Sophie Barnes

by The TroubleWith Being a Duke

  “He didn’t give me one, but he showed me a picture, miss—one that looked an awful lot like you, if you don’t mind my saying so. I might be mistaken of course, given that there was a mask covering part of the face, but I’m familiar enough with your features to be sure.” Her gaze dropped to the floor and she quietly said, “It was a very good drawing.”

  Isabella sucked in a breath. Good Lord! She swallowed hard as she tried to collect herself and stop her hands from trembling. “What did you tell him?” She grasped the fabric of her skirt and twirled it between her fingers.

  Lifting her gaze, Marjorie looked directly at Isabella. “That I didn’t recognize the woman in the picture.” She paused momentarily before adding, “I think he believed me, for he seemed rather disappointed and left shortly after.”

  Isabella nodded. “You did the right thing by not telling him that I live here. Thank you.”

  The corners of Marjorie’s mouth tightened into an odd little smile. “There’s something else you ought to know, miss. He said he’d be back tomorrow.”

  “What?” This wasn’t happening, it simply was not.

  “Forgive me, but he’d already inquired as to when it might be more likely for him to encounter Mr. Chilcott before I realized that he was looking for you. I’m sorry if this puts you in a difficult position.”

  “It’s all right, Marjorie.” Isabella’s voice sounded faint to her own ears. She felt light-headed and on the verge of falling into a state of panic. “You didn’t know.”

  “Once again, I’m truly sorry,” Marjorie said, bobbing a curtsy as she exited the room, closing the door behind her.

  Isabella sat in perplexed silence for a long while after. He’d found her, and all because he’d caught her off guard the previous evening during the fireworks display. She was sure that had to be it, because she’d been careful otherwise.

  Blast!

  Her mind whirled as she tried to think of how best to address the situation. He might be back tomorrow, but he still didn’t know that he’d found her. Perhaps she could talk to her father—warn him of the duke’s impending visit. And, she decided, she’d have to tell her mother as well. Isabella dropped her head into her hands at the thought of it and groaned. After their argument the previous evening, she’d rather hoped to avoid having to discuss the Kingsborough Ball with her again—had hoped that they could just carry on as if it had never happened. She didn’t want to tell her mother any more lies though.

  With a deep sigh of resignation, she pulled herself together, rose to her feet and headed for the kitchen. She’d ask Marjorie to help her prepare a cup of hot cocoa. Cocoa made everything better—especially when it was served with scones topped with cream and strawberry jam.

  “Of all the stupid things you could possibly do,” Isabella heard her mother say as they sat across from one another at the dining room table that evening. Her father, seated at the head of the table, was being his usual nonconfrontational self and had said nothing as of yet. “Have you no pride?”

  “Of course I do, Mama. This has nothing to do with that. The duke—”

  “I beg to differ,” her mother said, cutting Isabella off and pointing her fork directly at her daughter as if it had been a sword. “You’ve made a mockery of the Kingsboroughs by sneaking about the way you did, acting as if you had a right to be there. I daresay the duke will be incensed when he discovers the truth about you, and then where will we be? Only the Regent holds more power than a duke, Isabella. What if he decides to have you arrested? I’m sure he can find a way if that’s what he wishes, or worse, he might insist on making you his mistress.”

  Isabella blanched. “He would never make such a demand,” she muttered. “He was kind toward me even though he knew I’d told him a Banbury tale. He knew me to be an imposter, and yet he allowed me to stay, as did his mother.”

  “Hmf!” her mother retorted, taking a sip of her wine. “And that doesn’t worry you? You’re a bigger fool than I thought, Isabella.”

  Isabella had been in the middle of cutting a piece of chicken, but she paused at her mother’s words and slowly raised her head to look at her. “What do you mean?”

  Her mother took a deep breath. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that he should have tossed you out?” Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “Did he make any advances on you?”

  Isabella dropped her gaze. Her cheeks were burning as she quietly said, “He kissed me.”

  “And you let him?” Her mother’s tone was sharp and accusing.

  “I . . .” A sigh of defeat escaped Isabella’s lips. “Yes.”

  “Then I am right—as unfortunate as that is. He has designs on you. That’s why he didn’t ask you to leave. His mother’s wishes would have been inconsequential. He’s the duke, and judging from what you’ve just told us, it’s quite clear that he was—”

  “That’s enough!” Isabella watched in stunned silence as her mother froze, her mouth dropping open in response to her husband’s outburst. She turned her head toward him. Isabella turned too. “Nobody is going to make a mistress of my daughter,” he said, his voice deep and rough and desperately protective. “I’ll meet with the duke and explain the situation properly to him. I’m sure he’ll understand.” He looked at his wife. “And I would like to caution you, madam, against speaking of such things when there are children present—it’s unbecoming.”

  They all turned to look at Jamie, who was seated opposite her father at the other end of the table, eyes wide with interest. She looked vastly entertained by the discussion taking place, but she wisely fixed her attention on her meal, quite possibly hoping that this would make her invisible.

  “I only meant to draw attention to the severity of the situation,” Isabella’s mother said, her tone a little softer than before as she turned her gaze away from her youngest daughter and regarded her husband instead. “It’s obvious that she’s caught the duke’s attention, so if he’s out looking for her, it’s also obvious that he wants her.”

  “He’s known to be a reasonable man, love. I’m sure he’ll leave Isabella in peace once I’ve had a word with him.”

  Isabella doubted it. After all, she’d told him repeatedly that they couldn’t be together. As if to confirm this fear, her mother said with incredulity, “Reasonable? He’s one of the worst rakes this country’s ever seen! Why, he and that friend of his were notorious for leaving a blazing trail of ruined maidens behind them in their youth.”

  Isabella saw her father frown. “I believe that’s highly exaggerated, my dear, not to mention that the duke is older now and has proven himself quite responsible these past five years or however long it’s been . . . I forget.”

  “All I can say,” Isabella’s mother said, “is once a rake, always a rake, and a duke is a dangerous man to meddle with to begin with. You know as well as I that these sorts expect to have their way.”

  There was a look in her mother’s eye that Isabella couldn’t quite place as she stared back at her husband—as if the two of them were sharing a silent exchange.

  Jamie’s fork clattered against her plate as she accidentally dropped it, distracting Isabella from her pondering. “What if she’s right, Papa?” she asked in a muted tone. “What if he won’t listen?”

  “Then we may have to resort to different measures.”

  “Such as?” Isabella’s mother asked, her eyes still riveted upon her husband.

  “Such as encouraging Mr. Roberts to propose right away. Once you’re married, the duke will have no choice but to abandon all thought of you.”

  It was true, and a simple plan. Yet Isabella felt her shoulders slump as she expelled a deep breath. There was a feeling of emptiness inside her that she feared might never be filled. Pushing back the tears that threatened at the thought of marrying a man she did not love when the man she truly desired had declared himself eager to court her, she stabbed a piece of chicken with her fork. It was a fate she would have to accept. Social standing would make it difficult for the Duke of Kingsborou
gh to show any interest in making her his duchess, and it was unlikely he’d wish to once her father spoke to him. Her mother was right. If he still wanted her after discovering that she was nothing more than the daughter of a carriage driver, he’d want her as his mistress. It was disheartening to consider, but in this instance she had to agree with her mother—being realistic was of far greater importance than being romantic.

  Chapter 12

  As was to be expected, Mr. Roberts appeared at precisely three o’clock the following day, dressed in a moss green velvet jacket and a pair of dark brown buckskin breeches with newly buffed Hessians to match. “Miss Chilcott,” he said, bowing toward Isabella as he entered the parlor. “You look lovely today. I see that you took my suggestion of tying a cerulean blue ribbon in your hair to heart.”

  He did not smile as he said it but managed to maintain the perfectly bland expression that Isabella had come to expect from him. The ribbon had been her mother’s suggestion, since Isabella had no recollection of him having mentioned any such thing—probably because he’d said it during one of her woolgathering moments. And although she hated having ribbons tied in her hair (they always got in the way or came loose to dangle in one’s eyes), she had submitted herself to her mother’s command. It was vital that she got Mr. Roberts to offer for her as soon as possible, and given his character, this was more likely to be accomplished if Isabella showed herself to be agreeable. “Yes,” she heard herself say as they took their seats on the sofa across from her parents. “I believe it was very sound advice.”

  With a nod of approval, Mr. Roberts’s gaze slid sideways. “Ah, the infamous apple pie,” he said. “It looks even better than I remember.”

  Isabella stifled a groan while her mother did the honor of serving them all a slice and pouring tea.

  “I trust you have all been well since I last saw you,” Mr. Roberts said, following a bite of pie with a sip of tea.

  “Very much so,” Isabella’s mother said. Her voice was completely level, and she even managed what looked to be a genuine smile. There was absolutely no trace of the tension that was surely strung as tight as a bow inside her. “And you, Mr. Roberts? Has business been good for you this past week?”

  “It has been acceptable—not too busy and not too slow.” He set his cup on its saucer, leaned back against the sofa and folded his hands in his lap, saying nothing further.

  Isabella reached for the pie. She’d already had one piece, but she felt the need to occupy herself with something, and eating pie—even though it was apple and she’d grown quite tired of that particular flavor—felt like a useful way to accomplish this. But just as she picked up the knife, Mr. Roberts said, “Not that I mean to pass judgment, Miss Chilcott, but I do wish you would have a care for your figure.”

  Her grip on the knife tightened. Would it be so terrible if she stabbed the man to death right there on the sofa?

  Feeling her mother’s eyes upon her, Isabella took a calming breath, set the knife aside and turned her head to look at Mr. Roberts directly, saying, “I was actually hoping that you might like to go for a stroll with me after tea.” This had been her parents’ idea, for they had deemed it safer for Isabella to be out of the house in case the duke stopped by. It would also offer her a bit of alone time with Mr. Roberts, which was meant to encourage him in his pursuit of her.

  Mr. Roberts nodded thoughtfully as he plucked a piece of lint from his jacket. “Yes, that would be most agreeable—the weather is ideal for a stroll about town. Perhaps we can find a new pair of gloves for you.”

  Isabella frowned. “That’s very thoughtful of you, but I already have a perfectly good pair.”

  His grimace was so subtle that Isabella probably wouldn’t have noticed it if she’d been sitting a little further away from him. The message was clear—he did not approve of the gloves she currently owned, which caused her to wonder what else he might disapprove of and, more to the point, how much of herself she’d have to change in order for him to find her acceptable. After all, two criticisms in the space of one minute were hardly indicative of a happy future.

  The duke had taken no issue with her appearance—on the contrary, his appreciation for her had shone in his eyes. True, she’d been wearing an evening gown, but she’d begun to suspect that no matter what she wore, she’d never elicit a look of desire, longing or anything that even bordered on the emotional from Mr. Roberts. He was like a statue—perfect, but cold.

  “Consider it a gift,” he said as he rose to his feet in one fluid movement. “Besides, a lady ought to own more than one pair.”

  Isabella rose as well and accepted the arm Mr. Roberts offered her. He thanked her parents for their company, assured them that he would take exceptionally good care of their daughter and then proceeded to escort Isabella down the garden path and out the front gate.

  “Lovely weather, don’t you think?” Mr. Roberts asked as they made their way along Brook Street.

  “Yes, it is,” Isabella agreed. Trust Mr. Roberts to commence their conversation by discussing something as mundane as the weather. Typical. They continued on in silence until they reached Church Lane, when, feeling as if she ought to try to discover something more meaningful about Mr. Roberts, Isabella said, “Do you read?”

  “Certainly,” he said. “I read the papers every morning.”

  It was difficult for her not to roll her eyes at that response, particularly since she knew he was being serious. “I am speaking of books, Mr. Roberts—do you enjoy reading books?”

  His face looked suddenly strained, as if he found the question uncomfortable in some way. “If you’re referring to novels, Miss Chilcott, I must admit I’ve never bothered with the stuff—waste of time if you ask me.”

  Isabella’s heart sank. They had less in common than she’d dared imagine.

  “I hope you’re not the sort who likes to while away the hours by reading all those ridiculous tales,” he continued. “For if you are, I’ll have no choice but to insist you stop doing so once we are married. There will be far more practical things for you to attend to, such as the daily running of the household, our wardrobes, which must be renewed seasonally, and of course the matter of . . . ahem . . . producing children.”

  Isabella had been certain that her heart had dropped as far as it possibly could with his previous statement. She’d been wrong. In one halfhearted remark, Mr. Roberts had alluded to their marriage as a certainty even though he had not yet proposed and she had not yet accepted. Additionally, he had a very clear notion of what he expected of her once they were married, and the thought of having to give up on reading as well was more than she could bear. “I cannot imagine a life without books in it,” she muttered, more to herself than to him.

  He heard her anyway, for he gently patted her hand with his and said, “You’ll adjust soon enough, for I do believe that your chores will keep you much too busy to even consider lazing about with a book—at least not with those kinds of books. If you wish to read the ledgers, then that’s another matter.”

  Feeling a desperate urge to scream but knowing how little that would accomplish, Isabella clenched her jaw tightly and took a deep, steadying breath. He might have had the means to dress her in costly gowns and jewels, but she was quickly becoming aware that life with Mr. Roberts would be the very opposite of comfortable—indeed, it promised to be hell.

  Her options were few however. Dreaming about the duke was pointless. He wouldn’t want her as his duchess, of this she was certain. And if she didn’t marry Mr. Roberts, she’d likely end up becoming a spinster unless she married a man with a lower status and income.

  Her parents would be terribly disappointed with either of these results, not to mention that she’d have difficulty helping them financially. And they needed help. As it was they could barely afford Marjorie, but her mother insisted that proper ladies did not involve themselves in the preparation of food, nor did they clean. So her parents managed as best they could, hoping that Isabella would marry well. />
  There was also Jamie to consider. Isabella desperately wanted her to have more of a choice than she herself did once the time came for Jamie to marry. No, she really couldn’t allow herself to be selfish when it came to her future. There was too much at stake.

  “Come along,” Mr. Roberts told her as they turned on to Main Street. “Stop dragging your feet. A lady should keep a decent pace—neither too slow nor too fast. If you follow my lead, you’ll manage quite nicely, I believe.”

  The tempting thought of hitting Mr. Roberts over the head with her reticule flashed through Isabella’s mind. She forced a smile instead. “I shall endeavor to please you, Mr. Roberts,” she said, hoping that her tone didn’t really sound as sarcastic as it did to her own ears.

  “Splendid,” Mr. Roberts said as he guided her across the road toward the glove shop on the other side. “I knew I could count on you to be agreeable—it’s one of the things I like best about you.”

  Isabella winced. In her opinion, agreeable was one of the worst descriptions a person could attach to their character, for it indicated weakness and a willingness to submit to the needs of others. She hated how well it suited her current state of being, especially since she didn’t usually consider herself the agreeable sort; she was much too argumentative by nature. But, in regards to Mr. Roberts, she had no choice but to suppress her instinct to argue, or he might decide to cast her aside like a dishrag, and as desirable as such an outcome might be to her, she knew it would put a strain on her family.

  “Here we are,” Mr. Roberts said when they arrived in front of the shop. He opened the door and held it while Isabella stepped inside. Following her he added, “If I recall from my previous visit, the gloves are on the shelves behind the counter.”

  It wasn’t a large shop, and with three other customers inside, Isabella thought it a bit cramped. “Perhaps we should come back another time,” she suggested.