Enchanting the Duke

by Patricia Grasso

  “Johnny, hatred is love turned inside out,” Aunt Hester announced.

  Ross shouted with laughter, and the dowager duchess coughed as if she were covering her merriment. John gave his aunt a wholly disgusted look and started to rise.

  “Sit down,” his mother ordered. “Tell us the rest.”

  John sat down again. She smells like violets, he thought, and has the softest lips I’ve ever kissed.

  “Well?”

  John focused on his mother. “Delphinia Montgomery, the stepmother, is a greedy witch who spawned two daughters as nasty as herself,” he told them. “They treat the girl so shabbily that she invented an imaginary friend. Not only that, but I felt obliged to promise all three of them a season in order to catch husbands. I couldn’t offer one sister a season and ignore the other two. You will need to send for London’s finest dressmakers because Mistress Montgomery does garb herself in servant clothing, which I suspect, is her stepmother’s doing.”

  “Why are you smiling?” John asked his brother.

  Ross shrugged and wiped the smile off his face. “You seem involved.”

  “I am singularly uninvolved,” John corrected him. “I am merely aggravated by the prospect of wasting a small fortune to outfit and launch three females into society.”

  “Miles Montgomery will reimburse you,” Ross said.

  “If he doesn’t lose everything he owns on this wild goose chase to America.”

  “Send Gallagher to Arden Hall to invite the Montgomerys here for Christmas,” his mother said.

  John gave his mother an incredulous look. “I beg your pardon?”

  “We can transport the dressmakers here during the holidays,” his mother said, “and all will be ready when we leave for London.”

  “I am planning to pass a peaceful Christmas with my family,” John said. “I refuse to be bothered by Mistress Montgomery and her problems.” Or her violet scent.

  “How uncharitable of you,” Aunt Hester spoke up.

  John glanced from his brother’s smiling face to the disgruntled expressions etched across the faces of his mother and aunt. “A compromise is in order,” he relented. “After Christmas, I will ride to Arden Hall and invite them for New Year’s, while Gallagher fetches the dressmakers from London.”

  “I can hardly wait for Christmas to be gone,” his brother said. “I’m dying to meet the girl who has disturbed you.”

  “Be careful, brother, or I’ll marry you off to one of the stepsisters,” John warned him. “And, I must say, I’ve never seen two plainer brunettes in my entire life.”

  “Aren’t you the one who professed a desire to wed an ugly brunette?” Ross asked. “Or has Mistress Montgomery persuaded you to prefer blondes?”

  Intending to leave, John rose from his chair and took three steps toward the mahogany double doors, but his aunt’s voice stopped him in his tracks. “Johnny, you haven’t been properly excused.”

  John turned around and gave her a thunderous glare.

  “Oh, my,” Aunt Hester said. “You are excused.”

  “Thank you, Aunt.” Without another word, John marched out of the dining room.

  Six days later, John stood in the courtyard at Avon Park and watched Gallagher driving away in the largest of the ducal coaches. His man’s destination was London, where he would remain at the ducal residence on Park Lane until the city’s finest dressmakers, milliners, glovers, and shoemakers could be gathered and escorted to Avon Park.

  As he waited for Nemesis to be brought up from the stables, John paced back and forth in buckskin breeches that molded perfectly to his muscular thighs and legs. His own destination was Arden Hall, where he would invite the four Montgomery ladies to be his guests at Avon Park during the New Year holiday.

  Finally, John left the grounds of Avon Park and turned his horse in the direction of Stratford. Arden Hall lay on the outskirts of that town, less than an hour’s ride from Avon Park.

  A powdery light blanket of snow, the first of the season, had fallen the previous evening. Now it lay melting beneath the midday sun on an unusually warm winter’s day.

  John saw few animals in the meadows he passed. Only pawprints revealed their presence as they meandered to unknown destinations. In the nearby woodland, wild roseberries adorned the evergreen hedgerow, and blackberry clusters of false Solomon’s seal nodded above the thin snow covering.

  Leaving the meadow behind, John guided Nemesis through the woodland to the Avon River. He paused a moment to savor the isolation and the idyllic winter afternoon.

  John rode south along the river for a half hour. He yanked his horse’s reins to stop as the sweet sound of musical notes wafted through the air toward him.

  Isabelle Montgomery was near. John knew that as surely as he knew he was seated atop Nemesis.

  John sat perfectly still in his saddle and tried to gauge the music’s mood. Her trilling song possessed a jaunty tone, bringing to mind the image of crisp air and sparkling water and chirping birds. This faded into a lilting melody that conjured mist and moonlight. All too soon, the flute’s notes became somber, haunting, and lonely—touching the heartstrings he’d thought severed by his late wife.

  Rounding the river’s bend, John halted his horse again. With her eyes closed as if in ecstasy, Isabelle Montgomery perched on a tree stump and played her flute.

  A reluctant smile touched his lips as he studied her perfect profile. She was the image of serene femininity. No casual observer would ever guess the extent to her unladylike impertinence.

  John wondered again how she made her flute sound as if two people were playing. Her song died, and he watched her turn her head and say, “Yes, I do believe he is the handsomest man I’ve ever seen. A tad authoritarian, don’t you think?”

  She is crazy, John decided. What a waste of great beauty. If only he could manage to keep her from talking to herself, she might be able to snare a husband.

  And therein lay his problem. The thought of Isabelle Montgomery married off to an anonymous nobleman bothered him. Immensely.

  “Who is handsome and authoritarian?” John called out, making his presence known.

  Isabelle whirled around so quickly that she lost her balance and slipped off the tree stump. Her hands flew to her chest, and her lips formed a perfect O of surprise.

  John leaped off Nemesis and hurried to her aid. He helped her up and set her on the tree stump again.

  “You shouldn’t be sneaking up on the unsuspecting,” Isabelle said.

  “And you shouldn’t be roaming these woods alone,” John countered. When she opened her mouth to reply, he smiled at her. “Merry Christmas, Mistress Montgomery.”

  Isabelle returned his smile. “Merry Christmas to you, Your Grace.”

  “My friends call me John. At least in private.”

  “Are we friends?”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  “Very well, Your Grace. I mean, John.”

  John liked the sound of his name upon her lips. “What do your friends call you?”

  Isabelle looked him straight in the eye. “I don’t have any friends.”

  “You have me,” John reminded her.

  Isabelle swept him a look from beneath the thick fringe of her blond lashes. “Miles calls me Belle.”

  “May I also call you Belle?”

  Isabelle nodded and moved several inches over on the tree stump. “Would you care to join me, John?”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” John sat beside her, so close his buckskin-clad thigh touched hers. He regretted his decision to join her when her light scent of violets teased him.

  “Are you cold?” he asked, attempting to cover his discomfort with talk. “Perhaps we should ride to Arden Hall.”

  “Where did she go?” Isabelle mumbled to herself, scanning the immediate area.

  “Who?”

  Isabelle ignored his question. “Would you like a concert?”

  John nodded, but thought how different her attitude was from what it ha
d been only six days earlier. His ward seemed glad to see him. What could possibly have brought about such a change in her?

  Isabelle raised the flute to her lips. This time her song was spritely and playful.

  “How do you make the flute sound as if two people are playing?”

  She gave him an ambiguous smile. “Woodland acoustics.”

  “Woodland acoustics, my arse.”

  “My guardian angel plays along with me,” she answered, and then winked at him.

  John smiled. “Keep your musical secrets to yourself for now, Belle.”

  Isabelle searched her mind for something to say. “If you could have whatever you wished, what would it be?”

  A loving wife and children. “I already possess everything I want.”

  “How fortunate you are.”

  “For what would you wish?” he asked.

  A faraway look appeared in her violet eyes. “Miles’s speedy return.”

  “You had something else in mind,” John said. “I could see it in your eyes.”

  “How very perceptive of you,” Isabelle said, “but a lady must save some secrets for herself.”

  Her hauntingly lovely face was close, irresistibly close. John couldn’t resist the invitation in her gaze. He placed his arm around her shoulder and started to lower his lips to hers, but then felt her tremble. The afternoon chill or something else?

  “I think we should ride to Arden Hall,” John said, drawing back. “I have a surprise for your stepsisters and you.”

  “I don’t want to go home.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m avoiding my stepmother’s nephew, Nicholas deJewell,” Isabelle answered. “He’s the Baron of Redesdale, you know.”

  John fixed his dark gaze on her. “Why are you avoiding him?”

  “Nicholas deJewell is determined to marry me,” she told him, “but I loathe the ground upon which he walks.”

  “You needn’t concern yourself with him,” John assured her. “I am now your guardian and intend to protect you from unwanted suitors.”

  Isabelle stared at him, surprise etching itself across her delicate features. “Since my father’s death when I was ten, no one has protected me from my step-family’s abuse.”

  That personal revelation confused him. “What about Miles?”

  “Miles would have protected me,” she said in defense of her brother, “but he was away at the university.”

  “You brother should have protected you.” John rose from his seat on the tree stump. “Consider me your knight in shining armor, damsel.”

  “Thank you.” Isabelle placed her hand in his. “Do not judge Miles too harshly. Learning to fight one’s own battles is a worthy endeavor.”

  John lifted her onto Nemesis and mounted behind her. The ride to Arden Hall was short but disturbing for John. Her delicate violet scent teased his senses, and the feel of her cuddled in front of him seemed natural, as if she belonged there.

  Reaching the courtyard at Arden Hall, John dismounted first and then lifted Isabelle out of the saddle. When they entered the foyer, a cacophony of noise and off-key singing assaulted their ears.

  “The others are gathered in the salon,” Pebbles informed them.

  “What is that noise?” John asked as they walked down the corridor toward the salon.

  “Someone unleashed the hounds of hell.”

  Isabelle glanced over her shoulder at Giselle, who strolled along behind them. John stopped walking, looked over his shoulder, and then cast her a puzzled glance.

  “What were you saying?” Isabelle asked.

  “I wondered about the noise,” he answered. “You said someone had unleashed the hounds of hell.”

  Isabelle stopped walking and stared at him. Confusion etched itself across her fine features, and she reached up to finger her golden locket. “You heard the words ‘someone unleashed the hounds of hell’?”

  “That is what you said, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Your Grace. I did make that remark.”

  “Call me John. Remember?”

  Isabelle smiled and reminded him, “Only in private.”

  John inclined his head. Taking her arm, he escorted her the remaining distance to the salon.

  “Lobelia is playing the pianoforte,” Isabelle said. “Rue is the vocalist.”

  The pianoforte and the off-key singing ceased when they walked into the salon. Lobelia bolted off the piano bench and dropped a curtsy. “Good afternoon, Your Grace.”

  “Your Grace,” Rue said, following her sister’s example.

  “Welcome to Arden Hall, Your Grace,” Delphinia said as she crossed the salon to greet him. “Allow me to make known to you my nephew, Nicholas deJewell, the Baron of Redesdale.

  Nicholas deJewell appeared about twenty-five, the same age as Ross. The man possessed dark brown hair and beady brown eyes and was short with a slight build. John didn’t like the way the baron was looking at Isabelle.

  “You must stay for tea,” Delphinia said, drawing his attention. “Even better, sup with us this evening.”

  “I’m afraid I must decline.” John could not stomach another evening listening to the stepsisters’ chatter. “I’ve ridden to Arden Hall to invite you to Avon Park during the New Year’s holiday. My family and I would like you to stay with us for a week or two. London’s finest dressmakers will be arriving, and my mother insists all must be in readiness for the season.”

  Lobelia and Rue squealed in apparent ecstasy. John slid his gaze to his ward, who appeared unhappy and began fingering her locket. He wondered what could possibly worry her about having a season. The slight chance that she would be unable to catch a husband?

  “Your Grace, I understand that you are now Isabelle’s guardian,” deJewell spoke up.

  John nodded.

  “I am formally requesting dear Isabelle’s hand in marriage.”

  “No.” John slid his gaze to his ward, who smiled at him. That smile of hers made him feel as lighthearted as a schoolboy.

  “The poor girl is unbalanced,” the baron said, lowering his voice. “Who else will offer for her?”

  “If that is true,” John said, “why do you want to marry her?”

  The baron shrugged. “I feel sorry for her.”

  “Save your dubious pity for those who truly need it,” Isabelle spoke up. “I wouldn’t marry you even if you were the last man in England.”

  “Isabelle Montgomery,” Delphinia gasped. “Apologize at once.”

  “I will not.”

  “Go to your chamber until you repent of your rudeness to my dear nephew.”

  “Actually, I do prefer the solitude of my chamber.” Isabelle turned away to leave the salon.

  “Mistress Montgomery, you will remain in the salon with us,” John ordered. “Lady Delphinia, Isabelle is my ward and, from this moment on, will take orders only from me.” He rounded on the baron. “I insist you return to Avon Park with me in order to await the ladies’ arrival in a day or two.”

  “Give me a few moments to pack my belongings,” deJewell said.

  John looked at Isabelle. “Will you wait in the courtyard with me? I would like to speak privately with you.”

  Isabelle acquiesced with a nod. She seemed particularly eager to escape from her stepfamily. “Thank you for that,” she whispered as they walked down the corridor to the foyer. “Why did you invite him to Avon Park?”

  “I don’t trust him,” John answered when they stood outside. “Now, tell me why the prospect of a London season frightens you.”

  “Nothing frightens me,” Isabelle said. “I’m merely worried.”

  “About what?”

  “I’ve never been away from Arden Hall,” she admitted. “I don’t actually know how to go about.”

  “My family and I will stand by your side,” John assured her. “Or would you prefer a betrothal to deJewell?”

  Isabelle snapped her beautiful violet gaze to his. “That is blackmail, Your Grace.”

  “I su
ppose so,” John agreed with her. “I do believe I hear the clinking of another black stone falling onto my scale.”

  “I will pray for your soul.”

  John grinned at her and would have spoken, but he heard the door behind them opening for Nicholas deJewell.

  Isabelle touched his forearm. “Thank you for protecting me.”

  “Damsel, thank you for allowing me to protect you,” John said, covering her hand with his own. “Perhaps there is a place for me in Heaven?”

  Isabelle gifted him with a smile that could have lit the whole mansion. “Perhaps, Your Grace.”

  Chapter 5

  The twenty-eighth day of December, the unluckiest day of the year, when no venture should begin.

  Isabelle stood at her bedchamber window and gazed at the winter’s day. Trying to clear the insecurities from her mind, she inhaled the morning’s crisp, crystalline air and then closed the ice-etched window.

  The first storm of the winter had arrived the previous evening. Unlike summer’s boisterous storms, this one had come in silence and blanketed the earth with snow.

  Frost feathered the evergreen branches of the holly trees, and icicles hung from top to bottom. Nearby, a flock of starlings had gathered on a hackberry tree to dine on its few remaining berries. Beneath the bird feeders she’d ordered erected on the lawns, small tracks in the snow wrote a thank-you note to her.

  Isabelle enjoyed this time of quiet contemplation in the year’s cycle. She savored her long, solitary evenings sitting with Giselle in front of the hearth in her bedchamber. They’d always spoken of her future and the dark prince who would one day come to rescue her.

  Fingering her golden locket, Isabelle suffered the uncanny feeling that her life would never be the same. Superstition held that this was the unluckiest day in the year for beginning new ventures. Perhaps she could delay her visit until tomorrow.

  “Child, what good would it do to delay the inevitable?”

  Isabelle saw Giselle sitting in one of the chairs in front of the hearth. “Did I mention that the duke heard you speaking?”

  “A dozen times, at least.”

  “What do you think it means?”

  Giselle shrugged.

  “If the Duke of Avon is the dark prince,” Isabelle said, “I don’t wish to be rescued. His Grace is too arrogant.”