Enchanting the Duke

by Patricia Grasso

  “What is the news from London?” Delphinia asked, unable to contain her excitement.

  Isabelle did not want to tell them the truth, because they would immediately begin to harass her for money, but what else could she do? They would find out soon enough.

  “Miles has gone to America,” Isabelle informed her stepmother.

  “How can we have our London season without him?” Rue whined.

  “Has he left you in charge of the money?” Delphinia asked.

  Isabelle stared hard at her stepmother. Delphinia knew the answer to that already.

  “It would be unfeminine for you to conduct business, even in an emergency,” Delphinia said. “In society’s eyes you are still in the schoolroom. We would be ruined.” She turned away, adding, “I must ask Nicholas to take charge of the Montgomery finances.”

  So that was it. Her greedy stepmother wanted to control her brother’s fortune. Well, that would never happen. She would never allow Delphinia’s spendthrift nephew near the Montgomery fortune.

  “That will be unnecessary,” Isabelle said.

  Delphinia turned around, a shocked expression on her face. “You cannot mean to—”

  “Apparently, Miles has enlisted the Duke of Avon’s assistance,” Isabelle told her. “I am to call upon His Grace in the unlikely event of an emergency.”

  Lobelia and Rue shrieked with excitement and clapped their hands together. “The Duke of Avon is so sophisticated and handsome,” Rue gushed.

  “Have you met him?” Isabelle asked, cocking a blond brow at her stepsister.

  “No, but rumor told me so.”

  “You mean gossip.”

  “Oh, we must definitely have an emergency,” Lobelia spoke up. “Then His Grace will visit us at Arden Hall and fall in love with me.”

  “What about me?” Rue asked.

  “I am the eldest, so I get the duke,” Lobelia informed her sister. “He does have two brothers.”

  “Imagine that,” Rue said, turning to Isabelle. “There is one Saint-Germain for each of us. We’ll be sisters forever.”

  “That thought is oh-so-tempting,” Isabelle said, making Giselle chuckle. She looked at the old woman. “Do not laugh at—” Isabelle clamped her lips together and tried to pretend she hadn’t spoken out loud.

  “There she goes again,” Lobelia sneered. “No Saint-Germain will wish to marry a woman who talks to herself.”

  “I was thinking out loud.” Isabelle looked at her stepmother. “I can manage the Montgomery affairs without need of the duke’s assistance.”

  “Nevertheless, I shall write to His Grace and thank him for being of service to us,” Delphinia announced.

  “What a wonderful idea,” Isabelle said. “Take Lobelia and Rue with you to help draft the letter.”

  When her stepfamily had gone, Isabelle sat back in her chair and sighed at her ill luck. Now her stepfamily would harass her for money, gowns, a season in London, and an emergency to bring the Duke of Avon to their door. The last thing she wanted was the Duke of Avon meddling in Montgomery affairs.

  “Give them the money, gowns and London season,” Giselle advised. “They will forget about the duke.”

  Isabelle cast the old woman an exasperated look.

  “Or perhaps they won’t forget,” Giselle amended herself. “Consider this, child. Adversity is merely the opportunity to prove your worth.”

  Isabelle rose from her chair and crossed the chamber to sit on the floor in front of the hearth. She rested her head against the old woman’s leg.

  “I suspect Delphinia will try to force me into marriage with Nicholas,” Isabelle said. “Where is that prince you promised would rescue me?”

  “Nearer than you think,” Giselle answered, stroking her hair. “Give him time.”

  “Time is a luxury I do not have now that Miles is across the Atlantic Ocean.”

  “Child, you must work harder to develop patience,” the old woman said. “Fate can throw myriad roadblocks down in the blinking of an eye. Perhaps, the duke will be your rescuer.”

  “The Duke of Avon is no prince.”

  “Angels don’t always wear wings or a halo.” Giselle gave her an ambiguous smile. “And princes don’t always wear crowns.”

  Chapter 2

  Princes don’t always wear crowns and witches don’t always wear warts on their noses.

  Some witches looked exactly like her stepmother.

  That thought echoed in Isabelle’s mind as she walked the long length of the second-floor corridor. She’d been summoned to attend Delphinia and had no doubt the topic of their conversation would be money, or even worse, marriage to her nephew.

  Reaching her stepmother’s sitting room, Isabelle touched the locket containing her mother’s miniature, knocked lightly on the door, and then stepped inside. She fixed her violet gaze on Delphinia, who sat in a chair in front of the hearth. Isabelle wished she hadn’t ordered Giselle not to accompany her.

  “Sit over here with me,” Delphinia called. “I have tea and sweet biscuits for us.”

  Yes, some witches did look exactly like her stepmother. Isabelle sat in the chair beside her stepmother’s. “What is it you wish to discuss, Delphinia?”

  “I will never understand why you have always refused to think of me as your mother,” Delphinia said, pasting a hurt look on her face.

  Isabelle wasn’t fooled for a minute. “I suppose that is one of life’s mysteries,” she said, staring her stepmother straight in the eye.

  Delphinia gave her a faint smile. “Would you care for tea and a biscuit?”

  “No thank you. If this is about—”

  “I have not invited you here to ask for money,” Delphinia interrupted, then slid her gaze toward the hearth. “I want to discuss your betrothal to Nicholas.”

  “I cannot love your nephew and will never marry him.” Isabelle had refused this proposed match to Nicholas deJewell so many times that she was beginning to wonder if her stepmother knew the meaning of no.

  “Anyone can tell you that marriage has nothing to do with love.” Delphinia dismissed her words with a wave of her hand. “You will grow to love dear Nicholas as I do.”

  No, I won’t. “If love has nothing to do with marriage, are you implying you never loved my father?”

  Without replying, Delphinia stood and began to pace back and forth as if trying to find the right words. When she spoke her tone of voice was all business. “I have taken the liberty of having a betrothal contract drawn. When Nicholas arrives, you will sign it.”

  “I will sign nothing.”

  “I am your guardian now that Miles is abroad,” Delphinia said, halting in front of Isabelle’s chair. “Nicholas is a handsome and charming baron whom any woman would be proud to call her husband.”

  “Any woman but me.”

  Delphinia reached out and slapped Isabelle. The force of it snapped her head to the right.

  No one had ever struck her before.

  Fighting the urge to strike back, Isabelle stood slowly. She raised her hand to her smarting check and narrowed her violet gaze on her stepmother.

  “God mend your evil ways.” Isabelle quit the sitting room and retreated down the corridor to her own chamber.

  How dare her stepmother strike her. No matter the pressure placed upon her, Isabelle determined never to marry a man she did not love, especially that one.

  Reaching her own chamber, Isabelle bolted the door behind her. If Delphinia wanted to speak to her, she would need to shout through the locked door.

  “Look what they’ve done,” Giselle said.

  Isabelle stared in shock at the shambles in her bedchamber. Her clothing chests were open, and gowns had been strewn from one end of the chamber to the other. The room looked as if the north wind had swept through it.

  “Who did this?”

  “Lobelia and Rue took what they wanted for themselves and ruined the rest.” Giselle shook her head in obvious disgust.

  Isabelle lifted a violet-blu
e gown off the floor. It was the one her brother had bought for her to wear on Christmas Day. The gown’s seams were ripped beyond repairing.

  With tears welling up in her eyes, Isabelle clutched the gown and sat on the edge of the bed. Christmas would come and go with no new gown and, more importantly, no Miles. Was she destined to be alone always? Why did the people she loved most—her mother, her father, her brother—die or desert her?

  “I am sorry child.” Giselle sat beside her on the bed and stroked her blond hair soothingly. “I cannot interfere in the actions of others, only advise you.”

  “The loss of a few gowns matters little. Why did Miles abandon me again?”

  “Your brother will return to you soon enough.”

  Isabelle stared through tear-blurred vision at the old woman, who had been her only friend since the day they had met at the Avon River. “Delphinia is pressing for a marriage between Nicholas and me. I am so very tired of being strong. The deed may be done before Miles returns. Where is the dark prince you promised would rescue me?”

  “Patience, child. The prince will arrive.”

  “Who is he?”

  Giselle shrugged and stared at the flames in the hearth across the chamber.

  “Don’t you know?” Isabelle asked, frustrated by the day’s disturbing events. “What kind of angel are you?”

  Giselle snapped her head around to stare at her. “Only God knows everything, child. Say a good act of contrition, for you have just committed a deadly sin.”

  “Impertinence is not a deadly sin,” Isabelle informed her guardian angel, the hint of a smile touching the corners of her lips.

  “Buy me an indulgence.” Giselle winked at her and reached for the flute under the bed. “I hid this when your stepsisters stormed in here. Let’s walk to the river and play.”

  “I need to finish yesterday’s ledgers.” Isabelle rose from her perch on the edge of the bed and lifted the flute from the old woman’s hands. “Care to join me in the study?”

  Giselle nodded and followed her out of the bedchamber.

  Reaching the first-floor foyer, Isabelle turned left to walk down the corridor to the study, but felt an insistent tugging on her sleeve. “What is it?”

  “Do the ledgers later,” the old woman said.

  “First we work and then we play,” Isabelle said, shaking her head. “I need to finish those ledgers in order to keep the Duke of Avon at bay.”

  “I overheard Lobelia and Rue discussing the duke,” Giselle said, casting her an ambiguous smile. “I would like to catch a glimpse of him.”

  “I have no wish to meet the duke,” Isabelle said. “Go to the river alone, and I will finish my ledgers.”

  “I’ll wait for you.”

  Inside the study, Giselle took her usual seat in front of the hearth. Isabelle sat at the desk and opened the ledger book.

  “Do you want to know what your stepsisters said about the duke?” Giselle called.

  Isabelle looked up at her and shook her head. When she looked back at the ledger, she realized she would need to tally the column of numbers again.

  “I heard the duke is incredibly handsome,” Giselle called again. “He has midnight-black hair and black eyes.”

  “That’s nice,” Isabelle said, then realized her addition was incorrect.

  “Women trip over their feet to please him,” Giselle called a third time.

  Isabelle refused to look up at her, but lost her concentration anyway.

  “The duke is England’s most eligible widower and richer than the king.”

  Isabelle slammed the quill down on the desk. “I cannot tally these numbers if you constantly interrupt.”

  “Child, you must develop patience,” the old woman advised. “It’s one of the —”

  “Patience is not a virtue,” Isabelle snapped.

  “Don’t get snippy with me,” Giselle scolded her.

  Isabelle started to reply, but the door swung open. Pebbles stepped into the study. “A messenger from Avon Park requests an interview with you.”

  Isabelle signed in resignation. Apparently, the ledgers would remain unfinished that day.

  “Tell him to come inside.”

  “Come on, man,” Pebbles shouted, his hands cupping his mouth. “Be quick about it, as the lady has work to do.”

  Isabelle swallowed a giggle at her unorthodox majordomo. How she loved the old man who always seemed to have her best interests at heart.

  “How may I help you?” Isabelle asked when the man stood in front of her desk.

  “My lady, the Duke of Avon orders you to appear with the Montgomery ledgers tomorrow afternoon at Avon Park.”

  Isabelle gave the man her sweetest smile. “What’s your name?”

  Her question caught the man off guard. He gave her a surprised smile and said, “I beg your pardon?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Gallagher.”

  “You are His Grace’s personal courier?”

  “I’m His Grace’s coachman,” Gallagher told her, “but one of his most trusted retainers.”

  “Ah, the proverbial jack-of-all-trades,” Isabelle said. “Please inform His Grace that his meddling in Montgomery affairs is unnecessary. He should mind his own business. Good day to you, Mr. Gallagher.”

  “I can’t relay that message,” the man said.

  “Oh, but you must,” Isabelle told him. “Those are my words to His Grace.”

  “As you wish.” Gallagher marched back across the study toward the door.

  Apparently eavesdropping in the corridor, Delphinia flew past the courier into the study. “Are you mad?”

  Unruffled by her stepmother’s sudden appearance, Isabelle looked up. “About what are you talking?”

  “Your rudeness to the Duke of Avon,” Delphinia screeched, her complexion mottling with her anger.

  “Oh, that.”

  “Are you trying to ruin Lobelia’s and Rue’s chance to find husbands?” her stepmother demanded.

  “Of course not.”

  “The Duke of Avon has entrance into the most exclusive residences in London society,” Delphinia said. “His friendship could help us. You will send him a note of apology.”

  Staring at her stepmother, Isabelle rose from her chair. “I refuse to allow the Duke of Avon to meddle in Montgomery affairs.”

  “I demand you write him an apology,” Delphinia repeated, raising her voice.

  Isabelle decided to shock the tirade out of her stepmother. She lifted her flute off the desk and turned toward Giselle. “I will accomplish no work today. Shall we walk to the river and play until we’ve calmed?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Isabelle glanced at her stepmother’s horrified expression and then brushed past her toward the door. The last thing she heard was Delphinia calling, “Lobelia and Rue are correct. You are crazy.”

  * * *

  “What did you say?”

  Anger brought John Saint-Germain out of the chair he had been occupying in his drawing room at Avon Park. Almost nose-to-nose with his man, John appeared more demon than human. His midnight-black eyes darkened and a fierce scowl marred his handsome features.

  “I-I-I’m only the messenger, Your Grace,” Gallagher sputtered, leaping back a defensive pace. “Mistress Montgomery said—”

  “I heard you the first time,” John snapped at his man.

  Gallagher clamped his lips shut.

  “There is no need to intimidate the man for doing his job,” a woman said.

  “You are dismissed,” John said, composing himself.

  After watching his man make a hasty retreat, John turned around and looked at the others in the drawing room. His mother was shaking her head, Aunt Hester stared at him in obvious disapproval, and Ross wore the most infuriating smile.

  “I refuse to allow that slip of a girl to order me to mind my own business,” John said.

  His brother’s smile became a grin. “How can that be prevented when she h
as already done it?”

  John cast his brother an unamused look. Then he glanced at his mother and his aunt, who instantly wiped the smiles off their faces.

  The dowager duchess spoke up. “It reminds me of the time John’s father and I—”

  “I remember that, Tessa,” Aunt Hester interrupted.

  The two older women exchanged smiling glances at their shared memory.

  John softened his expression on his mother. “And what happened?”

  “I do believe that was the night I conceived you.”

  “And what happened the night you conceived me?” Ross asked.

  The duchess smiled at the distant memory but refused to reply.

  John rolled his eyes at their silliness and turned to his brother. “I am the chit’s guardian and responsible for the Montgomery finances.”

  “Try sending her an invitation instead of an order,” Ross suggested.

  “I would like to meet this young lady,” the duchess said.

  “So would I,” Aunt Hester agreed.

  “She’s a blonde,” John told them, a bitter edge to his voice. “Need I say more?”

  “Not all blondes are Lenore Grimsby,” his mother said.

  “That remains to be seen,” John said. “The Montgomery girl won’t sidestep my guardianship so easily.”

  “I thought you didn’t want the responsibility,” Ross drawled.

  “I have given my word of honor and intend to see this out to its conclusion.” John marched across the drawing room toward the door. “I am riding to Arden Hall.”

  “Care for some company?” Ross asked.

  “No, thank you,” John called over his shoulder.

  Early winter wore a serene expression that day. The afternoon sunlight filtered through the high, thin clouds, and motes of sun danced across November’s golden leaves lying dead on December’s winter-brown ground. Bare branches of trees etched stark silhouettes against the sky.

  With the exception of his annual autumnal retreat in Scotland, John loved this time in the year’s cycle best of all. He could return to Avon Park and surround himself with his family instead of the shallow London elite.

  He had always assumed he would be well married and a father by the age of thirty, but Lenore Grimsby had put an end to that dream.