Once and Future Duchess

by Sophia Nash

  She made a show of scanning the names. “Too many to say. In any case, I’ve kept you far longer than I ought. It’s nearly four. I’m certain you’ve better things to do. And I know I do, too. I’ve the ledgers from three stewards to review and—­”

  “May I see it?” he interrupted.

  “No,” she replied. “But . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “We could discuss your list.”

  She knew she had gone too far when two veins on his forehead became visible. They resembled twin bolts of lightning, joined in the middle, only to dissipate near one brow. Then again it was good he was angry. She had planned for this. She’d never seen him this way and had hoped this depth of feeling was inside him. Somehow, it made him more human, more like the rest of mankind. And any emotion was better than the bland condescension he’d shown her in the past.

  She was not one of his sisters, for the love of God.

  “You are too kind,” he said, as stiff as the uncracked spines of half her tomes by Virgil. “But, I fear you have overstepped your—­”

  A commotion on the terrace drew their attention. Lord above, it was Calliope and Wharton. The duke’s housekeeper was also involved. Her cousin was in fine form—­hands on hips, chin thrust out, and her voice particularly insistent.

  “I will not wait another moment,” Calliope said sharply. “There are four reasons. One”—­she held up her index finger—­“it’s been twenty seven minutes—­well beyond protocol. Two”—­up went a second digit—­“she’s not supposed to be alone with any man unless they are engaged. Even then it’s not allowed, although many companions just look the other way. I’m not one of those.” She took a breath and held up the third finger. “Three, I want to know what’s going on. I’d wager it’s no good. And lastly, no one should be made to sit in a chamber without a single thing to do or see.” She stared daggers at the butler. “I told you I preferred a room with curiosities.”

  Isabelle poked him once on the arm. “I’m taking my leave.”

  His countenance was unreadable. “You’re certain you cannot send her back to Portsmouth?”

  “Why would I want to do that? I prefer bluntness. And she appears to be the only one here who is not afraid to do or say exactly what she wants.”

  A small vee appeared between his eyebrows. “What are you suggesting?”

  “Nothing. Absolutely nothing at all.”

  A dozen or more crows descended from the sky to roost in James’s oaks. Their caws mimicked laughter, mocking her. Suddenly, a “murder of crows” seemed apt. All the sooner to force James Fitzroy, the infuriating, powerful, stoic, pigheaded Duke of Candover, to eat crow. God help her, but she would do it. Sometimes a lady had to take the lead, and this was one of those times.

  And she had learned all about leading from the master.

  An unusual tide of fatigue engulfed him as he went through the practiced motions of an evening alone in the town house in which every generation of Fitzroys had lived and died. He could not remember the last time he had dined alone amid the gilded, polished splendor of the dining hall. A brief respite was needed, after all. His four unmarried sisters had decided to forgo the upcoming Little Season in town—­in favor of the pastoral beauty of the family seat in Derbyshire. His fifth and middle sister Verity was recently married to another member of the royal entourage, the Duke of Abshire. Neither of them had been particularly good at forwarding news since retiring to Abshire’s neighboring estate in the Peak District.

  He had no appetite despite the usual excellent dinner fare produced by his cook and the bevy of staff in the kitchens belowstairs. James casually placed his fork and knife parallel to each other on the gold and ivory Wedgwood plate. Instantly, one of four liveried servants appeared at his side.

  “I’m for the library, Thomas.”

  The man removed the dish full of half-­eaten fare. “Will His Grace take coffee there?”

  “And brandy.”

  His servant showed no emotion. It was a prerequisite of employment at Candover House. But surely the man was surprised. James had not partaken in spirits since the debacle. He learned from his mistakes, unlike most.

  He walked the great expanse of wide checkered marble corridors toward the library, the favored place of his academic-­minded sisters. His mother, a famed naturalist during her lifetime, had filled the vast chamber with glass cases of birds’ nests and eggs, rare dried flowers, and artifacts of all kinds.

  He had deeply shared his mother’s passion for nature in his youth. She had filled his dreams with sea voyages to exotic lands filled with birds that laid eggs the size of his fist, and fascinating plants that ate insects. But they had been merely dreams of youth.

  His father had coldly insisted to him alone that preoccupation in the mysteries of the earth was unproductive and a waste of time, especially for the future premier duke of the realm. Publicly, the former duke had benevolently encouraged his wife and daughters to pursue their interests to keep them out from under foot, James finally understood.

  Indeed, his father had been a great actor on the stage of life. No one had ever guessed the inner turmoil of the former duke—­except James. And he had only been taken into his father’s complete confidence at the very end. Yes, playing the role of premier duke of Christendom entailed duty above all else. There was no time for private dreams of exploration, passion, and curiosity for all things in nature, and certainly nothing but heartache to be gained by foolish love. James’s first fiancée, Catharine Talmadge, had proved his father’s sage advice on every level. Indeed, there was no time or good reason for any of it. And a mountain of duties—­familial or public—­was excellent at drumming out interests of no value that leeched away one’s days.

  It was a privilege to be the premier duke. And he should take pride and show gratitude for this privilege by fulfilling the duties of his position. Everything else was a goddamned waste of time and a sign of laziness.

  As he approached the end of the long hall, he forced his mind away from the fresh memory of Isabelle’s lovely, vibrant eyes that brimmed with honesty and everything innocent and good. She reminded him too much of the days of his youth, when life had been carefree and filled with wonder and joy. There was a time and a place for every emotion.

  Tomorrow he must return to his private great room to study plans for the improvement of the tenant cottages in Suffolk. But tonight he settled into a polished brown leather armchair before a fire, chasing away the first chill of late summer. The unseasoned wood hissed and smoked. On either side of him, his two greyhounds slid their slender noses between their outstretched paws.

  He could not push the events of the afternoon from his mind, though he took pride in usually being free of distraction. Isabelle’s face and impossibly naïve proposal returned again and again to the forefront of his thoughts.

  Oh, he’d always known she had an innocent fondness for him that bordered on the sort of girlhood infatuations that tended to fade over time and change course on a whim.

  He knew all about that.

  Syn’s velvet muzzle nudged his hand, and he absently stroked his beloved dog’s head. She placed one slim paw on his knee and he scratched the back of one of her ears as she looked at him with unconditional devotion.

  “I know, old girl, I know. You want a good run in the country.”

  His faithful dog raised her head, and her twin rose up on his haunches for attention, too.

  “I would like it as well,” he said simply, returning his gaze to the fire as more memories burned within him.

  Isabelle’s father, the Duke of March, had extracted a promise from him before he’d died. James was to advise her on estate matters if needed and, most importantly, make certain that Isabelle selected a suitable husband. The old duke had been very precise on the latter subject. James had agreed to his godfather’s deathbed requests. How could he not? March had guided him when his own father had died and he’d taken on the dukedom’s responsibilities.

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nbsp; He stared into the flames, flickering and illuminating a portion of the library. Perhaps he should return to Derbyshire. Or tour the family estates. None of it held any appeal, and yet he did not want to remain in Town. There was no reason to be here. The Little Season promised to be flat, and he was not needed until Parliament was in session. His closest friends, his fellow dukes in the royal entourage, were either newly married—­due to the prince’s demands—­or scattered God knew where. The last time he’d seen Sussex, the overly charming member of the entourage he watched like a hawk, he’d disappeared from Kress’s absurd house party in Cornwall with nary a word of explanation. And the Duke of Barry was likely entrenched somewhere to avoid the Prince Regent’s notice. The vast majority of other gentlemen James held in high regard were in Brighton, Bath, or partaking of the fine weather to shoot as many feathered and furred creatures as they could find in the countryside.

  There were any number of invitations he could accept.

  A knock sounded on the solid oak frame of the library’s door. His dogs raised their heads. Miss Amelia Primrose, his sister’s abigail, appeared, carrying a tray. She exchanged a word with the footman trailing her and the man disappeared.

  “Your coffee,” she said with a tone that belied the firm taskmaster she was.

  “Where is Thomas?”

  “I told him I would deliver the tray. I wanted to select a book, Your Grace.”

  “Very good,” he replied.

  She settled the tray on the low table beside him. There was not a drop of brandy in sight. He did not say a word.

  “Would you care to join me?” He nodded toward the other leather chair. She was one of the rare ladies of his acquaintance to whom he would make such an offer. She was a terrifying young woman of substance, with a delicate beauty that hid a will of iron. He had employed her a dozen years ago despite her youth and inexperience. She had been the last resort, and over the years, she’d overseen a miracle—­the miracle of transforming his most challenging sister, Verity, into a proper lady. His other four sisters, Faith, Hope, Charity, and Chastity, had never truly given him a moment’s unease, even if he suggested otherwise. Their noses were mired too deep in scientific journals or mathematics to consider the joys of mischief.

  “Thank you, Your Grace. I will,” she replied as she poured the dark brew into a delicate cup. “I’ve actually a matter to discuss, if I may disturb you? It could wait if Your Grace would prefer.”

  “Not at all,” he replied. “I trust this has something to do with your recent impromptu visit to your family in Scotland.”

  She poured a second cup and took her place on the other side of the low table. “Indeed.” Miss Primrose bowed her head. “It’s what I wanted to discuss. I’ve decided to give my notice. I must return to Scotland.”

  He studied her. “Is a family member ill, or in need?”

  “No, Your Grace,” she said simply.

  “I have four sisters who depend on you, Miss Primrose.”

  “Pardon my impertinence, sir, but that is not true. Since the day Verity married the Duke of Abshire, my job was done. Your other sisters have no need of governing. They have always governed themselves.”

  He raised the cup of coffee to his lips and savored the bitter taste. His senses picked up something amiss. And yet, as always, Amelia Primrose had not a blond hair out of place in her strict coiffure, and she sat perched on the edge of the seat, her back arched, as proper as you please. He was ever grateful she never deviated from formality.

  Formality was the mask they both wore to ignore the ugly familial truth to which she had borne witness many years ago. But he would dare to cross the line, as he could not rest if someone who had done so much was in trouble. She was a lady to whom he owed eternal gratitude.

  “May I ask you a question of a personal nature, Miss Primrose?”

  “Of course, Your Grace. I will do my best to honor you with a reply.”

  “What was the true reason for your recent journey to Scotland? You left with such urgency,” he said. “And you never mentioned any family in all the years you have lived with us.”

  Her eyes never wavered from his. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because I want to assure myself that nothing is troubling you, Miss Primrose.”

  “I am perfectly fine, Your Grace.”

  He could not make out if she was telling the truth. Then again, he doubted anyone could see beyond her halo. Syn made a quiet whimper beside him and he dropped his hand to her velvety head to calm her. “You would tell me, Miss Primrose, if you needed my aid?”

  “Perhaps,” she replied. “But more likely, no. Everyone must carry their own burdens in life, Your Grace. You of all ­people realize that.”

  She had never remotely referred to those difficult moments of long ago.

  “True. But I would hope you would come to me if you were ever in distress. I will not have it. But if you insist on leaving my employ,” he said as he returned the cup to the saucer and placed it on the tray, “you cannot and will not deprive me a show of gratitude by bestowing a generous pension on you.”

  She bowed her blond head.

  He could feel her indecision. Most would not offer a pension to a woman who had so many obvious years ahead of her in which to work. “May I inquire if you intend to seek other employment?” he asked softly.

  “I will,” she said. “I was not meant to be idle.”

  “Must it be in Scotland?” He noticed that she was clutching her delicate hands so tightly in front of her that he could see the white points of her knuckles. He would get to the bottom of this before he’d let this paragon set one foot outside Mayfair.

  “Yes, I am almost decided to return. But, why do you ask, Your Grace?”

  Ah. Again deflection via this particular question. Everyone in the family knew her favored trick. “Because, the Duchess of March is in dire need of your ser­vices.”

  Understanding bloomed on her face. “One of Verity’s letters mentioned that Her Grace had invited her young cousin to stay. A Miss Calliope Little, no?”

  “Precisely, Miss Primrose. Although I would ask that you not tell Her Grace that I suggested you enter into her employ.”

  “And why is that?”

  He gave her an arch look.

  “Pardon me, Your Grace. I should not have asked.”

  “By the by, Miss Primrose, is it true you allowed my sister to drink absinthe?”

  She studied her fingernails in the firelight. “Yes.”

  “Do you really think that was a good idea? I’ve never heard of an abigail who would condone such outrageousness.”

  It was her turn to arch a brow. “Perhaps Your Grace is correct. However, Verity is happily married to the Duke of Abshire as a result, is she not? I do hope Your Grace will pardon the great liberties I’m taking in talking so freely, but . . . well, in the end, I think it was an excellent decision for Verity, at least”—­her voice lowered and he had to lean closer to hear her—­“if not for the rest of us.”

  And suddenly James came to a decision without his customary period of reflection. “Miss Primrose?”

  “Yes, Your Grace?” Her head was bowed again.

  “You are aware that my other sisters will eventually retire to a large unentailed estate in the North if they do not choose to marry.”

  “Yes.”

  “I will arrange for you to have the use of the dowager cottage there during your lifetime along with a significant pension. It is your due, whether you do me the great favor of reforming Miss Calliope Little or not.”

  She opened her mouth to speak but he would not let her.

  “No, I will brook no argument,” he said, and added dryly, “If you take on Miss Little, I assure you that you will need three decades of staring at the beauty of the lakes to recover.”

  Much but not all of her anxiety seeped away. Slowly, a genuine smile made an appearance. “We shall see, Your Grace. I shall try, but I’m not altogether certain I will remain in England. Bu
t I thank you for your generous offer.”

  It was one of the few times in their long acquaintance that he witnessed a hint of true happiness on her face. There had been times during which neither had reason to smile. Deep mortification tended to do that.

  At least he had managed to bring a measure of joy to one person today. He only feared it was not the person who most required his aid.

  Then again, Isabelle Tremont would not now seek out his help if she was stranded on an island and within shouting distance of him on a vessel. After today’s disastrous conversation, he rather doubted she would ever seek him out again. Just the thought of her disappointed expression she had tried valiantly to hide on her lovely face made his gut tighten. He had to stop thinking about her—­and her impossible proposal.

  Miss Primrose abruptly stood, returned the delicate cup and saucer to its place, and then picked up the crested silver tray. The Duke of Candover stood as well.

  She was the single most trustworthy person in his employ on all his entailed estates. And she was about to face a challenge.

  Chapter 4

  The Pickerings’ box at the Drury Lane theatre was one of the best, as it had not only an excellent view of the stage, but also offered others an excellent view of the box, which was the reason the Pickerings always reserved it. And while Isabelle attended the theatre because of her true passion for the art, tonight she also attended to practice a different sort of art—­the art of flirtation, something at which she had never excelled. A tendency toward forthright honesty always hampered her efforts. But now that she had the answer she’d sought and feared for so long, she knew she had better learn how to attract a gentleman of the first order. She refused to dwell on disappointment. There was nothing to do but go on.

  She had promised the Prince Regent she would marry. And she would see through her plan.

  The great Edmund Kean was on the playbill tonight, and so the house was filled to the rafters. He did not disappoint. Isabelle only wished she could have said the same.

  Seated in the box, the eight guests of Lord and Lady Pickering chatted during the long intermission.