Enchanting the Duke

by Patricia Grasso

  “Isabelle will need more than a new wardrobe to catch herself a husband,” Lobelia said.

  “No man will offer for a woman who talks to herself,” Rue added.

  “Your stepsister merely thinks out loud,” John defended her.

  Isabelle felt the embarrassed blush rising upon her cheeks. She refused to remain here and listen to their insults. Not only that, but the duke’s defense offended rather than heartened her. The Duke of Avon seemed the type of man who wanted others to owe him favors, which was why he was taking her side against her stepsisters.

  Isabelle cleared her throat and sent Pebbles a meaningful look. In answer, the majordomo nodded almost imperceptibly. She flicked a quick peek at the duke, who watched her.

  “More cider, my lady?” Pebbles inquired, standing beside her chair.

  “Yes, please.”

  Pebbles moved to pour the cider, but spilled half of it on her lap. “My lady, I am so sorry. How unforgivably clumsy of me.”

  “No harm done,” Isabelle assured the majordomo, rising from her chair. “I’ll just change my skirt.” Before turning away, Isabelle sent the duke an apologetic look and nearly swooned when she saw the gleam in his eyes, as if he knew her ploy to escape the table.

  Isabelle made a hasty retreat out of the dining room. Instead of going upstairs to change, she hurried to the study and retrieved her cloak and her flute. Then she retraced her steps down the corridor. Isabelle paused near the open dining room door and then tiptoed past it.

  Stepping outside, Isabelle breathed deeply of the crisp air. The winter’s night had been created for romance, with a full moon surrounded by thousands of glittering stars set in the black velvet sky. Wood smoke from Arden Hall scented the air, and the atmosphere was hushed.

  As she walked into the garden, Isabelle spied a solitary figure sitting on a stone bench. She smiled, recognizing her old friend, and then advanced on her.

  “Are you here too?” Isabelle said by way of a greeting.

  “No, I’m a figment of your imagination.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Shall we play?”

  Isabelle nodded and sat on the bench beside her. She lifted her flute to her lips and poured all of her feelings into the instrument.

  They played a song of infinite beauty, the notes first eerie and lilting, then haunting and reflective. The melody was a soothing bath of sound, reminiscent of a moonlit stroll, rustling leaves, echoing owls calling to each other in the night.

  “I’ll see you inside.” Giselle vanished in an instant.

  “Mistress Montgomery?” the Duke of Avon called. “Is that you?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Was she forbidden a few moments of privacy? When the duke stood in front of her, Isabelle tilted her head back to gaze up the long length of him.

  “You play divinely,” John said. “It sounded as if two people were playing.”

  Had he heard Giselle’s flute? How could that be? No one but she had ever heard the old woman.

  “How did you make it sound like a duo?”

  “Garden acoustics.”

  John nodded, accepting her explanation. “May I join you on the bench?”

  “Suit yourself, Your Grace.” Isabelle slid over to make room for him.

  He sat down beside her, so close his thigh teased the side of her cloak. Glancing down at the close proximity of their bodies, Isabelle felt her cheeks heat with embarrassment and sent up a silent prayer of thanks that the night hid her discomfort.

  “I thought I saw someone sitting with you,” John said, slanting a sidelong glance at her.

  Isabelle stared at him in surprise. Had he seen Giselle? Only she had ever seen the old woman. What did this mean?

  “I assure you that I am alone. Who would be sitting with me?”

  “A friend, perhaps?”

  “I have no friends.”

  “Not even an invisible friend?”

  “If you saw her,” Isabelle countered, “then she wouldn’t be invisible.”

  “It’s a woman, then?”

  “Really, Your Grace, this conversation is ridiculous,” Isabelle said, trying to steer him away from the subject.

  “You are correct.” He stared straight ahead.

  A heavy silence descended upon them. Isabelle decided the silence between them was even more uncomfortable than his probing questions.

  “You need not have defended me against Lobelia and Rue,” she told him. “My stepsisters are henwits.”

  “Even henwits can create problems in society,” John warned, turning his head to look at her, which made her even more uncomfortable than enduring the silence. “Henwits are the worst purveyors of gossip.

  “You could be correct about that.” Isabelle tore her gaze away from his. Lord, but those midnight-black eyes seemed to see to the very depths of her insecure soul.

  “I mean no insult,” John continued, drawing her attention, “but when you come to London, you must refrain from thinking out loud, or you will never catch a husband.”

  “If I want to catch something, I’ll go fishing,” Isabelle shot back. “I have no need of a husband.”

  “Every woman needs a man to care for her,” John said in a quiet voice. “Any woman who believes otherwise possesses the intelligence of an oyster.”

  “I didn’t mean that I would never marry,” Isabelle said. “When Miles returns, I will have my come-out and choose a husband.”

  “You will have your come-out this spring with or without your brother’s presence,” John corrected her. “My mother never raised a daughter and is looking forward to introducing you into society. Of course, before that happens, you will need to learn certain rules of propriety.”

  “I don’t give a rat’s arse about propriety.”

  “Ah, Mistress Montgomery,” John drawled, wearing an infuriating smile, “I can hear the ominous clinking of that black stone dropping onto your spiritual scale. On the other hand, I am earning myself a white stone.”

  “You, earn a white stone? Whatever for?”

  “Counseling the doubtful,” John told her, “and instructing the ignorant.”

  “Instructing the ignorant? Why, Your Grace, I am surprised you even have a mother. Your manners speak of a vile thing that crawled from beneath a rock.”

  “Be careful, Mistress Montgomery,” he warned.

  “Or what will you do?” she challenged him. “Refuse to sponsor my come-out?”

  John grinned at her. “You would like that wouldn’t you?”

  Isabelle lifted her nose into the air and turned away. She shivered with the evening chill and then regretted it when she heard the duke asking, “Are you cold?” She shook her head and refused to look at him.

  John removed his own cloak and wrapped it around her, his fingers lingering longer than necessary on her shoulders. Lord, this man confounded her. Not that she had any experience with men. She had never even been alone with one before today.

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” Isabelle mumbled in embarrassment. She knew she was blushing, but felt certain that he couldn’t see her pink cheeks in the darkness.

  “Why are you blushing?”

  Isabelle grasped at the weather for a suitable topic of conversation. “The night is chilly. Are you certain you won’t be cold?”

  John shook his head. “The night still possesses a tinge of summer.”

  “Summer?” Isabelle echoed, turning her head to stare at him. Oh, Lord, he was smiling at her, his handsome face so close she could have kissed him.

  “The snow is probably thigh deep at my estate in the mountains of Scotland,” he told her.

  Isabelle shivered at the frosty thought and then searched her mind for another topic of conversation. After all, how long could two people discuss the weather conditions?”

  “It’s the feast of Saint Thomas today—the twenty-first of December,” she said.

  “Saint Thomas?” John smiled in apparent amusement. “Are you religious, Mistress Montgomery?”
r />   Isabelle nodded. “Though, I attend Sunday services only when my family doesn’t. I hope to earn myself a place in Heaven in order to meet my long-dead mother. I believe the Lord cares more about how we live each day than how many services we attend.”

  “I have a spot reserved for me someplace else.”

  Isabelle smiled at that. Why, conversing with a gentleman was not as difficult as she had thought.

  “Only a few more days until the Scottish holiday of Hogmanay,” John said.

  “What’s that?”

  “New Year’s.”

  “You seem partial to Scotland,” Isabelle said.

  “My oldest title is Scottish.”

  “And that is?”

  John winked at her. “The Earl of Egads, of course.”

  Isabelle burst out laughing, a sweet sound as melodious as the music she created with her flute.

  “Look up at the sky,” John said. “Those stars return to their same position in the sky every New Year’s Eve. “They’ve always reminded me of horses returning to their stables after a long, grueling journey.”

  “I never gave the stars much thought, merely admired them from afar,” Isabelle said. “They appear to be silent sentinels guarding us.”

  “Look straight to the south,” John said, pointing in that direction. “The reddish light is Betelgeuse, which means ‘armpit of the sheep.’ And dominating the sky over there is Sirius, the brightest star in the heavens.”

  “I do love the night,” Isabelle said.

  “Look at the sky over your shoulder.”

  Isabelle turned in his direction and gazed at the sky behind them.

  “It’s Polaris, the ever-constant North Star,” John said, his voice a husky whisper close to her ear.

  Isabelle looked at him. His face was very, very close, and his lips hovered above hers. She knew he was going to kiss her, and she knew she was going to let him.

  Isabelle closed her eyes as their mouths touched. His lips were warm, gentle, and oh-so-persuasive as he caressed the crease of her mouth with his tongue. His scent of mountain heather intoxicated her senses.

  “You smell like violets,” John whispered against her lips, breaking the spell he had cast upon her. “I do believe I have just given a pretty English violet her first kiss.”

  His words surprised Isabelle. Supposedly, the dark prince in Giselle’s prophecy would believe her lovelier than a violet in the snow. John Saint-Germain was no prince, but an infamous rake and she should never have let him kiss her.

  “I shouldn’t have done that,” John apologized. “When you go about in London, do not be so free with your kisses, or you will be ruined.”

  “Free with my kisses?” Isabelle said, bolting off the bench and rounding on him. “I am no London jade, Your Grace. In the future, refrain from taking advantage of innocents like me.” She whirled away and marched back toward the mansion.

  The duke caught up with her at the door. “Mistress Montgomery, I do apologize for casting aspersions on your character. Will you forgive me?”

  “Apology accepted,” Isabelle said without looking at him as they entered the foyer. “You are not that important.”

  When she reached the base of the stairs, John grasped her forearm and gently forced her to turn around. Isabelle arched a blond brow at him. He gave her a devastating smile. “Meeting you was well worth the ride from Avon Park.”

  Isabelle blushed at his compliment. No man had ever spoken so boldly to her. Most people believed her crazy. How long would it be before the duke caught her talking to herself again?

  “Good night, Mistress Montgomery. May all of your dreams be pleasant.”

  Isabelle hurried up the stairs and went to her own chamber. Leaning against the door, she closed her eyes and tried to calm her rioting nerves.

  “Did he kiss you?”

  Isabelle opened her eyes and saw Giselle sitting in the chair in front of the hearth. “Lust is one of the seven deadly sins.”

  “That is the reason purchasing indulgences has always been so popular,” Giselle said. “Humans sin and purchase forgiveness, which gives Holy Church a fat revenue. Everybody wins, nobody loses.”

  “You have a lopsided view of sin and forgiveness.” Isabelle sat on the floor in front of the old woman. “The duke heard your flute playing.”

  “Did he now? It would seem John Saint-Germain possesses a special gift.”

  “Is he the one sent to rescue me?”

  “Only time will tell us that, child.”

  “John Saint-Germain is no prince.”

  “I told you before that princes don’t always wear crowns,” Giselle said. “To find the prince, simply follow your heart.”

  Isabelle rested her head against the old crone’s knee and looked up into her angelic blue gaze. “If I follow my heart, how do I know where it will lead me?”

  “Knowing that is unnecessary,” Giselle answered. “Follow your heart to find true and lasting happiness.”

  Chapter 4

  Isabelle Montgomery smells like violets.

  During those hushed moments before dawn, John stared out the window in his second-story bedchamber at Avon Park. The hour was early, much too early even for the servants to rise. Through the stark branches of the winter-barren oaks that separated parkland from woodland, he watched the sky’s eastern horizon changing from indigo to muted lavender to fingers of orange light that seemed to reach for the world.

  John saw only Isabelle, though. Her thick mane of blond hair reminded him of spun gold. He spied a tranquil twilight in her soft violet eyes. The fine freckles across the bridge of her perfect nose were a sprinkling of fairy dust, and her flute playing trilled like nightingales in song. The enticing feeling of her soft lips pressed against his . . .

  “God’s knob,” John muttered, turning away from the window. He was behaving like a moonstruck schoolboy. He had assumed that Lenore Grimsby had cured him of all tender emotions. Apparently, no antidote existed for masculine foolishness. He needed a long ride in the crisp air of a December morn to clear the cobwebs from his mind.

  John dressed and left his chamber. He marched to the stables, saddled Nemesis, and galloped away from Avon Park as if Satan himself was after him.

  For two hours, John rode Nemesis hard and found himself beside the Avon River. He stared in the direction of Stratford and Arden Hall while the image of his ward danced across his mind’s eye.

  “Bull’s pizzle.” Yanking the reins, John turned his horse around and rode toward the safety of Avon Park.

  Entering his dining room, John stopped short and stared at the three people already seated at one end of the mahogany table. Aunt Hester, Ross, and his mother were eating breakfast, though the hour was unusually early for them. Pausing in their conversation, they gave him their attention.

  His family was awaiting a recounting of what had transpired at Arden Hall. John sauntered to the sideboard and poured himself a cup of coffee. He stood there a moment and sipped it.

  Ignoring their stares, John walked the length of the forty-foot dining table. He took his seat at the head of the table and relaxed in an ornately carved mahogany chair.

  Through sheer force of will, John suppressed the urge to smile and nodded at Dobbs to prepare a plate for him. Only then did he look down the long length of the table at his mother, his aunt, and his brother.

  “Really, Tessa,” Aunt Hester spoke first. “I thought you raised your sons to have better manners than this.”

  “So did I.” His mother looked at him. “Well? What do you have to say for yourself?”

  John waited until Dobbs set a plate of eggs and ham in front of him. “I do believe the rising sun streaming through that window plays prettily on the chandeliers.”

  Both Aunt Hester and his mother looked up at the three crystal chandeliers hanging over the dining table and then dropped murderous gazes on him. Ross chuckled at them.

  “Do not encourage his perversity,” the dowager duchess said.

&
nbsp; “Perversity?” John cocked a dark brow at her.

  “Sit here beside me,” his mother insisted. “If you force me to shout, my throat will be scratchy by noon.”

  John surrendered to the inevitable. He wouldn’t be allowed to leave the dining room until he told his mother and his aunt every word spoken between his ward and him.

  He rose from his chair, walked the length of the table, and then sat opposite his brother. He waited until Dobbs delivered his untouched plate of eggs and ham.

  “What happened at Arden Hall?” his mother asked.

  Aunt Hester nodded her head. “Tell us everything, Johnny.”

  “Where shall I start?”

  “Start with the girl’s appearance,” his mother suggested.

  “Oh, please do, brother,” Ross piped up. “I’ve been on tenterhooks since you left.”

  John inclined his head at his brother. “Mistress Montgomery has banana-yellow hair, eyes like purple grapes, and dozens of dark freckles splattered across the bridge of her nose.”

  “Freckles?” Aunt Hester exclaimed. “Oh, Tessa, how will we ever marry the girl off?”

  “Hush.” His mother gave him a look that said she wasn’t fooled for a minute. “Continue, son.”

  “The girl dresses like a servant, talks to herself, and plays the flute.”

  “It’s worse than I thought,” Aunt Hester cried, her hands flying to her bosom. “Flute playing isn’t at all the thing. Young ladies of breeding play the pianoforte.”

  John burst out laughing. Even his mother and his brother smiled. Aunt Hester didn’t seem to mind that the girl talked to herself, only that she played the flute.

  Flicking a glance at Ross, John noted the speculative look in his brother’s expression. “Why are you staring at me?”

  Ross gave him a lazy smile. “I’d bet my last shilling that Mistress Montgomery is the loveliest woman you’ve seen in years.”

  John frowned at him. “You’d lose, brother.”

  “I think not, else you wouldn’t be working so hard to convince us of her ugliness.”

  “That thought also crossed my mind,” his mother said.

  “I dislike blondes,” John insisted, “especially impertinent pieces of baggage like Mistress Montgomery.”