Wish Upon a Duke

by Erica Ridley

  Christopher gave his deepest bow. “How are you this evening?”

  “My cat is restless.” Her head tilted. “Perhaps I should take him to the aviary.”

  “Perhaps not,” Christopher suggested hurriedly. “The population is low enough as it stands.”

  She thought this over, then nodded. “I’ll wait until there’s another bird.”

  “Miss Underwood, who is your friend?” a merry voice boomed behind them.

  They turned to grin at Fred Fawkes, a white-haired gentleman who had clerked in the castle’s counting house for decades until old age impaired his ability to continue. Although Christopher had been introduced on at least three other occasions, Mr. Fawkes never failed to be welcoming and jolly.

  “You remember Chris Pringle,” Virginia shouted into the old man’s ear.

  Mr. Fawkes frowned. “Kris Kringle, you say?”

  She took his ear trumpet and placed it to his head. “Mr. Pringle.”

  “Mr. Pringle!” The old clerk beamed at Christopher. “Do you like Christmas?”

  “Very much,” Christopher answered immediately. He wasn’t certain whether Mr. Fawkes referred to the holiday or the town, but in either case the answer was an enthusiastic yes.

  What was there not to like about a winter wonderland where one could experience the joys of Christmastide year-round? Not that he would stay that long, of course. Coming to this castle was like visiting another country. Marvelous for the first month, and then his feet itched to be off on the next adventure.

  “May I fetch either of you a refreshment from the buffet?” he asked, ensuring he kept his words loud and crisp for Mr. Fawkes.

  The old clerk chortled with more mirth than the comment deserved. “I’ll take care of that myself.”

  “What did he think I said?” Christopher whispered to Virginia as the elderly gentleman ambled toward the spiral stair leading to the guest wings.

  Virginia gazed back with wide eyes. “Can we ever truly know another’s mind?”

  “Fair enough.” He felt his spirits rise. “Perhaps the night is improving. You and Mr. Fawkes were the first to approach without inquiring after my brother’s whereabouts.”

  “I know where he is.” Her smile was self-satisfied. “The turtledove has found its nest.”

  Christopher had never thought of his brother as particularly birdlike, but the analogy was otherwise sound. After a lifetime of flitting from bed to bed, Nick had finally found his permanent home.

  “Now it is up to you to find yours,” Virginia added.

  “I am on the hunt,” Christopher assured her.

  She cast a skeptical glance about the castle’s luxurious reception hall. More footmen than guests remained. The vaulted ceiling and vast interior only made the emptiness more profound.

  At this time of the evening, most of the villagers were either abed, or wherever they intended to pass the night. The castle’s kitchen would keep the refreshment buffet stocked at all hours, but the party was clearly over.

  “I may not meet my bride tonight,” he acknowledged.

  Virginia graciously refrained from saying, Obviously.

  “I must bid you goodnight,” she murmured instead. “I must take my cat for a walk.”

  “Not to the aviary,” he reminded her.

  She nodded. “Perhaps next week.”

  After Virginia headed upstairs, Christopher turned toward the exit. Although he, too, was staying in the castle—it was the only “inn” for miles—he was far from ready to retire. Night was when the heavens came alive.

  His jaw tightened. If his prized telescope hadn’t been damaged on the trip north, he’d stay out until dawn admiring the sky.

  Especially on a night as clear as this one.

  With determination, he strode to the castle exit to see how many stars he could spy with his bare eyes. A movement not far ahead caught his interest.

  Just across the garden stood a cluster of about a dozen individuals, all with their heads tilted skyward and their fingers pointing above them.

  He stepped closer in surprise. This far from London, he was usually the only gentleman astronomer about. This motley group appeared comprised of adults and children, male and female alike.

  He turned to one of the door attendants. “Have you any idea what those people are doing?”

  “Sky-walk,” the footman replied without hesitation. “First Saturday of every month, castle guests tour the grounds, peering up at the stars.”

  A sky-walk.

  Christopher’s pulse skipped in pleasure. He could not think of anything more noble than instilling young people with respect for and knowledge of the stars. It was a calling he took quite seriously.

  Indeed, if travel was his passion, astronomy was his obsession. When a few like-minded scholars had written to inform him that they hoped to found a society of gentlemen astronomers, it had almost been enough to tempt him back to London for an extra month or two.

  Adventuring might introduce a man to foreign tongues, cuisine, and cultures, but the one constant in any far-flung corner of the globe was the sky overhead. Each constellation, each celestial body, was more familiar to him than his own reflection.

  His pulse hummed. That he should discover twin souls in a sparsely populated Christmas village, of all places… He hurried forward without waiting to summon his greatcoat. He could not let an opportunity to befriend fellow aficionados pass him by.

  As he neared the circle, it became quickly apparent that the leader of the sky-walk was not a fellow gentleman astronomer, as Christopher had presumed, but a beautiful young woman. A lady astronomer. His heart thumped. He had never met a female scholar of the stars.

  This one had thick black curls, a truly sensuous mouth, and a sensible fur-lined pelisse to protect her from the weather. Christopher was still too far away to discern the words of her current lecture. He gave up all pretense of nonchalance and began to lope across the garden to catch up with the group and meet their delightful leader in person.

  The conservative science-minded men of his acquaintance had long pooh-poohed the idea of a woman learning the intricacies of the stars, but obviously they had never met—

  “That’s right, Annie,” the lady astronomer was saying to a child. “We do call the brightest star in the sky ‘Brummell’ because it’s as shiny as a dandy’s spangled waistcoat.”

  Christopher nearly had an apoplexy on the spot. He drew up short in shock.

  To his horror, the other adults in the group clapped and nodded their agreement, as if this heretical redefinition of Polaris had come as a commandment from the Crown.

  “And that one?” asked the lady astronomer.

  Christopher shook his head approached with caution. Surely, he had misheard her.

  “Yes, that is absolutely the front wheel of a landaulet. And this one?”

  He was wrong.

  She was a madwoman.

  “Very good, Nigel!” She ruffled the woolen cap of a boy with a gap-toothed grin. “That is obviously the oar of a Viking’s wooden vessel.”

  “It is nothing of the sort,” Christopher spluttered as he shouldered his way into the group. “That is Leo Minor, identifiable due to the arrangement of the three stars visible to the naked eye and its northern celestial position between Leo and Ursa Major.”

  “Impossible,” she said without the slightest hesitation. “Nigel just said it was a rowing paddle.”

  “Nigel,” Christopher said, staring down at the apple-cheeked moppet, “is five years old.”

  “Six,” Nigel corrected.

  “Six,” Christopher agreed. “He is hardly a member of the Royal Astronomical Society.”

  “There is no Royal Astronomical Society,” the lady astronomer pointed out.

  “Is that why I’m not a member?” Nigel whispered.

  “No one who thinks Polaris is a spangle upon Beau Brummell’s waistcoat would qualify,” Christopher said. “Gentlemen astronomers are serious, science-minded scholars.”<
br />
  “Nigel isn’t a gentleman,” she replied. “Neither am I. This is our tour.”

  “But you must comprehend the difference between ‘true’ and ‘false’ information.” He jabbed his finger at the sky. “Fact: this is the North Star, not a dandy’s spangle. Fact: that is Leo Minor, not the oar of some boat.”

  “Says who?” a little girl with one mitten piped up. “If there’s no Royal Astronomical Society, then you’re not a member of it either.”

  Christopher clenched his teeth to stave off a sharp reply. They were missing the point. Lectures were meant to convey facts.

  Yet the entire group was staring at him as if he were the one who couldn’t tell Puppis from Pyxis. Lunatics, all of them.

  He could recognize a lost cause. Rather than continue trying to impose reality on people determined to ignore logic, he spun away from the group and stalked back toward the castle.

  At least the ridiculous sky-walk only occurred once a month. He’d be long gone before the next round of willful ignorance ensued. And as for the exasperating young lady leading the blind?

  He’d take care never to cross paths with her again.

  Chapter 3

  The following morning, Christopher approached the castle’s crowded public dining area with trepidation. He hoped the high passions of the previous night would not come back to haunt him. He rolled his eyes at himself for his folly.

  Two-and-thirty years without the slightest hint of scandal, only to lose his head over the proper identification of constellations.

  He sighed. Not exactly the impression a man wished to give when hoping to attract a wife. He would not be surprised if his name were now synonymous with whatever the male equivalent of “excitable bluestocking spinster” might be. It would serve him right if he were forced to cut his holiday even shorter than he had planned.

  All he could do was make the best of it. He rolled back his shoulders and strode straight into the crowded common area, come what may. No matter what the latest gossip might entail, he still needed to break his fast.

  “Mr. Pringle,” bubbled a breathless female voice. “I don’t know if you remember, but on my first day here, you recommended the white sauce for my fish. It turned out to be quite a pleasing combination of—”

  “Several of us are working on props tonight for a new play,” another young lady interrupted, practically bouncing in place. “If you’d like to stop by the amphitheater—”

  “It’s snowing,” blurted out a different young lady. “A perfect day for a sleigh ride. After we break our fast—”

  “Let him eat in peace, all of you,” scolded an older matron before treating him to a saucy wink. She lowered her voice and added, “See you in the greenhouse in thirty minutes?”

  Christopher didn’t answer. There was no opportunity to do so.

  In the quarter hour it took him to walk the twenty feet from the dining hall entrance to the first available table, dozens of young women stepped into his path to beg him to accompany them on more activities than he had even realized this tiny village offered.

  Some of the invitations were delivered with pink cheeks and a shy stammer. Others’ suggestions were so direct Christopher feared his own cheeks were in danger of blushing.

  By the time he was finally able to take refuge at a private table, his heart was thudding hard enough to rattle the handkerchief in his waistcoat.

  “What is happening?” he whispered to the first footman to pass by with tea and coffee.

  “They’ve been waiting for you for hours, milord.” The footman placed sugar on the table for the tea. “Ever since this morning’s service.”

  Sunday. Christopher’s jaw dropped in comprehension.

  The first banns announcing his brother’s betrothal had been read this morning in the local church.

  Which made him the newest commodity.

  He lifted his steaming cup to his mouth and pretended not to notice the surreptitious female glances being tossed his way.

  Was he happy now? His wish had come true. Women were climbing over each other to approach him as if he’d become his rakish brother. But something was different.

  Christopher had spent the past fortnight befriending the other guests in the castle. There were very few he didn’t recognize by name. None of the introductions have resulted in a love interest… Or much female interest at all. All eyes had been focused on Nick. Until today.

  Instead of swooning, as females were wont to do whenever Nick walked into their midst, they were presenting themselves directly to Christopher. There was no need to beg for introductions, because the formalities had already occurred.

  He’d spent a lifetime wishing to be in his brother’s place. Now that he was suddenly the object of every unwed young lady’s attention, he found it more than a bit overwhelming. He accepted toast and kippers from the next footman, but his appetite had vanished.

  This was a positive development, he assured himself. The Great Bride Hunt had become exponentially easier. With limitless options, it should take no time at all to find his missing half. Someone sweet and sensible, like-minded and logical, with a hunger to explore the world around them. The perfect partner.

  He should start by accepting a few invitations. Perhaps a courtship would blossom from there. He pushed to his feet and stepped into their midst.

  “Mr. Pringle,” cooed a woman. “I hear you like to stay up all night. So do I.”

  Another pressed the side of her bosom into his arm. “I get so lost in this big castle. Can you help me find my chamber?”

  “When you tire of her,” a third woman murmured into his ear, “I can show you things she’s never dreamed of.”

  Christopher’s stomach clenched. These women weren’t interested in him. They wanted a replacement for their favorite rake. Someone to spend a pleasurable hour with, and never see again. He did not know how to answer.

  Just like him, these women were here on holiday. Another man would have been delighted to accept any favors they might offer. But Christopher had no wish to become a copy of his brother. Nor did he wish to repeat the disastrous marriage his parents had suffered. He meant to do better. He wanted a match to last for eternity.

  “Excuse me, ladies,” he murmured. “I’ve just recalled an engagement elsewhere.”

  “Until later,” they purred. “You know where to find us.”

  One of the ladies tucked a calling card into Christopher’s jacket pocket and whispered, “Directions to my guest chamber are on the other side.”

  His plan to exit the dining hall posthaste was hampered by a dozen other ladies, begging him to meet them here or there on pretenses ranging from the mundane to nonexistent. By the time he burst out of the dining area, he’d lost count of the number of times he’d been propositioned.

  He stalked over to the spiral staircase and hurried up to the sixth floor. How on earth had his brother lived like this? Christopher had wanted the distracting rake out of the picture, not to become Nick’s surrogate. Christopher’s fingers clenched.

  Their sire would have loved this turn of events. Father believed that his ill-fated attempt to limit himself to a single woman was the cause of all the trouble in his life. He had warned his sons never to make the same mistake. Wed if you must, but keep as many mistresses as you please. The trick was finding a wife who didn’t care, not some shrew who cared too much. Love was a fairy story.

  With sermons like that at home, Saint Nick could not help but be their father’s favorite. He was living the life their father wanted for himself.

  On the other hand, bookish Christopher with his collection of globes and well-used telescope, had never been anything but a disappointment.

  Until now. The past hour fending off the amorous advances of beautiful women would have been the first time he made his father proud.

  An achievement he no longer wanted.

  He banged on his brother’s guest chamber door. That he should need advice now after a lifetime of being self-sufficient
rankled. But Christopher had never been in this position before. He needed to stop it. If there was an easy way to deflect unwanted attention without hurting feelings, Nick would know.

  But he did not answer the knock.

  Christopher raked a hand through his hair. His brother must be with his intended. Penelope Mitchell’s cottage was only a few hundred feet from the castle. He could be there in no time.

  Provided the reception area in front of the exit had not turned into a gauntlet.

  He hurried down the steps. As he feared, the public commons that had been all but vacant the night before now brimmed with activity. He lowered the brim of his hat to hide his eyes and dashed through the middle to the exit without looking up or slowing down.

  When he arrived at Penelope’s house, his brother answered the door.

  “How do you stand it?” Christopher slipped inside as if the hounds of hell nipped at his heels. “All the women competing to be the next hash mark on your bedpost?”

  “I picked one,” Nick said cheerfully. “Technically, I picked the one who used me as a hash mark on her bedpost.”

  “I can hear you,” Penelope said as she walked around the corner bearing a plate of fresh-made biscuits. “Good morning, Chris. Come join us by the fire.”

  Christopher sat on the edge of a sofa and accepted a biscuit.

  Penelope handed a stack to Nick, then set the plate next to a pair of glass turtledoves upon the mantel.

  “What’s wrong?” Nick asked, his brow lining with concern. “Did your trip get canceled?”

  Penelope leaned forward. “Are you going somewhere?”

  “Chris is always going somewhere,” Nick said with a smile. “Help me talk him into coming back at least once a year or we may never see him again.”

  “I hope to share my journeys with a wife.” Christopher lifted the calling card from his jacket pocket and flung it toward his brother. “Not with whoever wrote this.”

  Nick let out a low whistle when he discovered the handwritten bedchamber directions on the other side. “Brilliant. Who doesn’t love a woman who knows her own mind?”