.

  A snuffbox she’d seen in her husband’s hand time and time again over the years of their marriage.

  A snuffbox she’d been sure was a gift from his mistress.

  A snuffbox she’d destroyed herself out of spite on the day of his funeral.

  Her hand shaking, she pressed the mechanism cleverly hidden in the silverwork that allowed the user to open the lid with one hand.

  She watched with bated breath as the top of the box sprang open to reveal a small bit of paper. Isabella swallowed, not wanting to look at the paper but needing to know more than she needed her next breath. She turned the box upside down and the paper fell out onto her palm. Carefully she unfolded it and read the words. Written in the hand she had come to know almost as well as her own.

  Do you miss me?

  By the time her maid, Sanders, came in a few moments later, Isabella was trembling all over. It wasn’t so much that someone had gone to great lengths to terrify her. It was the fact that whoever it was knew where she was and had access to her—even if that access was by proxy in the form of servants.

  “I’ve brushed out your crimson silk for tonight, Your Ladyship,” said Sanders as she hurried about the room, preparing Isabella’s things for the night ahead. “The wine stain came right out once I used the paste recommended by the duke’s upstairs maid. I’m quite glad I spoke to her about it.”

  Unable to stand lest she fall, Isabella gave a noncommittal sound that might have been agreement or dissent. Swallowing, she finally asked, “Sanders, do you know where the small package that was on my dressing table came from?”

  The woman paused in her quest for slippers in the wardrobe. Standing, she put her hands on her hips and turned to look fully at Isabella. “Package, my lady?” she asked, her expression puzzled. “I don’t know what you mean. I never saw any package.”

  Isabella turned on the vanity chair and stared at her. “Of course you must have,” she said firmly, trying to convince herself that it was the truth. “You must have been the one to put it on my dressing table.” She held up the brown paper that had covered the box and proffered it to the other woman. “You see?” she said. “It was covered in this. You probably brought it up here after luncheon and simply forgot about it.”

  But the maid was steadfast in her denial. “I never saw such a package, my lady. If I had I would tell you about it, naturally.” She shook her head with consternation. “You don’t mean to say that someone else has been in your bedchamber and left it, surely? Why would someone do such a thing?” Her expression turned sly. “Do you have a secret admirer perhaps?”

  Agitated by the woman’s denials, Isabella stood up from the table and began to pace. “No, of course not,” she said, knowing she sounded as overset as she felt. “An admirer would hardly send me such a thing.”

  Not bothering to ask her what “such a thing” might be, Sanders crossed to the dressing table and picked up the box, opening it to reveal the snuffbox inside. “Why on earth would someone send you this?” the maid demanded. “It’s hardly the way into a lady’s heart, that’s for sure.”

  Isabella debated whether to tell Sanders about the note she’d found inside it, but she knew that confiding in the maid would be a bad idea. Though she’d only been in Isabella’s employ for a few weeks, she seemed trustworthy enough. However, once Isabella took her into her confidence there was no going back. And she wasn’t sure she wanted the maid to know just how much she had feared—and maybe even still feared—her husband. That was something she could only confide to her closest friends.

  Forcing herself to calm down, she laughed. “It is an unusual choice, isn’t it?” she said, trying to pass off her agitation as lovesickess. “But perhaps the gentleman is unaccustomed to the art of flirtation. It is a pretty little snuffbox, but I am hardly the sort to take up a spittoon!”

  She and the maid shared a genuine laugh, and the tension Isabella had been feeling began to dissipate. Someone had intended her to be frightened by the reminder of Ralph’s brutality and the suggestion that he could speak to her from beyond the grave, but Isabella knew such an idea was ludicrous. It was troubling, however, to know that whoever it was who wished to make her fearful had followed her from London and into Yorkshire.

  Briefly she wondered if she ought to share her fears with the duke. He had the right to know that one of his guests was being terrorized in his home. But to admit such a thing would also mean admitting just how frightened she really was of her husband’s memory. Which seemed silly when she thought of it now, but her fear upon opening the package had been very real.

  “Whoever it might be,” Sanders said, seemingly oblivious to her mistress’s troubling thoughts, “he will certainly get an eyeful this evening, for I intend to dress you up finer than fivepence and make no mistake.”

  And with that Isabella allowed herself to be taken into Sanders’s care and be pampered and primped within an inch of her life.

  * * *

  When Isabella came down for dinner, Trevor was still ruminating over the damaged girth strap. He had instructed Templeton to have the male servants keep a circumspect watch over her while she was a guest in Nettlefield House. Trevor knew if she got wind of such a plan she would object vociferously, but he had to do what he could to ensure her safety while she was under his roof.

  He’d tried and failed to determine why anyone would wish to put her in danger. Surely she had been in Yorkshire for too short a period to have drawn the sort of ruthless enemies who would plot her death. She was just what she seemed—an elegant widow who had come to Yorkshire on a commission from her godmother. Hardly the sort of person to attract danger at every turn.

  Isabella’s arrival in the drawing room put an end to his thoughts on the matter. Or any thoughts at all if it came to that.

  Always impeccably dressed, tonight she wore a simple evening gown of crimson silk, the hue of which complemented her creamy skin. Her hair had been elegantly dressed, and the auburn highlights shone in the candlelight as she stepped into the room.

  “Good evening, Your Grace,” she said, offering him her gloved hand even as he willed the room to stop spinning.

  When he was able to rein in his libidinous thoughts, Trevor took her outstretched hand and brought it to his lips, not settling for the air kiss that was customary on such occasions but placing his lips against the cool kid of her gloves. Looking up at her from beneath his lashes, he was rewarded with a blush from her as she took her hand away again.

  “You look lovely tonight, Lady Wharton,” he said, rising to his full height again. “I’m afraid my sisters are dining in the nursery this evening, since Eleanor refuses to be seen in any of her old gowns and she is saving the other one you gave her for our shopping trip to York tomorrow.” He grinned. “She is convinced that Mrs. Renfrew will be so jealous of Madame Celeste’s skills that she will work twice as hard on any new gowns Eleanor orders from her tomorrow.”

  Isabella laughed, and Trevor was captivated by the sound. It was throaty without being wanton, and merry without being frivolous. “You should laugh more often,” he said, tucking her arm into his as he led her into the dining room.

  “I would endeavor to do so, Your Grace,” she said, tilting her head to the side, “if only I could find more things that amused me. I’m afraid the last few years have been less than pleasant for my family and me.”

  A misstep, that, Ormonde thought to himself. Of course the recent deaths in her family had made her more serious. Certainly he’d had little enough to be pleased with in the years since his parents had died.

  “I apolo
gize, my lady,” he said quickly.”I am an insensitive clod. Do forgive me.”

  “I can hardly hold you accountable for the remark, Your Grace,” she said, allowing him to hand her into a chair to the left of his own. “You yourself have suffered your own tragedies in these last few years or so, as well. Let us call peace and move beyond it.”

  Eager to get past it as well, Trevor agreed and turned the subject to one that was only slightly less troublesome. “I’m afraid, Lady Isabella,” he began once the footmen had finished serving them their soup course, “that I’ve a bit of worrisome news to impart, and I’m not quire sure how to go about it.”

  As he watched her, she stilled and put her soupspoon down. Turning to look at him, she said, “I have often found that bad news is best told quickly, before it has time to fester.”

  Trevor nodded and said, “Then, I shall do so. I’m afraid that this afternoon following our ride, one of the stable hands found something irregular with your saddle.”

  Her auburn brows drew together with concern. “What do you mean, ‘irregular’?” she asked.

  “The girth strap, the bit of leather that helps secure the saddle in place upon the horse’s back, was sliced almost through.”

  Her lips tightened. “Sliced. Do you mean like with a knife?” she asked.

  He gave a nod of assent. “Just like that,” he said firmly. “I have no way of knowing whether it was done before we left for the tenants’ or if someone did it while our horses were idle once we’d reached the village. I only know that for at least part of our ride today you were in immediate danger.”

  Isabella rested her hands on either side of her soup dish; Trevor could see a fine tremble run through the one closest to his. “Who would do such a thing?” she asked, her voice low and slightly hoarse. “First someone damages the dowager’s carriage, then the note, and the snuffbox, and now this! It is too much to be borne!”

  She started to stand up, but Trevor stopped her. “Wait, my lady,” he said sharply. “What’s this about a note and snuffbox? Do you mean to tell me you’ve received other threats from this blackguard?”