by Sophia Nash
“Yes?”
“Look, I’m not here to debate philosophers. Now, what are you going to do about Prinny’s demand?”
“Take a decision.” He halted. “Eventually.”
“When?” Only this particular young lady would dare to press him.
“When I’m ready.” He stopped himself from folding his arms over his chest.
“I see.”
She didn’t appear to see beyond the end of her nose.
“Well, I choose not to try our sovereign’s patience,” she continued stiffly. “I don’t avoid decisions.” Her lips pursed for a moment before relaxing. She tilted her chin.
He studied the determined look in her eyes. “But sometimes to act without full consideration can lead to regret.”
“Is that all you have to say on the matter?”
“Is something more required?”
“Yes,” she said.
He was far better than she at ignoring bait.
“Well,” she continued, her face becoming more pale by the second, “I shall dare to suggest the obvious if you will not.”
A small breeze passed through the branches of the trees in the garden, casting a play of shadow and light over her face. He could see flecks of gold near her irises. She had been headstrong during her girlhood. But willfulness often went hand in hand with courage. The latter she had in abundance. What was the matter with her today? He’d never seen her so ill at ease, so—
“James—” She abruptly stopped.
The hairs on the back of his neck rose. Why on earth would she use his given name? Few had ever used that name except—
“I realize you’ve little interest in contemplating another trip to the altar, given your past failed attempt, or rather, attempts, but . . . Well, the thing of it is . . .” Her eyes held steady on his but her voice had become reed thin. “Yes . . . indeed”—she finally careened toward a conclusion—“the reason for my visit is to propose a union.”
He blinked. “You’re here to suggest a bride for me?” He’d never been hoarse in his life. “Isabelle, I’ve always condescended to allow you a far greater amount of informality of manner than I should. I do it because of your connection to the royal entourage and because your father was a great friend. But there is a limit, and you’ve reached it.” He should tell her to mind her own bloody disasters. No one told him what to do—not even the Prince Regent.
Time seemed to slow as he watched her raise her hand to brush something from the lapel of his blue superfine coat. She was staring at her fingers, and a bee buzzed near a spray of flowers on the side of her elegant bonnet. He was suddenly caught between opposing desires to grasp her still, small hand and pull her into his arms—the army of servants beyond the windows be damned—and yet he also knew he should push her fingers away and end this disastrous interview.
“James Fitzroy, will you do me the honor of becoming my husband?” Her voice was now clear and steady. “Or not?”
He went still. “I beg your pardon?”
She removed her stiff hand from his lapel. “It’s simple enough, isn’t it? You and I have been ordered by the Prince Regent to find spouses, and I am asking if you would like to marry”—she lowered her voice—“me.”
His mind restarted.
She rushed on. “It would solve so many problems, no? Kill two crows with one—oh, never mind the analogy.” She stopped. “So shall we . . . ?”
He stared at her.
“Marry?” Her voice was now a whisper.
“My dear, why ever would you choose someone twice your age? Why, I could be your father.”
Her faced flushed. “You were twelve when I was born. I highly doubt you could sire children at that age.”
He said not a word. The sounds of a summer reigned. Birds sang in the sky, crickets sawed in the grass, horses whinnied in the mews, and he could not form a reply to save his life.
Her voice rose an octave. “Father might have been your friend in the latter part of his life, but he was also your godfather the earlier part. Do you have a better argument against a union?”
She knew nothing of the world. Nothing of life. She might have learned the vast array of intricacies involved with running estates with her quickness of mind, but she was not ready for the restraints and certain disappointments of tying herself to someone for the next half century or more. But she was unlikely to acknowledge this truth. Part of being young and innocent was not accepting that one was young and innocent.
“I will call off Prinny,” he said quietly. “There’s no need for you to marry yet. You were never part of the equation that night. And you should enjoy a few more years of freedom—freedom to live your life, oversee March property the way a Tremont would see fit, before you tie yourself to a gentleman, who will try to put his own stamp on your lands.” He could not stop himself now. “By God, Isabelle, pay homage to your forebearers who were determined not to let a future generation’s failure to produce male progeny be the end of the duchy.”
“You’re worried about the original Duke of March’s wishes? He’s been dead for three hundred years.”
Words failed him once again. If he had not been a gentleman, he would have shaken her. If only to stop himself from giving in to temptation to do something far more wicked. God, what had he done to deserve such wretchedness?
“Do you want to marry me or not?” She studied her gloves once more. “Or do you have more arguments to—”
“I do,” he replied quietly.
She hesitated, dark hope clouding her expression. “You ‘do’ what? You accept my offer or you have further excuses?”
“Enough,” he insisted. He resisted the urge to loosen the damned knot of his neck cloth that was strangling him.
Her expression was odd. “And that is your answer?”
He stared at the innocence of her face and hated himself as it withered.
“Damn you,” she finally whispered.
His dogs appeared on either side of him and sat at attention. “Isabelle . . . my dearest—”
“I am not your dearest anything. You might be the premier duke of England, but I am your equal in rank. Do not condescend to me. I’m the bloody Duchess of March.”
He bowed slightly. “Indeed, you are.”
She labored on, her chin rising with each word. “I’d hoped you’d at least consider the offer. Have you not always insisted that reason and duty should be behind every vital decision? Is not marriage of primary importance?”
“You are correct.”
She waited a beat. “Well?”
“I can find no pleasant way to tell you.” He continued tonelessly, “I will not do myself the great honor of accepting your proposal. I am sorry. I’m not the man for you. I’m far too—”
“Don’t say—” she interrupted.
“—old and we would not suit. Trust me, Isabelle.”
“You once told me never to trust anyone.”
“Except me.”
“Precisely,” she replied. “And yet you will not show me the same courtesy. Why won’t you trust my instincts?”
“Because it’s impossible.”
“Hang it,” she choked, “We suit each other very well.”
“No,” he said with a finality she could not misunderstand.
He just had a moment to see her audacious grit failing before she looked away. God, he had no stomach for disappointing any female, but most especially her. Bloody hell and damnation.
He would give his last farthing to dislodge himself from this sodding mess. Sadness lanced his gut. She was the last person he wanted to hurt in any way. She was courageous, and good, fresh-faced, intelligent, and kind in every way. And he was ancient compared to her. She had no idea of the impossibility of an alliance between them. More so, flirting with a disaster known as matrimony, pushing aside the past, and filling the Fitzroy nursery with squalling infants was not a priority.
And it would not be for a very long time.
Men were known to sire heirs at eighty. He would not tempt fate. He’d do it before seventy-five, which gave him another four plus decades of relative peace . . . aside from managing the lives of five sisters, three aunts, and one great-aunt—each more time-consuming than the next. Yes, he was damn well drowning in females, and he would not take on another.
He could only see the top of her bronze silk bonnet, trimmed with flowers, as she suddenly kneeled to pet Syn. The dog whined before James snapped his fingers. Syn instantly stopped and looked at him with adoration.
At least there were two females who obeyed him. The human variety was altogether another story—especially if they were related to him or about to become related to him. Ladies were complicated, always had to discuss every last notion ad infinitum, and their minds were not well regulated on the idea of a simple fix to any given conundrum. They were also prone to histrionics—right now being a prime example. And when it came to engagements and marriage—the first had never guaranteed the second in his godforsaken life. Most females, in his estimation (and that of every gentleman he knew), did not know what they wanted, or remained as mysterious as sphinxes if they did. His past was littered with evidence in every direction.
Yes, of course, he was at fault for leaving Lady Margaret Spencer at the altar during this last ruinous brush with matrimony, but he very much doubted she regretted it. His gold guineas, yes. His person, no. In the end when she married someone else, his former fiancée would profusely thank him. There was no one more eligible and less suited for marriage than he.
Isabelle Tremont did not want a remote, impersonal marriage of convenience to a man who could be, at the very least, a young uncle, who she would end up nursing half her life. No, he would never agree to it. And his kindhearted, devoted godfather, more a father to him than his own sire, would thank him and expect it of him.
Of that there was not a single doubt.
He looked down at her now bowed head. She loosened her elegant bonnet and allowed it to fall down her back—at the end of its tied ribbons. The shiny brown coils of her luxurious hair gleamed in the rays of sunlight. Without thinking, James silently removed one glove and reached toward the crown of her head. His fingers, a hairbreadth away from her sleek head, stopped. He could feel warmth radiating from her—so close yet so far.
And in that moment he imagined the beauty of the life he would have if he had been allowed to close the distance between them. He willed her to glance up at him, but she did not.
The shadow of a raven passed overhead and cawed its displeasure.
He returned his hand to its proper place by his side.
Chapter 3
Isabelle could not feel her feet or hands. She had dropped to her knees, ostensibly to pet the refined head of one of James’s greyhounds, but really to recoup her composure. She bit down on her tongue, a trick her beautiful mother taught her many years ago—before she left and never returned. Her mother had said it made one see stars, but it was guaranteed to reverse the course of waterworks. She only wished Mama had told her how to stop the pain in her chest.
While looking into the warmth of Syn’s watchful eyes, Isabelle acknowledged her grave mistake to herself. She had not kept hope at bay. With sudden clarity, she realized that hope was nothing more than an optimist’s crutch.
He would never want her.
He would never love her.
He was nothing more than an advisor and friend. No, worse—he probably considered her nothing more than his friend’s daughter. Just a young, foolish female. Another responsibility. She knew that behind the two-inch-thick door to her father’s private chambers, James and the eighth Duke of March had often discussed her future.
“Pardon me for one moment,” he said in his deep baritone voice.
Out of the corner of her eye Isabelle saw James cross the lawn toward his butler, who descended a few stairs from the town house. She exhaled roughly.
The other greyhound nudged her hand for attention and she complied, grateful for the companionship of his faithful dogs. She wanted to flee to her barouche. And yet, there she would be forced to endure the weight of Calliope’s boundless curiosity.
And so she remained rooted to the spot. In truth, she knew she had no choice. She had to plod on, undeterred from her well-planned course of action. He would not be able to deny her second point now that he had rejected her.
This would be her way of recouping dignity, and she would not let it slip away, discomposure be damned. But also, if she did not move forward, she feared she might be haunted by James for decades. She was a realist just like he. But sometimes, just sometimes, one had to dream.
She had allowed today to be that day. She had dreamed large and lost quite famously. But as long as not a single tear appeared, her pride would remain intact. She had only to endure a bit more and then she could escape to the confines of her bedchambers at March House, and then lock her door against the rest of the world. She had no taste for false good humor. But right now she had no choice but to wear the proverbial horsehair shirt of her own making. It was the only way to save face and tend her bruised psyche.
Isabelle scratched the ear of the fawn-colored greyhound one last time and forced herself to rise when she spied him dismissing his butler and crossing back toward her. James Fitzroy’s coffee-colored eyes met hers as he approached. He had that heavy-lidded look, as always, and she suddenly wondered if it was because she was so much shorter than he. The top of her head barely reached his shoulders. She refused to think of them as broad. Just like how she now refused to think him handsome at this moment—although he was, if one liked large beaks for noses; wide, firm lips for kisses one would never receive; and a large forehead to house an obstinate brain filled with stupid ideas about three-hundred-year-old ancestors that were not even his.
Annoyed and hurt were far too tame descriptors for her current state of mind. Well, she had her answer, and she knew what must be done. Waiting about was not in her makeup. Besides, she might be a duchess in her own right, but she knew very well that she must procreate and marry . . . not in that order, of course.
He stopped in front of her. “It was very good of you to call,” James said stiffly.
“I’m sorry to overstay,” she replied, pride coloring her words. She reaffixed her bonnet atop her head and tied the ribbons tightly in place. “I’m certain you wish this visit to be over as much as I, but—”
“That’s untrue. It’s always a delight to see you.” His manner and expression were as impossible to fathom as ever. “It is good we spoke. You can be sure I shall remind His Majesty that not a word of the reports of the debacle marred your good name. I won’t allow the prince to trump up a reason for you to be married off in haste. It’s indecent to—”
“I’m sorry,” she said as sweetly as she could manage, “but I must stop you. You misunderstand. Perhaps you do not wish to marry, but I do. And now is as good a time as any.”
He raised his quizzing glass to his eye.
“Don’t you dare look at me with that. I’m not an insect whose legs need to be counted.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said as he allowed his quizzing glass to fall on its ribbon. “I had no intention of examining anyone’s, uh—” He stopped abruptly, for once taken off guard.
“And don’t worry, I’ve no intention of renewing my suit toward you.” She forced a casual smile to her lips.
“But there is no need to rush into marriage.”
“Of course there’s a need. As you so brilliantly suggested, one cannot let down three hundred years of ancestors who are depending on my womb to produce the ninth Duke of March. And,” she cleared her throat, “it might take time. Look at poor Lady Carlyle. She’s been married for a decade and still has not provided the earl with an infant.”
James coughed and appeared vastly ill at ease.
She soldiered on. “And this”—she withdrew the note from her voluminous pocket a
nd carefully unfolded it—“is how I shall go about it.”
Not a muscle on his person moved. “And what, may I ask, is that?”
“A list.”
“Of?”
“Eligible parties.”
A tic in the hollow of his right cheek made an appearance.
She glanced down at the list, unseeing. She soldiered onward. Her wounded pride she wore like a suit of mail to protect her against further injury. “Prinny was kind enough to forward names to consider . . . yours was the first among them, hence my visit, of course . . . and I added a half dozen more. By the by, do you think it too lowering to consider a French émigré?”
“A Frenchman,” he echoed, struck off balance.
“Yes,” she continued, “he’s quite lovely, actually. Brilliant mind, sterling wit, very pleasing to the eye, of course. He even taught Calliope how to manage a kite near the Thames last Saturday.”
“And who is this paragon?”
“Le Comte de Villeneuve.”
He was very good, she had to admit. He showed not a whisker of emotion.
“Isabelle?”
“Yes?”
“You know as well as I that Villeneuve’s pockets”—his tone froze by ten degrees—“as well as his stockings, breeches and shirts . . . in fact, every last one of the wrinkles in his overly frilled articles of Gallic clothing are to let.”
She lifted her chin a degree and formed a smile on her lips. “Are you suggesting that he’s courting me for something other than my charm?”
“I do not make a habit of insulting ladies.”
“Good. Because we both know that gentlemen and ladies often marry to refill their family coffers. In fact, it’s something of a tradition, in case you haven’t noticed.” She tried very hard to keep the sarcasm from her voice. It was obvious she was no good at it.
James narrowed his eyes. “Villeneuve wagered away every last sou of the meager fortune he smuggled from France. You cannot marry an inveterate gambler, Isabelle.”
She smiled inwardly.
“Who else is on that list?” His jaw was set so firmly that his lips barely moved when he spoke.