Once and Future Duchess

by Sophia Nash

  “Need what?”

  “Food for strength.”

  Sussex’s brow furrowed. “I’ve no idea what you’re suggesting.”

  “Well, if you’re going to take on Miss Amelia Primrose, you’ll need all the strength you can muster for a man with gout.”

  “Why on earth would you think I have any interest in that damn female?”

  “Careful. You might possess a duchy by happy circumstance, Sussex, and you may be slightly my elder, but I’m still your superior. And if you cause Amelia Primrose a moment of ill ease, there is no amount of absinthe I won’t force down your gullet before I feed you your own kidneys and liver for breakfast.”

  Sussex narrowed his eyes. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “All right. But if we are going to descend to that level then perhaps it’s only fair I warn you in return that I spied my favorite member of the royal entourage, Isabelle Tremont, running up the Allens’ stairs from the garden last night just before you sauntered up those same stairs not two minutes later. And if I ever again see the duchess’s face with the sort of expression I witnessed, you’ll be substituting apples for grass for breakfast.”

  James stared at the other man for an age before he spoke. “I’m going to exercise one of my horses on Rotten Row.”

  “How lovely.”

  “You are not welcome to join me.”

  “So glad to be in agreement for once,” Sussex said without a hint of malice.

  “And remember what I said about Amelia Primrose. Stay away from her.”

  “I’m not sure why the two of you are so protective of one another,” Sussex retorted, “but perhaps you should consider telling her to stay the hell away from me.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “Good.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Are you ever going to take your leave?” Sussex finally had a peevish expression on his face.

  “I was about to ask you the same question. Ah, but never mind. My good manners prevent me from disturbing the present distribution of fat to your ankles.”

  Sussex responded by returning his attention to The Morning Post and waving his cup of tea in the air in a regal, “you may go” fashion.

  James did not know if he had won this round with Sussex. But then again, he had taken so much from Edward Godwin that it didn’t matter.

  On the other side of the door, he took Wharton aside before heading to the mews. “I shall take breakfast in future in my private chambers until Sussex departs.”

  “Yes, Your Grace. We do the same for all the ladies of the house, and—­”

  “Wharton?”

  “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “Are you suggesting I am acting like a female?”

  “I would not dare, Your Grace.”

  “Good. And contrary to what the Duke of Sussex might request in future, only apples will be served in this dining hall in the mornings.”

  Wharton bowed and backed away. “Of course, Your Grace.”

  James did not care that he was acting like an ass. He’d never done it before, and it felt good.

  Chapter 7

  Letter from HRH, The Prince Regent

  Dearest Duchess,

  I understand the Allens’ affair was merely tolerable. A bit too hot given the scarcity of windows, and a bit too dry given the lack of spirits. Why, I ask myself frequently, do hosts not understand that they should double the amount of food and drink, and halve the number of palms, which offer far too much privacy for my lack-­wit emissaries to investigate?

  Indeed, I require a report on your progress. And that of Candover’s usual lack of progress.

  Shall we not dispense with beating about the bush (or palm, if you will) and have out with it? Have you or have you not secured his hand? Or have you decided (quite rightly) that thawing him out will take an Ice Age?

  Your most patient (but not forever or for much longer for that matter) Sovereign,

  G.

  Nota Bene: my dear girl, you were on to something in the Allens’ garden. You will melt the most frozen of hearts in this fashion I assure you.

  Nota Bene II: avoid naval officers. Their beloved mistress is the sea, which makes their wives remarkably irritated (and often barren). Not for you, my dear. Not at all.

  For nearly three days Isabelle stewed. She had stewed so long that she was sure her mind had taken on the gelatinous consistency of the orange marmalade on the supper tray before her in her chambers. A tart bitterness of spirit completed the image.

  For the first time in her life, she had lost her appetite. “Lost” was not the correct word. It implied she had left it somewhere on a street corner. But that was not it. Her appetite had evaporated little by little as her anger mounted. Her Italian chef had tried to tease her palate, sending up trays with all manner of foods. Clearly, as she looked at the feast before her, tonight was about coaxing her famous sweet tooth. Four miniature portions of dessert surrounded a plate of boiled eggs, the only dish she had requested. Boiled eggs were remarkably easy to quietly dispose—­via reticules or pockets or even open windows. Desserts were far more complicated.

  Isabelle used a spoon to toy with the panna cotta and watched it wobble.

  When her friend Mary Haverty had not arrived from Kent at the hour she’d suggested in her last letter, Isabelle retired to her chambers. She had not been able to stand another early supper at table with Calliope and Amelia, who pretended not to notice her reticence. Well, Amelia pretended not to notice while Calliope spoke about the importance of food and the unimportance of dukes with the letter C in their name.

  At first, anxiety had kept her from sleeping. That and the memory of his kiss ignited her mind hour after hour. The sensation of his arms wrapped around her, of his great strength, and his lips on hers, permeated every fiber of her being. His scent, the play of his muscles beneath the layers of her gloves and his clothes were simply unforgettable. She swallowed. She feared that kiss would haunt her forever and a day. His obvious regret had been an arrow to her heart.

  She had been certain James would pay a call on her at March House the next day, during an hour that was unfashionable for other visitors. He would bow and scrape with rigid hauteur and perform the ancient ritual of all false apologies—­many perfunctory words and little genuine emotion.

  And she in turn would be expected to bestow forgiveness while suggesting that his apology was not necessary, all the while serving him tea—­no sugar, no milk—­and no biscuits.

  But three days of waiting for the charade to unfold, only to have it not unfold, had left her so distinctly uncharitable and irritated that she could not stop thinking about him. She contemplated the silver tray of delicacies. Yes, if he dared to show his face now, she would fling this mellifluous panna cotta dripping with raspberry coulis in his face—­tea and no biscuits be damned.

  She sighed in frustration. All this introspection, intermixed with fuming, had to end. And it would. She had seen to it today. She was now officially older and wiser, and she would get on with the business of selecting a husband.

  Tomorrow she would ride in Green Park, visit the lending library and the dressmaker, followed by the joy she would take watching Calliope try her first ice from Gunter’s. Then Lord Holland’s literary salon for dinner followed by discussion by some of the finest writers and artists of the era. Two of the eight gentlemen on her list would be there.

  Thank God there was not a hint of a garden attached to Holland House. And thank God too that James would not be there. He detested Lord Holland.

  He was obviously so put off by events at the Allens’ town house that he could not even face her. She would do the same. She tried hard to ignore her infantile response but could not quell it.

  She knew she had too much pride, but there was no use trying to change such a deeply entrenched trait. Pride had been brewing in Tremonts for three hundred years and it would not dissipate now.

  She pushed aside the tray on her canopied bed
and lay down, staring at the intricate pleats above her. Oftentimes, she closed the curtains surrounding the bed and imagined herself far away in one of the foreign places of which she had read: Egypt, the West Indies, Peru, the Far East. Closing her eyes now, she tried to envision the pyramids.

  His face stared back at her, hideous regret lurking in every nuance of his stark features.

  It was not to be borne.

  She sat up, furious. A change was in order. Tonight. She would not wait until tomorrow. She nearly knocked the tray off the bed in her urgency to reach the pull. Lily appeared within moments.

  “Please tell the housekeeper that I want my father’s former chambers reopened and aired.” She glanced at the wall clock. It was still early evening.. “Straight away. My affairs can be moved tomorrow, Lily. I will only need fresh linens tonight.”

  Lily bobbed her head. “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Where are Calliope and Miss Primrose? Have they finished dining?”

  “Yes, ma’am. They’ve set up easels in the gallery.”

  Isabelle glanced at the nearly untouched tray on her bed. “Very good. Um, Lily . . . please tell Chef that his food was exceptional as always. The eggs especially.” She quickly took three of the hard boiled eggs and placed them on the table.

  The maid gathered the tray without a word.

  Isabelle placed her amber-­colored shawl around her shoulders and descended to her favorite place at March House—­the library. She was glad to find it empty. She preferred to be confounded by philosophers in private.

  She should have been born a man, she thought. Lord knew, her father had wished it, had voiced it numerous times. Her mother desired it, too, even if she had not said it outright.

  Her mother rarely if ever had said what she thought. Instead, Mama often just gazed out of the bay of south-­facing windows at March Hall, wistfulness threading itself in the perfection of her delicate features.

  It had always been difficult to tell what her mother was thinking.

  And when her mother left the Lake District, leaving the Duke of March behind, as well as her only child, then there had been nothing left to try to know. From then on, Isabelle had no choice but to accept that her beloved mother’s actions and ensuing silence spoke more profoundly than any words could have.

  Now she wondered if her mother was still staring, unseeing, at the world beyond new windows.

  Her mother’s silence was the reason Isabelle did not allow herself to fall into bouts of circuitous introspection. Except for today. And yesterday. And damn it, yes, every day since she’d received the letter from the Prince Regent.

  But she refused to be like her mother. She was a Tremont through and through. Actually, she was not like her mother, and not like her father either. She was herself. At least that was what she had overheard James insist to her father just before he died. The words were seared in her memory, to be reviewed before each new challenge she faced: She will excel, right from the start, I assure you, godfather. She’s better than all of us. She’s somehow managed to retain all the good in us, and avoid all of our faults—­except perhaps that stubborn streak that seems to come part and parcel with a duchy.

  She pushed aside the remembrance as her fingers trailed the spines of the books containing the brilliant and not so brilliant minds of great men and women. She walked along the rows of books, uncertain what to choose. Finally giving up, she mounted six steps of the movable ladder, closed her eyes, and selected a volume at random. This method often provided the most interesting results.

  A familiar voice floated beyond the library door, and the volume slipped from her hand to crash with a thud on the Aubusson carpet below.

  She steadied her hands and turned around on the book stair.

  A footman preceded them.

  For the love of God . . .

  “Her Grace will be informed of your arrival, Your Grace and Lady Haverty,” her man said.

  “Do please tell Her Grace how sorry I am to arrive at such an hour,” Lady Haverty said as she walked into the library ahead of James.

  He had come. And now the two of them must play out a charade in the presence of Mary Haverty. Her hands gripped the ladder rail.

  “There’s . . .” Isabelle rasped, and tried again. “There’s no need. I’m right here.”

  Their faces turned toward her. She trained her eyes on the ladder, which she descended slowly. With her luck, she would stumble.

  “Isabelle!” Mary rushed toward her. “Oh, how lovely to see you.”

  She embraced her friend and finally turned toward the devil, who stood watching. If she could have avoided his touch she would have. But from the time she first met him over a dozen years ago, James had always taken her hand and brushed his lips against the back of it as a mark of deference to the duchess she would one day become.

  And so it was now. She would not meet his eyes, but she could not help but glance at the way his dark brown hair feathered on the back of his head as he bowed to press his lips against her ungloved hand. For such a large man, his lips were remarkably soft, and very warm.

  “Your Grace,” he murmured for her ears only.

  She nodded without a word.

  “Oh, Isabelle,” Mary breathed. “I’m so very sorry to arrive at this late hour. There was a bit of a problem with the carriage. One of its wheels, actually.”

  “Are you all right?” Isabelle frowned.

  “Very well. My only luck was that it happened near St. James Square, and so I enlisted James’s help. If a wheel had to break, better there than somewhere along the miles and miles of rutted road from Kent.” Mary smiled toward him. “James insisted on accompanying me himself. Your chivalry knows no bounds, sir.”

  “It was nothing, Mary,” he said evenly. “I could not allow you to go alone.”

  “But I have my maid,” she replied, laughing.

  It had always been this way between Mary and James. The russet-­haired beauty of astounding wit and charm was nearly the same age as James, and had spent almost every summer visiting his sisters in Derbyshire. Their friendship had begun nearly a decade before Isabelle was born.

  “You must be hungry, Mary,” Isabelle said softly. “Shall I arrange supper for you? And . . . Your Grace?” She had noticed out of the corner of her eye that he was wearing starkly formal evening clothes. His white neck cloth was tied in an intricate fashion, and the stiff brocade collar of his dark coat was so high he might cut his jaw if he turned his head.

  “I cannot help but admit I’m starving,” Mary said. “The fare at the last inn was so wretched, I could not eat it.”

  “Let me arrange something, then. I’m so glad you’ve arrived, Mary.”

  “Oh, me, too. I miss Town. There is nothing but the sounds of haymaking and crickets in Kent.” Mary’s warm, throaty chuckle filled the library. “I cannot tell you how delighted I was by your invitation to stay for the Little Season. We shall have such fun together!”

  “It is you who are doing me a great favor, Mary.”

  James was as silent as a statue.

  Mary opened her mouth and then suddenly closed it. She turned to look at James. And then she looked at Isabelle. The silence between them was as awkward as it could be.

  “What is going on?” Mary’s candor was legendary. Almost as legendary as her green cat-­eyed auburn beauty. Indeed, she was so lovely that hostesses with marriageable daughters very often remembered to forget to send her invitations.

  Neither responded. Mary looked at both of them again.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Isabelle finally said.

  Mary looked at James.

  “I accompanied you here because I require a word with Her Grace,” he said, his lips barely moving.

  “Since when do you refer to Isabelle as Her Grace in front of me, or any of our friends for that matter?”

  His chin rose a fraction of an inch. “Since I owe her an apology.”

  “His Grace does not owe me anything,�
�� Isabelle replied directly to Mary.

  “Oh,” Mary said, laughing. “And you’re so formal, too. This is capital. James, guilty of something? I do believe the last time I heard he did something wrong, there might have been a queen on the throne.”

  “Indeed,” James said, as stiff as a knight in armor.

  When he did not continue, Mary did. “So what did you do?”

  “I’d prefer not to say,” James ground out.

  “Well, how will you apologize without retelling it in gory detail?”

  She had to stop this. It was like watching some sort of hideous accident about to unfold. “Absolutely nothing happened. I have not a clue to what he is referring.”

  A pair of green eyes and a pair of brown eyes examined her, but she could stonewall with the best of them.

  Mary bit her lips. “Devil take it. This is impossible. How can you expect me to do the proper thing and leave you both to your own devices? You’ll surely make a muck of it. I’m an excellent referee.” Mary paused. “Truly. And I promise not to laugh again. So James, what did you do to Isabelle? Or not do? No, you never fail to act. So, what did you do? Or was it something you said?”

  Isabelle walked to the door as casually as she could manage. “He didn’t say or do anything, Mary. Pardon me for a moment,” she said as she opened the library door and asked the footman to arrange supper for Mary. She closed the door again and tried to look James in the face but could only train her eyes on his chin. “And whatever you think that you did that might have offended—­not that I think or can imagine that you did anything that caused me a moment of concern—­please don’t burden your conscience any longer.” She wondered how many extra degrees of heat would be hers to enjoy in the little corner of Hell she’d occupy for such lies.

  Mary’s good-­humored grin faded.

  James’s expression was arctic. “Mary, would you be so kind as to allow Her Grace a moment with me? Surely, you have something important to attend to for a quarter hour?”

  Mary bit her lip. “I rather think this is going to take longer than a quarter hour, but all right. So, does Signor Benorini still rule your kitchen, Isabelle?”