Once and Future Duchess

by Sophia Nash

  “It must have been very difficult to go to sea so young.”

  He studied her. “As one who had to undertake grave responsibilities at a young age, Her Grace must understand very well.”

  Baird’s face was rugged from years on deck, and his pale eyes seemed weary despite his smile.

  “Did you always serve under Nelson?”

  “Until he died. I had the privilege of his patronage, serving as a midshipman at fifteen and passing the examination for lieutenant at twenty.”

  “And then?”

  “Am I not boring you, Your Grace?”

  “Of course not. And I should be delighted if you address me less formally. Isabelle, will do.”

  He nodded, and she could not help but notice a few gray strands threading his pitch-­black hair, shiny and tied back in a severe queue. It was hard to guess his age. Perhaps thirtyish?

  “What more can I relate to you? Are stories of pirates or are French naval tactics more to your taste?”

  “Actually, more of your life.”

  He carefully ate every last pea on his plate. “Not as interesting.”

  “What sort of ship did you first command? Was it unrated or were you a post captain?”

  “A sixth-­rater first, then a frigate, before a hundred-­gun ship of the line.” He raised a brow. “Since when does a young lady know of such things?”

  “Since the day I decided to read every book, including the annual news registers, in my family’s library.”

  “And what provoked such a feat?”

  “I showed very little aptitude in the arts. My watercolors were always muddy, my voice likened to a dying warbler, and my embroidery resembled a barn cat’s scratching post. Reading is my only forte.”

  His eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed.

  She refused to tell him that she had once overheard her father inform her very reserved mother that he feared their daughter was so ordinary and untalented that she would never attract a superior husband who could oversee the estates; only fortune hunters would seek her hand. He also suggested Isabelle had the most uninformed, uncultivated mind in three counties. The first complaint she could do nothing to correct. The second was altogether possible to change—­if she read everything in sight. At least she naturally excelled in numbers.

  “So,” she continued, “were you on the Victory at Trafalgar?”

  He exhaled slowly. “I was.”

  “Is it true about Admiral Nelson’s last words?”

  “You are not like other young ladies, Isabelle.”

  “How so, Admiral?”

  “Peter.”

  “Peter,” she noted. “Like the saint.”

  “I am no saint, my dear.”

  “And how am I not like other ladies?”

  “Most prefer to talk about pirates.” His smile was uneven; one corner rose while the other descended.

  She was enjoying herself very much. “Did Nelson really utter, ‘Thank God I have done my duty’?”

  “I believe that has been well documented,” he said, without missing a beat.

  “I hope I will have earned the right to say something similar when I depart this mortal coil,” she returned.

  “It would be a tragedy for England to be deprived of one of its best and brightest hopes.”

  “Such flattery, sir. I would think the effects of salt air and the company of a ship’s crew would not be conductive to such fiddle-­faddle.”

  “Just the opposite, Isabelle,” he replied. “Months at sea make one long for the pleasure of gazing at beauty and goodness.”

  She did not know how to respond. She had never been any good at being on the receiving end of compliments, only the reverse. She was a product of a stern father and a quiet mother, both who despaired at educating a girl to follow in her father’s footsteps once it became clear there would be no male child to ascend to the title.

  She abruptly stood, and the rear admiral instantly was at her back, easing away her chair.

  The night air was warm but not oppressive. She had no desire to return to the stuffy ballroom. She had almost forgotten that James was inside. And she did not want to watch him converse with others. It was stupid, of course. She had instigated this idea of a list, but faced with the reality of a host of eligible females vying for his favor was unpalatable.

  “The garden is lovely at night,” she said artlessly as they studied the white blossoms piercing the darkness.

  “It is,” he agreed. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Lady Allen’s moon garden is a model of beauty.” She had no idea how to excel at inane conversation like other young ladies who could speak of the vagaries of the weather in biblical proportions.

  “Would you care to take a turn below, Isabelle?”

  She didn’t hesitate. “Yes, thank you.”

  Again he offered his arm, and she placed hers along the length of it. He was a mere inch taller than she, and their strides complimented each other’s easily.

  But they shared few words between them, each choosing to keep their thoughts private. Only the plaintive call of a nightingale could be heard above the discordant sounds of the stringed instruments being tuned well before the second half of the ball inside the town house.

  Isabelle suddenly missed March Hall in the Lake District. She missed the crescendo of the hordes of crickets in late summer, and the grasshopper lark’s song all through the night. She missed riding through the fields, examining crops, talking to tenants, poring over accounts, and most of all the cold winds scudding across the lakes as she walked to take in the magnificent views.

  She had waited patiently and then ardently for her come-­out in society and presentation at court last spring. It was delayed, as she had been in mourning for her father. But now, only a few months later, she was suddenly tired and wanted nothing more than to return home to the Lake District.

  But no. She had to find a husband. A palatable second choice. For if she did not produce an heir, the duchy would revert to the Crown, as there were no other Tremonts. No eighteenth cousins twenty-­seven times removed.

  There was only she.

  And the combined weight of three centuries of ancestors bearing down on her, according to James. He was not the only one who had suggested it.

  She glanced sideways under her lashes to examine the rear admiral’s profile and wondered what it would be like to spend the rest of her life with him.

  He appeared to feel her gaze upon him and turned to her. Their eyes locked and he came to a halt behind a tree in the darkest corner of the garden.

  And for a fraction of a second before he dared to steal a kiss, she had the oddest thought. She didn’t want her first kiss to be such a cliché. She didn’t want it to be with a daring stranger behind a tree, during a ball in Mayfair. It sounded common—­like something come to life from Lady Caroline Lamb’s violent plume. She wanted . . . she wanted something she would secretly smile and cherish in the privacy of her mind for the rest of her life.

  But it was too late.

  Rear Admiral Sir Peter Baird’s face tilted to one side as he closed the slight distance between them. His hands lightly touched her waist and his lips met hers. It was not unpleasant. She felt his mouth moving over her own, and she raised her arms to grasp his shoulders with her hands. Her fingers registered padding under the epaulets. Quite a lot of it. An odd thought intruded. Either he had suffered the effects of naught but wormy biscuits as sea rations, or the rear admiral had performed very little physical labor in his life.

  She suddenly remembered to breathe. The pungent scent of seaweed, mildew, and unwashed man registered in her nostrils at the same moment she realized she should not have allowed this to happen.

  He moaned slightly and reached for one of her hands on his soft shoulders to move it behind his neck.

  She wondered how long a kiss usually lasted.

  She hoped it would end soon. Very soon.

  He finally released her mouth and
then playfully dropped a peck on the end of her nose before pulling her more fully into an embrace. She was now in the awkward position of having encouraged someone she did not know and beside whom she would never be able to spend the rest of her life, let alone the rest of the evening. Once again she would have to learn from her mistakes.

  Always the hard way.

  “My dearest Isabelle,” Peter Baird whispered in the darkness, “I would not for the life of me allow a smidgen of a stain on your good name. I should return to the ballroom before we are discovered missing. You should return a different route. May I call on you tomorrow afternoon, my dearest Isabelle?”

  As if she had a choice. She had allowed this to happen. She’d invited him to use her Chris­tian name, agreed to walk in the garden, and now she would suffer his dancing attendance on her for Lord knew how long. “Of course. I shall be delighted,” she said, breathing through her mouth to avoid another blinding wave of pungent Eau de Rear Admiral.

  He bowed and crept into the night, plotting a course to the extreme port side of the garden.

  She breathed in deeply to refill her aching lungs. It had not been all that interesting. And she felt a bit soiled as she pondered her declining admiration for the officer.

  She instinctively shook out her skirts and came ’round the opposite side of the tree, only to walk squarely into James Fitzroy. The sound she made on impact was quite inelegant. But it was like walking into a massive wall. His strong hands steadied her before he put space between them.

  “What are you doing here, Isabelle?” His voice was as calm and even as always and held not a hint of malice.

  How utterly mortifying. Had he witnessed the rear admiral kissing her? She had not a clue, as she could not see his face clearly. The light of a distant lantern was behind him, leaving his face in complete obscurity.

  “I’m sorry?” she said, modulating her voice.

  “I said, what are you doing?” He paused. “Here.”

  She would not lie to him, but she could not say the truth, and so she said not a word.

  He dropped his hands from her upper arms. “Are you feeling ill?”

  “No.”

  She finally could make out his pupils, which were very dark. And his flesh was the color of gray parchment in the glow of the waxing moon.

  “Then why are you out here by yourself?”

  “Because I wanted to take the air.” She bit her tongue before she could scrape together a ridiculous, defensive lie.

  “You must take better care,” he said quietly.

  “Don’t lecture me.” Her gloved forefinger tapped his solid chest on its own volition. “And don’t spy on me.” She took a step to his side to better see him. He accommodated her.

  His features appeared hard, uncompromising even, except for his mouth, which was relaxed. “I would not.”

  “Yes, you would. I’m tired of everyone watching over me as if I’m incapable of seeing to myself.”

  His bearing imposing, his mind impenetrable, he stared at her. “I apologize for being concerned.” He leaned closer to her, examining her intensely. “You’re shivering.”

  “I am not. It’s warm outside.”

  He was already shrugging out of his corbeau-­colored coat. The white of his shirt was startling in the darkness. She had never seen him in his shirtsleeves.

  He wrapped his coat about her shoulders despite her protests. And then he stilled.

  He was so very close. For the love of God, this could not be happening. Was he about to kiss her? She had waited eighteen years for one kiss and now she was about to receive two in one night? And now from the man that she—­

  He leaned in closer, sniffed her and quickly drew back. “What is that god-­awful smell?”

  “I can’t imagine,” she said faintly.

  He leaned his face down again, nudged aside his coat and breathed in.

  “You smell like a dog who’s rolled in dead bird.”

  “I think you mean seaweed and,” she winced, “mildew. Perhaps there’s even a whiff of . . .” She stopped incriminating herself.

  Comprehension dawned and James Fitzroy froze. “You dined with Baird.”

  It was the culmination of all the worst days in her life rolled into one long painful moment.

  He jerked back. “Did he . . .” He couldn’t seem to form the question.

  With potent regret, she slowly removed his coat, still warm with his heat, from her shoulders. She offered it to him but he made no move to accept it from her hands.

  “What happened?” he asked urgently. “Tell me.”

  She had no reason to hide the truth from him now. “He kissed me.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I encouraged him.”

  His eyes narrowed, his pupils constricted, and the hollows in the harsh planes of his cheeks deepened. Without a word he turned on his heel and headed toward the ballroom.

  She ran after him, blocking his path halfway back to the terrace. “Wait!”

  “Step out of my way, Isabelle.”

  “It was nothing, James. You must know that.”

  “Good. Now get the hell out of my way.”

  “All right,” she agreed, not moving. “But tell me just one thing. One little thing. Are you angry at me or are you angry at him? Or both of us?” She paused, her voice rising, “You’re not going to challenge him to a duel are you?”

  “Of course not,” he replied.

  She waited.

  “I’m simply going to kill him.” The tic in his cheek appeared.

  “You cannot,” she said. “I have very good reasons.” Isabelle was amazed he did not ignore her and give over to some mysterious primordial male impulse to pound the ever living brains out of another man.

  Instead he waited, his hands clenched at his sides.

  “Look, for one it’s my fault,” she managed. “I gave him leave to use my Chris­tian name. And second, I said I preferred dining on the terrace and he probably misunderstood my praise of the garden. Really, any man worth his salt would have—­ Oh, James, please don’t. It will only cause gossip. And everyone will guess that . . .” She could not go on. She knew the tone of her sadness was probably the only thing that caused him to stay to listen to her.

  He finally grasped one of her gloved forearms gently and led her to the shadows of the terrace near the roses in bloom. The potted palms above cast a shadow over them.

  “First, you did not lead Baird on,” he insisted. “I know you and you do not employ those sorts of feminine arts. Second, it is perfectly acceptable to dine outside, and to admire the garden. Perhaps you should not have given him permission to use your Chris­tian name, but I doubt you’ll do that twice. You never repeat mistakes.”

  She was light-­headed from his words. “You’re not angry?”

  “Not with you,” he replied stiffly. “Admiral Birdbrain is another matter.”

  She knew jealousy was not part of his nature. He had too much control over his sensibilities to allow something so base to rule him. He was simply acting in the misguided role of a guardian, annoyed he had not protected her from an unsavory kiss.

  And then she realized that she wanted to tell him everything. There was no one else to whom she could speak about this in London. Calliope was too young. Amelia was in her employment. She would never dare to sully the ears of James’s sisters. There was no one to whom she could confide.

  “Please don’t bother with the admiral. He’s harmless, I promise you.”

  “You don’t know most men’s natures, Isabelle.”

  “I might not,” she agreed, “but I’m only flustered because . . .”

  “Because why?”

  He had not eased back into his dark coat. It was slung over one of his shoulders, and she had never seen him so casual in his dress.

  “Because . . . it was the first time anyone has ever kissed me.”

  She heard him draw in a ragged breath. Seconds ticked by.

  “And,” she continued, “it wasn’t what I though
t it would be. Or hoped it would be. And now . . . I smell wretched.”

  His face was granite-­like in the light of the moon. He was so still she did not know whether she should go on. After a few moments of indecision, she decided she would not. He didn’t want her to confide in him. He was disgusted by the entire affair. And now she was, too.

  She watched as his free arm reached for a bloom on the white rosebush beside them. He crushed the flower and his hand came away with petals.

  Slowly, gently, he brought the petals to her shoulder and eased them along the curve to her neck. Soft like velvet, the bloom’s sweet fragrance washed away the other scent. She watched his dark coat fall to the ground as he crushed another bloom and brought it to her other shoulder.

  The first notes of the music commencing from the Allens’ ballroom faded into the night as his warm breath fell on her cheek. He had never been so close to her before.

  Without thinking, she raised her arms and wound them around his neck. She gazed into his dark, mysterious eyes, staring intently back into hers, and neither of them breathed.

  It was the most exquisite moment of her life.

  Until the next instant . . . when he released the petals and harshly drew her into his embrace. His firm mouth found hers and she could not stop a rush of wildness flowing though her, making her shiver.

  He pulled her ever closer to the warmth of his powerful hard frame and she could not stop the small sound which escaped from her throat. He was all heat and restrained strength. His striated muscles rolling under the fine layer of shirt linen made her feel faint with pleasure. It was so much more than she had ever imagined.

  And then she dared to breathe the taut flesh of the hollow of his cheek. The same wildly potent scents she remembered so well for so long rushed through her senses, leaving her flush with wanting. He smelled of shaving soap, and starch, and new leather—­all indefinably masculine and deadly potent.

  There was nothing on this earth that could move her as much as his evocative scent. It was the essence of a true gentleman through and through—­powerful, irresistible, honest, and never to be forgotten. He smelled of chivalry and deep mystery mixed with raw male.