by Sophia Nash
“I daresay Kean is the greatest actor of our generation,” Lord Amsley commented, his monocle trained on the sea of theatregoers below them.
“Indeed,” she replied. The earl’s moustache was very prominent and bushy. She feared it would not be pleasant to endure such whiskers during a kiss. Not that she knew a single thing about kisses. But she could imagine it—although she’d certainly never envisaged something quite like that. How would one find his lips? Perhaps one could angle the head from below. Or discreetly part the wings of whiskers. How on earth did one go about it?
And why had no one ever been moved to even try to kiss her? She greatly feared it had to do with her outspoken nature.
Certainly she was the last female her age to be unkissed. To be fair, her position and title intimidated many gentlemen. As for the bachelor lords who might have been more willing to steal a kiss, the phalanx of dukes in the royal entourage, as well as her servants, and now even Calliope, all presented a daunting front. But she had no intention of reaching her next birthday in the same state. All the same, Lord Amsley would not do.
“Would you care to take a turn, Your Grace,” he asked gravely. “Perhaps you require refreshments.”
“Thank you, but no, sir. I think I’ll remain here. But please don’t let me keep you from joining the others.” The Pickerings and their guests were filing out to stretch their limbs during the break. Isabelle did not want to be tied to the earl’s side. He bowed and joined the others.
She turned to the man still seated on her other side. Mr. Thomas Knowles was a handsome gentleman from a very old family. His fortune was lamentable, but his easy wit renowned. He was her age and she had put him on her list.
He leaned toward her. “I’ve been watching you, Your Grace,” he said for her ears only.
She pulled back. “Have you, sir? Whatever for?”
“I understand it’s your turn.”
She smiled. “My turn? At what?”
“At the game of the ages,” he said with a glint of humor in his green eyes.
“I can’t imagine to what you refer,” she said, plying her fan to cool herself. It was very warm.
“The game of marriage, Your Grace.”
She snapped her fan shut and tapped him on the shoulder. “Where did you hear such nonsense?”
“It’s true, is it not?”
She could not take offense. He pressed her with such charm and good humor. “And why would I want for a husband, Mr. Knowles? He might very well muck up my life. I already have a duchy and why would I want to answer to anyone?”
“All true,” he retorted, “but you don’t look the sort who would let anyone muck up your life and”—he winked at her—“why would you chance the grave risk of going mad living all alone during those terrifyingly long winters in the north regions?”
She liked his humor very much. She smiled.
“I only ask,” he continued as he casually surveyed the masses below milling about, “as I might like to make a play for you myself if it’s true.”
She had no idea how to reply. “I see,” she said stupidly.
He turned his gaze on her once more. “But I’ve been asking myself why go to all the effort if it is for naught?”
“Is the effort to spend time in a lady’s company so trying, Mr. Knowles?”
“Ah. Not if it’s the right lady, of course. But one can never know if she is the right one soon enough to spare one the endless trips to the florist, hours trapped in a carriage during Hyde Park’s afternoon spectacle, and so forth and so on. And ninety-nine percent of the time it leads to nothing.”
“You speak as a man of experience,” she said, laughing.
“No. I speak as a man with a mother determined to hold her own against her circle of friends whose only topics of conversation appear to be marriages and christenings.”
Mr. Knowles was extraordinarily easy to talk to. She relaxed. “Perhaps you should consider introducing your mother to a new set of friends.”
He smiled right back at her. His teeth were even and very white. “A capital idea. Except that I do believe she is the ringleader.” He paused, studying her. “So is the rumor true?”
“Which rumor is that?”
“That you are the next member of the royal entourage the Prince Regent is determined to marry off.”
She froze.
“I thought so,” he said a bit smugly. “Oh, don’t be offended, Your Grace. I’ve already told you my miserable predicament. There’s no difference between us, really, if you examine it closely . . . My mother. Prinny. Demands. An ocean of ladies, or in your case gentlemen, eyeing the possibilities. I say, let’s tackle them together in this marriage expedition. And who knows . . .”
“Who knows what?”
“We might like each other in the end.”
“Don’t count on it,” she retorted. “You don’t know me yet.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “I fear it’s too late, Your Grace. I like you already. I will not be put off. I’m determined that you will fancy me, too.”
“How provoking.”
“You’re never going to attract anyone with that sort of air. Don’t you know how to flirt?”
“No.”
His raven hair shined in the darkness as his face drew closer to hers. “I might be able to teach you,” he said wickedly. “I shall drive you about Hyde Park tomorrow afternoon for a start.” He winked slyly.
“I have another commitment,” she replied. He was a bit improper and bold, but then again, it was lovely to have a gentleman seek her company so ardently.
“Cancel it.”
She had not noticed that someone entered the rear of the box until a familiar, authoritative voice spoke. “Her Grace does not enjoy anyone telling her what to do.” James emerged from the shadows and stood next to her. “And you should not be with Her Grace unchaperoned and on display before everyone below.”
Mr. Knowles jumped to his feet, his famous wit evaporating. “Your Grace . . . I—I am certain—”
James cut him off. “You shall apologize to her. Now.”
“That is entirely unnecessary,” Isabelle insisted, standing, too.
James ignored her, his countenance reaching glacial proportions. “Mr. Knowles?”
Flustered, and not nearly so sure of himself, Mr. Knowles bowed to her. “Please accept my deepest apologies, Your Grace, for any harm I might have caused you.”
She did not trust herself to look in James’s direction. She was too annoyed. “I’m certain you meant nothing by it, sir.”
Mr. Knowles glanced at James and then at her. He bowed. “I shall take my leave. I fear the Pickerings might be expecting me below.” He departed with alacrity.
She wished James would leave as well. She had no desire to exchange words with him. A hot flood of embarrassment filled her just thinking about yesterday. She trained her eyes on the people below the box. A few were looking in her direction. She knew without glancing that James was still standing beside her.
“I’m thirsty,” she announced, without thought.
“Would you care to descend for lemonade?”
His low, commanding voice had always attracted her. But now it only served to infuriate.
“No, thank you.”
“Would you like me to bring it to you here?” He would not be put off.
“Thank you, but no.”
Awkwardness hung in the air. And still she would not meet his eye.
“Are you angry, Isabelle?”
“Yes.”
“I shall have another word with Knowles. He won’t dare address you so improperly ever again. Indeed, I promise you he will not dare approach you after tonight.”
She had always deferred to him in the past. But everything was different now. “I will thank you to not interfere in my affairs. They do not concern you any longer.” She knew she appeared peevish but she just didn’t care. She had nothing to lose anymore.
“Isabelle?”
“Yes?”
“Will you not look at me?”
She slowly turned and looked up at him standing so tall above her.
“I apologize,” he said, his voice deep and slow.
“For what?”
“For disappointing you.” He paused. “Yesterday.”
“You did not disappoint me,” she lied.
He searched her face for the truth. “Good. Because I never want to disappoint you.”
“I must ask you to stop overseeing my life,” she said quietly.
“Knowles is trouble,” he insisted. “He should not be on your list.”
“I’m not an idiot. I was in the process of figuring that out all by myself when you interrupted us.” She surveyed the crowd once more and exhibited a false smile to ward off rumors. “Almost no one—most of all you—trusts me to do or learn a damned thing on my own.”
“This has nothing to do with trust and everything to do with protecting your good name,” he said quietly.
“Whatever do you mean? I would never—”
“You know what I mean,” he interrupted.
“I do not.”
“You’ve spent most of your life in the country. This is the first year you are in Town and essentially alone—a state of affairs rife for disaster. Eyes will be on you wherever you go.”
“I’ve done nothing untoward.”
“Of course you haven’t. That’s not the point.”
“Then spit out what you mean.”
He sighed. “Members of the haut ton can be vicious toward one of their own. Especially in London. The entertainments breathe on gossip and innuendo. It’s far too easy to become fodder.”
“Says the gentleman of the hour.”
He paled. “I will clarify, much as it pains me and will infuriate you.”
She was too annoyed to speak.
“The word has got out. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was not the Prince Regent’s own doing. Already the betting book at White’s is filled with wagers on who will win your hand.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s as I told you, Isabelle, there are no secrets here.”
“Well, in a way that makes my task easier.”
He had that austere look plastered to every particle of his being. “You’re not actually going to continue with that list idea of yours, are you?”
“Of course I am. And you would do well to do the same, if only to choose a lady before the betting book at White’s begins to feature your future wife’s name.”
“There is not a chance of that.” The sudden fierceness in his eyes left no doubt. “Who are you truly considering, Isabelle?”
“I do not have to answer that.”
“But if you are insisting on this mad scheme, I should see the candidates. You are new to Town and do not know anyone’s true character as I do. You need counsel.”
“I’ve seen to that, thank you. Today I received a letter from Kent. From Lady Mary Haverty, who has accepted my invitation to stay for the Little Season. She’s a veteran of the marriage wars here and since I know you esteem her greatly, as do your sisters, even you cannot find fault with my choice.”
“Mary is a lady of unparalleled good sense,” he agreed. “But no lady knows the secrets between gentlemen.”
“Look, whatever responsibilities you feel toward me due to you being my father’s godson, I relieve you of them. I gave you a chance to have a say in my life and you declined. Thus, I’m no longer your concern. I sacked all three of the advisors I inherited from my father. And you will be next, unless . . .” She let the word hang in the air.
“Unless?” His voice and manner were stiff.
“Unless sometime in future you allow yourself to become my concern.”
Those entwined bolts of lightning appeared on his forehead again. “I cannot fathom what you mean.”
“Since you are so fond of telling me what to do—although you appear to have a supreme dislike of others attempting the same—Mr. Knowles being the most recent example—then I should be allowed the same privilege.”
She held up her hand when he attempted to argue. “So if you want to advise me on my quest to find a husband, then you must stop procrastinating, stop thinking an heir will magically appear without a wife to plague you, and allow me to help you. In other words . . .” She fished a piece of paper with a list of names out of her black-beaded reticule. “You may take this brilliant list of suitable ladies I created for you, after which you may supply me with a list of gentlemen of good character, intelligence, wit, and charm.” She kept going before he could answer. “You know, I have the oddest notion you believe you can hold off siring an heir until you are eighty.”
His expression took on the glint of a man who had just tasted the truth and didn’t care for it. At all.
She relaxed and allowed a smile. She was making progress. “Your sisters are worried. They don’t like your heir. Neither do your servants and tenants in Derbyshire. I was given hints when I visited last summer.”
“Did I really suggest that society in Town ruled the gossip world instead of sisters in the country?”
“You did,” she replied.
“There is nothing wrong with Frontine Fitzroy, by the by. He is a model gentleman and heir.”
“Perhaps I should add him to my list, then.”
He started. “He is but fifteen.”
“Too old—too young,” she said airily. “I must start somewhere. And so should you.”
“Why are you so determined to see to my future?” he asked.
“Because it is so wholly unlike you to avoid a task.”
He slowly moved his quizzing glass toward his eye.
“You see me perfectly well, James Fitzroy. Put that down.” When had she gained such nerve, calling out a giant of a man capable of reducing most gentlemen to blithering idiots? “You are the one who taught me duty is everything and must come first. So do right by your sisters and everyone else who depends on you and get on with it.”
His eyes became as hard and cold as marble. “All are fully provided for—especially my sisters.”
“Of course they are. But they also want to see you settled. And the duchy secured.”
He refused to say another word.
“Look, there’s no need to argue the point. So what is it to be? Are we to compare notes on the marriage mart? Help each other as equals? Or do we part ways here?”
“Are you attempting to blackmail me?”
“Is that what you call friends looking out for each other?”
“Yes.”
“It’s your choice,” she retorted.
“So as I understand it, you will allow me to guide you, offer you advice on potential husbands, which I still maintain you do not have to find for several years at the very least, and in return for making certain you do not make the mistake of the century, I must suffer,” he continued with distaste, “the company of ladies I have no desire to endure.”
“Exactly,” she said sweetly.
His expression darkened. “You’ve been spending too much time with Calliope.”
She knew when to back off. Victory was in the air if he was turning the subject. “I intend to change that very shortly thanks to you, by the by. A most fortuitous event occurred this morning. Amelia Primrose came to March House to return a book. She managed to fascinate and control Calliope in an astounding fashion. Most impressive. I am guessing you put her up to it.”
“And why would you think that?”
“Because I never lent her any book.”
He studied her silently. Not a hair of emotion crossed his inscrutable face.
“She has agreed to postpone her return to Scotland, remain at March House, and teach Calliope a few finer points during a prolonged stay.”
“I would offer my view on your good fortune, but I do believe you would prefer I remain silent,” he replied.
“I’m indebted to you. But it is the very last
time unless you take this list and do what needs to be done. If only for your sisters.” She held out the note.
She felt an arctic blast of disapproval radiating from him.
She refused to lower the list.
A thousand thoughts raced through her in mere seconds. She could not explain why she felt the way she did, but James Fitzroy drove her to distraction. She had the strongest urge to jump on the unsteady chair and kiss him. Tonight he had displayed more emotion—none of it warm, unfortunately—than she’d ever seen on his countenance.
And it made her want to run her fingers through his perfectly cut short dark brown hair and muss it. And she wanted to tug on one end of his starched neck cloth tied in that formal fashion and untie it. But most of all she wanted to shout at him, provoke him to quarrel with her, if only to wipe clean the now stark indifference from his expression.
Just once she wished . . . just once she wanted him to kiss her. She did not want to kiss Lord Whiskers or Mr. Cocksure. She wanted to look into the depths of this man’s mysterious brown eyes and share something wicked and intimate. And she wanted desperately for him to know her. As a woman, and not as the child he thought she still was.
He finally grasped the paper, his lips pressed in a thin line of distaste.
She released the breath she had not even realized she’d been holding.
“Come along . . . You wanted lemonade,” he said quietly.
“I’m not thirsty anymore.”
“Well, I am.”
“All right,” she acquiesced. “We can discuss which events we should attend.”
He groaned.
And that is when she knew. She was going to have to do something outrageous before this would be over between them.
Letter from HRH, The Prince Regent
My dear Duchess,
One can hope the second half of the play last eve was more engrossing than the first. I shall never know (unless you undertake the chore of informing me) since my usual tittle-tattlers failed to remain awake.
If you do not reply to this royal letter—despite my command to do so—I shall not only be gravely disappointed, but I shall also assume that 1. Knowles is the delightful sycophant I suspect him to be, 2. Amsley is too old for you, and 3. Candover is too . . . too . . . alors, as the Frogs would say, un peu de trop. Yes, a bit too much. Too much to take on for any female.