by Jen Turano
“Nonsense,” he countered as he smiled wider than ever, revealing teeth that she only then noticed were somewhat yellow. “That’s a balmy breeze if I’ve ever felt one and feels refreshing after suffering the closeness of the ballroom.”
Isadora forced a smile of her own, although she couldn’t be certain it was a pleasant one. “Perhaps I’m coming down with more than a simple chill and have already caught a cold. If that is the case, I’ll understand if you’d rather not waltz with me to spare you the chance of procuring an illness.”
The duke waved that aside before he pulled her into motion and began moving at a snail’s pace toward the cottage. “All three of my previous wives were constantly plagued with one illness after another, but I’ll have you know I never once suffered the annoyance of catching any of their many and varied illnesses.”
“You’ve had three wives?”
“Indeed.”
“What happened to them?”
“They’re . . . no longer with us. Died far before their time. Terribly tragic for me, of course.”
“I am sorry for your losses. I imagine your children must have suffered somewhat dreadfully when their mothers died.”
“Not one of my wives was capable of bearing children,” he said in an offhanded manner before he stopped walking and turned his full attention to Isadora. “I’m now in desperate need of an heir and a spare, which is why I’ve decided to look for my next wife in America. From what I’ve been told, Americans are a hardy breed, and—” his gaze traveled the length of her person—“fertile.”
Wishing she’d misheard him but knowing he’d spoken the word fertile out loud, Isadora struggled to think of something to say to that, breathing a sigh of relief when the duke opened his mouth again, apparently having more to say, although she did hope it wasn’t about fertility.
“From what I’ve been able to gather, you’re known to be quite the accomplished young lady, and I heard tell you attended Miss Gibbons’ School for Girls.”
“How flattering to discover you’ve been making inquiries about me,” Isadora murmured.
“I’ve always believed flattery is the fastest way to impress a young lady.” The duke chuckled, sending his two chins jiggling. “Flattery aside, though, allow us to return to Miss Gibbons’ School for Girls. Should I assume you received a thorough education there?”
“As thorough as one would expect from a school that educates girls, although I wouldn’t claim my education rivaled that of my brothers.”
“And thank goodness for that,” the duke said with a bob of his head. “We gentlemen do not want our ladies to be too intelligent. All we truly want is for our ladies to possess a beautiful face and figure.”
His gaze sharpened as it traveled over her person, leaving her distinctly uncomfortable, before he lifted his head and settled his attention on her face. “Your bone structure is truly remarkable, and I don’t believe I’ve ever seen eyes that particular color of blue.” He leaned closer and peered into her eyes. “Sapphire, I would say is the color, although they might appear such a dark blue because of the darkness of your hair, and then there’s your . . .” He drew back, and his gaze dropped to the neckline of her gown, where it stayed as he seemed to lose his train of thought.
Not caring to be looked over as if she’d turned into a piece of prime horseflesh, Isadora cleared her throat. “I’m sure there must be attributes gentlemen appreciate in ladies other than mere physical appearance.”
The duke dragged his gaze away from her neckline and shrugged. “I suppose that does have merit because I’ve long thought a lady’s allure is increased when she possesses skill in the feminine arts such as painting and flower arranging. I also imagine most gentlemen expect ladies to be accomplished with musical instruments while having the ability to sing a pretty song without setting the dogs to howling.” He patted her arm. “May I dare hope you’re a lady possessed of great talent with all the feminine arts?”
“I’ve never set dogs to howling, although—”
“How lovely,” the duke interrupted before she could admit that her singing had been known to send dogs scurrying out of the room. “And what of poetry? I must admit I find it enjoyable to discuss poetry with the ladies.”
“I prefer discussing novels over poetry.”
The duke arched a sandy-colored brow. “My dear girl, you must abandon reading novels posthaste. Novels are only suitable for the simpleminded, and you would not care for anyone to believe you’re simpleminded, would you?”
Even though she’d been instructed by numerous decorum instructors to maintain an attitude of agreeableness whenever she was in the company of men, Isadora found herself incapable of agreeing with that nonsense. “I don’t believe anyone could claim that novels such as The Scarlet Letter or Moby Dick are meant for the simpleminded. They’re literary masterpieces, and as such, they expand the mind, not simplify it, and are two of my most treasured reads.” She conjured up a smile when she realized she might be grimacing. “I also enjoy all the works of Jane Austen, finding her books to be very well written, as well as entertaining.”
The duke gave a wave of a lace-embellished sleeve. “You’re far too young to comprehend the dangers novels pose to the feminine mind. But take it from someone older and far wiser, you must discontinue such reading at once.”
Drawing herself up to her full height, a height she just then noticed was superior to the duke’s, Isadora opened her mouth, only to be denied a response when the duke continued speaking.
“May I dare hope that, unacceptable reading habits aside, you’re competent on the back of a horse?”
She swallowed the argument she’d been about to make regarding novels and nodded. “I’ve been told I have a good seat, Your Grace. I was taught how to ride by my father, an expert horseman.”
“Your instruction came from your father, not a trained riding instructor?”
“My father, Frederick Delafield, is considered an expert horseman, so there was no need to hire on an instructor.”
“That does pose a problem since American men aren’t known to sit a horse properly,” the duke said, more to himself than to Isadora. “But no matter. I have plenty of competent instructors at my beck and call. They will certainly be able to bring your riding skills up to snuff if I come to the decision you’re suitable for what I need in a . . . well, no need to get ahead of ourselves quite yet.”
Her cheeks suddenly felt overly warm, even with the breeze still blowing in off the ocean. “American gentlemen are not lacking in their riding skills, sir,” she replied, astonished that she couldn’t seem to stop herself from arguing with the man, no matter that she knew she was courting disaster by doing so. “Nor are they inferior to any Englishman, as can be seen by their ingenuity in creating vast fortunes through the sweat of their brow and by their unrivaled thirst for advancing their many and varied business interests.”
The duke patted her arm again. “My dear girl, because of my noble birth, I possess a superior intellect over most men, not simply Americans. Despite that indisputable fact, though, allow me to simply say that American men prove their inferiority by the mere idea they’ve had to use the sweat of their brows to garner their fortunes. We Englishmen, especially those of us of the aristocratic set, never stoop to manual labor.”
“My goodness, but it does seem to me as if the two of you are getting on famously,” Hester suddenly exclaimed, appearing from out of nowhere, as if she’d been lurking in the shadows and realized a timely reappearance was needed. “And forgive me for interrupting, but we wouldn’t want the duke to miss his waltz, now, would we?” she asked, narrowing her eyes ever so slightly at Isadora before she turned back to the duke and smiled. “May I dare hope you’ve been able to become better acquainted with my daughter?”
“Indeed.” The duke returned Hester’s smile. “She’s a delightful young lady, and I’m so relieved to learn she did attend Miss Gibbons’ School for Girls—a school I’ve heard is quite exclusive, althou
gh not as exclusive as the schools in England.”
For the briefest of seconds, Hester’s smile dimmed, but then she hitched it back into place. “You’ll find that my Isadora has received a most impressive education, Your Grace. And add in the notion that she’s perfectly capable of presiding over the most elaborate society . . .”
As Hester launched into what amounted to nothing less than a long list of accomplishments, Isadora couldn’t help but feel as if she really had turned into a prized piece of horseflesh being brought up for auction. It was not a feeling she cared for in the least and another bout of temper clawed its way through her, temper that was apparently responsible for what she heard spill through her lips before she could stop herself.
“Shall I open my mouth so the two of you may inspect my teeth?”
Hester stopped talking and her lips thinned, but then she let out a titter and rapped Isadora with her fan, although it wasn’t a loving rap and might very well have left a bruise.
“What a wonderful sense of humor you have, darling, but do know that you might want to allow the duke more time to become better acquainted with you before you bring out that humor again. We wouldn’t want him to conclude you have a sarcastic side, would we?”
Not allowing Isadora a second to answer that absurd question, Hester took hold of the duke’s other arm and, in a blink of an eye, steered them through the French doors and into the ballroom of the grand cottage.
The duke paused directly inside the doorway, waiting there as if he wanted to ascertain if all the guests would take note of their appearance, which, of course, they did.
Silence settled over the ballroom as practically everyone gazed their way, reminding Isadora of brightly colored birds of prey that had just found their next meal.
Glittering tiaras sparkled under the light cast from the numerous chandeliers, and then gloved hands were raised as the silence disappeared and excited whispers began running rampant through the ballroom.
“Your Grace,” someone exclaimed, rushing up to join them. That someone turned out to be none other than Mrs. Stuyvesant Fish, one of the worst gossips society had ever known. “I was hoping you’d reappear soon. I convinced Mr. Davis to hold off having the orchestra begin the waltz, but I must say—” she leaned closer—“the guests were beginning to grow restless, and Mr. Davis does so long to create an amusing night here at his new cottage.” She straightened and gestured to the room at large, drawing even more attention their way.
She nodded to their host for the evening, Mr. Davis, a thin gentleman who was standing a few feet away from them. “His Grace has now reappeared, and with our lovely Miss Delafield in tow, so if you’ll instruct the orchestra to pick up their instruments, Mr. Davis, we’ll get the waltz underway without further delay.”
Knowing there was no choice but to take to the floor, since doing otherwise would guarantee tongues would continue to wag, and not in a favorable fashion, Isadora soon found herself being escorted by the duke across the ballroom floor.
It took a great deal of effort to keep a smile on her face, especially when the duke kept inclining his head in a regal manner to every guest they passed, exactly as if those guests were his loyal subjects and he, being a magnanimous sort, was bestowing favor upon them.
Once they reached the very center of the ballroom, he released his hold on her and presented her with a bow, smiling in clear approval when she dipped into a perfect curtsy, then straightened.
“Lovely,” he murmured right as the first note sounded. He then took hold of her hand and swept her into motion, treading on her foot in the process.
Resisting a wince, she soon found herself participating in one of the most unusual conversations she’d ever shared with a dance partner, the topic of that conversation being the proficiency of the duke’s waltzing abilities.
“You’re most fortunate in being given the opportunity of taking to the floor with me,” he said as he stepped on her foot again. “That’s twice you’ve put a foot out of place, my dear, but do know that I’m an expert at making my partners appear flawless with their steps, no matter their inadequacies.” With that, he twirled her around with a flourish, almost knocking her into a couple that quickly darted out of their way.
Vowing then and there that she was never going to take to the floor with the duke again, Isadora wobbled for a second until she regained her balance. Lifting her head, she discovered the duke watching her with a condescending smile, as if it had been her fault she’d lost her balance in the first place.
“Shall we continue—and with a bit less theatrics, if you please?” he asked, taking a firm grip of her hand and twirling her around without allowing her the courtesy of a response.
“It’s encouraging to discover you’re a lady who seems to possess a most vigorous attitude,” the duke all but panted after he finished twirling her around again and they were facing each other. “I cannot recall a time when a lady has managed to keep up with me, but that vigor you embrace is exactly what I’ve been searching for in a young lady. Pair that with your lovely hips, ones I haven’t neglected to notice should be well suited for childbearing, and I’m sure you’ll be delighted to learn my interest in you is increasing by the second.”
Never having had a gentleman remark on her hips before, nor been in the company of a man who was so pompous and full of himself that he seemed incapable of realizing he’d crossed a boundary line that was never supposed to be crossed, Isadora could only pray the waltz would come to a swift end. Before that hoped-for event could occur, though, she suddenly felt his finger glance over the very top of her neckline.
“Ah, lovely indeed,” he rasped.
Without allowing herself a moment to reconsider, she placed her foot directly in the path his foot was about to take. As he stumbled over it, his arms went flailing about, which had the immediate result of him releasing his hold on her. Without bothering to see what happened next, Isadora abandoned the etiquette rules she always adhered to, spun on her heel, and stalked off the ballroom floor, leaving the duke and his infuriating attitude behind.
Chapter 3
THREE DAYS LATER
NEW YORK CITY
“Forgive me for being blunt, Izzie, but you’ve apparently gone completely mad.”
Isadora tilted her parasol and settled her attention on Miss Beatrix Waterbury, her very best friend and the only person to ever call her Izzie. That Beatrix was currently scowling as she manned the oars of the rowboat they’d rented at Central Park spoke volumes since Beatrix was a lady normally possessed of a sunny disposition.
“I’ve not taken leave of my wits, Beatrix. I’m simply trying to avoid marriage to the Duke of Montrose, a gentleman I find utterly repulsive.”
Beatrix stopped rowing. “Do you not think fleeing from New York in what I can only believe is a flight of fancy might be taking matters a bit too far?”
“Have I ever struck you as a lady inclined to flights of fancy?”
“Well, no, which takes me back to my earlier statement regarding the soundness of your mind.”
Isadora set aside her parasol, leaned forward, then took hold of the oars Beatrix had now completely abandoned. Giving them a tug, which only succeeded in moving the rowboat forward a few inches, she frowned. “This rowing is far more difficult than I imagined. How is it that you’re so adept at it?”
Beatrix shoved aside a red curl that had escaped its pins, blowing out a breath of clear exasperation. “Do not think you can distract me so easily from the matter at hand. But to answer your question, I’ve been rowing for years. My brothers taught me when I was all of five years old, and we would take our small boats out on the Hudson while visiting our country estate in Tarrytown.”
“You never invited me to go rowing with you in our youth, and our country estate is but a mile away from yours.”
Beatrix rolled her green eyes. “Do you honestly believe your mother would have allowed you to go off on the Hudson alone with me?”
“Probably not,�
�� Isadora admitted before she smiled. “Unless I brought a brigade of servants with me to man the boat and make certain we stuck to the shoreline.”
“Which would have been no fun at all. So, moving back to your flight of fancy . . .”
“It’s not a flight of fancy. It’s a desperate attempt on my part to escape a marriage my mother is determined to see take place.”
“Your mother has always been difficult, but she’s not a completely unreasonable woman. I’m certain if the two of you were to sit down and discuss this situation rationally, she’d eventually conclude that this duke is not the gentleman you’re meant to wed.”
Isadora tugged on one of the oars, which sent the boat turning to the right. “Mother is not presently in a rational frame of mind. She actually banished me from Newport three days ago, insisting I return to the city until I agree to pen a pretty letter of apology to the duke, begging his forgiveness for giving him what amounted to the cut direct.” She shuddered. “I cannot imagine the gossip that must be swirling around Newport. You know everyone will have taken note that I’m no longer there, which will then have their tongues wagging most assiduously.”
Beatrix’s nose wrinkled. “Your mother does loathe having even a whiff of gossip about your family.”
“Exactly, but she should have known that banishing me from the summer social season would have the gossips coming out in droves. That right there proves my point about her not being in a rational frame of mind. That’s one of the reasons why I’m fleeing from New York until word can reach my father that I need his assistance.”
“Isn’t your father traveling around the world again on his yacht?”
“He is.”
“He could be gone for months.”
“Possibly, but I have high hopes he’ll return to enjoy the hunting season come fall. And my brothers are gallivanting around Europe, so they can’t help me either.”