by Sophia Nash
“Yes,” she replied.
“The most enchanting chef. Does he still create those divine desserts?”
“Oh, yes,” Isabelle replied. “His panna cotta with raspberry coulis tonight was extraordinary. Indeed, I was imagining how much His Grace would enjoy it not one half hour ago. But I cannot have you dine alone. Come, I’ll join you at the table.”
James examined her with hooded eyes. “Isabelle?”
“Yes?”
“Will you not honor me for a few minutes? Alone.”
She wasn’t sure which urge was stronger—the one to grab onto his lapels and kiss him within an inch of his life to make him see what an ass he was, or the one in which a delicious dessert would be wasted. “There’s no need, I assure you.
“This is far more serious than I thought,” Mary said softly. “Well, I think I shall go. I fear my appetite is in danger of being affected if I stay.”
“You’re not the only one,” Isabelle muttered.
“What did you say?” James’s expression darkened.
“Although . . .” Mary said with classic indecision, “we could all have dessert right here.”
“No!” both Isabelle and James replied at the same time.
“Finally . . . some agreement,” Mary purred. “It’s a start. All right, then, since I don’t want to become another person who requires an apology, I shall take my leave. For a quarter hour.”
As Mary left, the two of them did not move. James was five feet away from her.
“Isabelle,” he began, his voice as deep, calm, and even as always, “please forgive me for my momentary lapse in—”
“Don’t you dare, James Fitzroy,” she interrupted. “If there was something to be said, you should have said it two days ago. Now it’s too late.” Dear God. She hadn’t meant to say what was in her heart now that he had rejected her. She’d meant to attempt what her mother had taught by example—to keep her sensibilities in check.
“I agree.”
“And don’t you dare do that either,” she said peevishly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“That annoying habit of yours.”
“Habit?”
“Oh botheration. You know what I’m talking about. You only have one aggravating habit,” she said. “Well, maybe two or three at most.”
He stared at her.
“The one when you end an argument before it has a chance to bear fruit.”
He raised his eyebrows.
She sighed. “When you immediately agree with something provoking.”
“So you are trying to provoke me?”
“And now you’re changing the topic.”
“But you’ve already said you won’t forgive me.”
“You are supposed to insist. Or promise something in return.”
“Is this in some sort of guide to etiquette?”
“No. It’s something one knows innately.”
“I see.” He didn’t appear to see at all.
She glanced at the nearest row of books on the shelf near her. She felt like a fool, which only made her more annoyed. Perhaps he needed a dose of his own silent-as-the-grave mannerism. No . . . she could not. “Go on, then,” she ground out. “What is it you have to say?”
“All right,” he said as cool as you please. “Although one can hope you will hear me out without interruption.”
Well, at least he could follow instructions. She raised her chin a fraction of an inch and waited.
He took one step closer to her. “I request your forgiveness for taking advantage of your fragile state three nights ago.”
“I’ve never been fragile,” she ground out. “And you know it.”
Whatever was turning in that great head of his, he managed to hide it as always. “Then I beg your pardon for taking advantage of you, period.”
“No one ‘takes’ anything from me, James Fitzroy,” she continued, “that I do not want to give.”
He opened his mouth and then closed it.
“Oh, spit it out for God’s sake. There’s no need to overthink these sorts of things.”
“I’m certain guides to good manners advise against epithets.”
“Are you daring to correct me?” Yes, she might very well strangle him before this was over. “When you are the one who owes me an apology?”
He replied quickly, “So you admit I owe you an apology.”
“Of course you do, you oaf.”
His cool expression finally changed. A degree. A degree toward incredulity. She suddenly wondered if the premier duke of England had ever been called an oaf before. Probably not.
“But not for taking advantage—but rather for being momentarily distracted and impudent?” He stopped. There was a strange expression decorating his face. Sort of like if he had taken a bite of something at a dinner party, found it inedible, and could not decide whether to swallow or discreetly search for his napkin.
“Have you ever truly lost your head for even half a moment in your life?” she dared him.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he replied stiffly.
“Have you ever wanted something so passionately that you didn’t care if you made an utter idiot of yourself trying to get it?”
He pursed his lips. “In all fairness, perhaps I should point out that you are now exhibiting a less than desirable trait of your own.”
“Tell me you are not criticizing me again while attempting to apologize?”
He would not take the bait.
“All right.” She could not stand not knowing. “Tell me what you find annoying.”
“When you phrase something in which neither yes or no will appease or appear to advantage.”
“Just answer my damned question.”
He exhaled slowly.
Honestly, the man was insufferable in his unflappability.
“Yes,” he replied.
“Yes, what?” she encouraged.
“I’ve made a fool of myself in the past.”
“When?”
“Recently,” he admitted. “The night before the wedding that did not happen.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“Not according to the Prince Regent.”
“Have you or have you not ever felt passion, James Fitzroy?” She waited far too long for his answer.
“What has that to do with anything, Isabelle?”
“I think I’m allowed one answer to any question I choose. Indeed, let’s make it part of the penance. So, what is your answer?”
Only his lips, now thin and whiter than usual, gave his ill-ease away. “How do you define passion?”
Would he ever answer? Well . . . she would not let him go now until he did. What was behind that impenetrable veneer of his? Was there yet another layer of ice, or just the reverse, as she had always imagined. She was in it for the duration. “All right,” she replied, about as patient as a veteran schoolteacher. “Let’s see . . . I would say passion is a deep, near ungovernable emotion. Intense desire to know another person or . . . or something on this green earth—at the deepest level. It even sometimes overrules a regulated mind.”
He studied her for a long moment, his eyes hooded. In the lengthening shadows of the remains of the day coming from the windows, he appeared steeped in mystery—a man unused to ever discussing himself or his past.
She wondered if he had ever been innocent and carefree.
He cleared his throat. “But passion’s meaning is also rooted in suffering. If that is what you ask, then yes, I have endured passion. I’ve also witnessed the consequences left in passion’s impetuous wake. It always involves loss—of self or of another. But I am a man, and as you know, a gentleman does not dwell on such things. It does no good and is a waste of time. I would hope you are forever spared passion’s grip—for it removes balance from most people’s lives when they reach for something so bright and impermanent. I will always reject passion for duty—to my sisters, to the people who depend
on me, our sovereign, and my position. ”
“You are wrong, James,” she said quietly. “Passion is not just about suffering. I think it’s a gift, whether it’s a passion for something or someone. It’s to be embraced—experienced. To be explored. To be cherished. Sometimes frustrating, sometimes even sad, yes, but still it’s too rare to squander. Life is not meant to be lived in muddy grays. Passion in life brings color and vibrancy.”
He frowned, his discomfort almost palpable. “Do you come by these notions firsthand or are these ideas you’ve formed without direct experience?”
“I don’t have to experience something or read about it to understand it,” she insisted. “I also think passion takes courage. Do you know the root of that word? Coeur—or heart in Latin.”
“Your memory is astounding,” he retorted. “I distinctly remember explaining that notion to you the day you attempted to avoid the tooth-drawer, who wanted to examine your teeth.”
“Yes, well if you had heard the scullery maid and footman screaming before you arrived that day, you would have understood.”
The barest hint of movement at the corner of his mouth relieved the tension of the moment.
She exhaled. “Well, perhaps you’ve paid your penance even if we cannot agree on passion or avoiding bloodthirsty tooth-drawers. But now we must determine your offense.”
His eyes widened. “That should be obvious, even if you disagree.”
“You did not take advantage of me, James.” She tried to save her pride and his. “These sorts of things happen all the time. Perhaps it was the champagne, or the music—actually I know it was not the music, as the violinist sounded like a screeching cat. Or perhaps it was the heat of the night—who knows? It doesn’t matter.” She swallowed against the ache in the back of her throat from telling untruths. But she pushed a small part of her pride aside and said what needed to be said. “I’m only annoyed because I was certain you would call on me the next day. And you did not come. And then the next. And still you did not come. Even if you did not owe me an apology, you should have come. It was the gentlemanly thing to do.”
His expression was unreadable. “I hope you will find it within your heart to forgive me for any anxiety I caused you.”
Thank God he had chosen not to pick apart her irrational argument.
“So why did you wait?” She continued, “I had something of importance to discuss.”
“What is it?”
“No. I want to know why you waited.”
“I, er, well . . .”
It was a first. James tongue-tied.
“Yes?” she encouraged sweetly.
“Look, I’m not in the habit of apologizing. To anyone.”
She kept her smile in check. “Perfectly understandable.”
He examined the back of his gloved hand. “And the matter of that kiss. I would not want you to think—”
“Actually,” she interrupted, “I must thank you for it.”
He went still. “Thank me?”
“Why, yes. It gave me another perspective of how it might be done. The rear admiral’s kiss was not very interesting. The one with you was . . . well, pleasant. And now that I know how to go about it, well, I will know what to do the next time I—”
“Isabelle Tremont,” he interrupted with a low growl, “you will only invite trouble if you creep about gardens kissing gentlemen with whom you are barely acquainted.”
“So it’s only acceptable to kiss those with whom I share a long-standing acquaintance?”
“No,” he ground out. “That moment with me was an extreme aberration. It’s not acceptable for you to kiss anyone.”
“Except my future husband?”
“Perhaps once.” He coughed. “After one is engaged.”
“And you follow these rules?”
“You know very well that each sex has its own rules.”
She smiled. “Of course I do. That is why brothels exist. And light-skirts, mistresses, bits of muslin, high fliers, Cyprians, and—”
“No need to go on,” he interrupted. “I won’t ask how you’ve come to know these terms.” He looked toward the ceiling as if he would find help there. “I think we’ve said all that needs to be said.”
“Except the matter I wanted to discuss.”
“It’s not about Calliope, is it? Only Amelia can help you there. And Mary will guide you in all matters of society.”
“No. I wanted to ask if you had managed to converse with one or two ladies on the list I gave you.” She gazed into his eyes without blinking. “And about that list you were to prepare for me?”
A muscle in the hollow of his cheek clenched and then released. “List?”
She smiled. “Have you forgotten your desire to advise me on a husband?”
His eyes took on a glassy quality.
“The prince requires progress . . . on my front and yours,” she said sweetly.
He groaned.
“What?” She shook her head. “This should be easy for you. It’s all about duty. Not passion.”
Devil take it. Why was she always talking about damned lists? Lists never worked. The Duke of Kress’s house party in Cornwall earlier this summer was proof enough of that. An entire herd of well-heeled young ladies approved by the Prince Regent had not appealed to any of the dukes present. Indeed, the combined charms of nearly a dozen daughters of earls, marquises, lords, and barons had not overcome the appeal of a certain Cornish tin man’s daughter, who Kress had chosen as his bride.
And her comment regarding his kiss . . . It was just pleasant? It was interesting? She was the most confounding lady of his acquaintance. And that was why he—
“So, did you dance with any of them? Lady Susan was in very good looks and she comes from a long line of very fertile ladies who have provided heirs with astounding speed—”
“We will not have this discussion. There is a limit, Isabelle, and discussing if a lady is fruitful is beyond it.”
“But it is a top priority. Indeed, your only priority if you were to ask—”
A knock at the door interrupted her. Mary Haverty poked her head inside. “Is everyone still alive in here? Or should I send for a surgeon?”
“Alive, yes,” Isabelle chuckled. “Finished, no. But I do believe we might be in need of your opinion now.”
“Oh, delighted to help,” Mary said, carefully closing the door quietly behind her. “And by the by, I just made the acquaintance of Calliope Little. Your cousin is such a delight!”
James made a sound that could have been a snort if he were not so refined.
“What can I do to help you both?” Mary’s brilliant smile was blinding and it was all for Isabelle. “Did he apologize nicely?”
“He improved as we went along.”
“I see I’m no longer needed here,” he said dryly. “And I’ve a rendezvous at White’s.”
“One moment, if you please, James,” Isabelle insisted.
At least she had ended the formality. She placed her hand on his arm, and the hairs on the back of his neck rose. He didn’t like it when she touched him. “Of course,” he said, his notion of escape cut off.
“Mary,” Isabelle said quietly, “I think it important to share a confidence with you.”
Mary’s merry green eyes showed infinite amusement. “How delightful. I adore confidences. And unlike everyone else, I’m very good at keeping secrets. Except when I choose not to. But yours I will keep most faithfully, I assure you.” Mary crossed her heart with her index finger and then dropped it to her side.
“Are your fingers crossed?” He was unable to keep annoyance from his voice.
Mary chuckled and raised her hands. “Absolutely not. Now what is it?”
“James has given me his word that he will choose a wife from a list I gave him of eligible females. The Prince Regent has demanded that we each choose a spouse.”
“I did not agree to choose a wife, merely to investigate the possibility,” Jame
s clarified.
“No,” Isabelle inserted. “You agreed to commence the search for a wife when you accepted the list.”
He glared at the two women in front of him. One would think he would know how to control females after tending to the affairs of five sisters. Then again, five sisters were nothing compared to one duchess.
“As my father always said, the mark of a true gentleman is his ability to keep his word,” Isabelle continued. “Will you keep yours, then?”
It was like a kick to the groin. He was a man of his word. He rarely made promises.
Indeed, when someone required a promise, the weight of the world placed on his shoulders was typically the result.
He had made two other promises in his life—one to his father and one to Isabelle’s father, the Duke of March. And he was beginning to feel as if he was balancing the entire planetary system at this point.
But the promise he had made to March three years ago was the one he would not ever fail to keep. And as God as his witness, he’d see it through. No matter what it cost him.
And it was clearly going to cost him. A pound of flesh.
His own.
“You can count on my word, Isabelle. That I promise you. You can count on it.”
Chapter 8
On the south side of Hyde Park, the Route de Roi, or more commonly known as “Rotten Row” in its corrupted form, was the place to give one’s horse a good run early in the morning. The only drawback was that it was often crowded with young bucks jostling for position in the midst of older but not wiser bucks. Few of the female persuasion dared to set foot, or rather, hoof there. Then again, most ladies were still abed at seven o’clock in the morning.
Isabelle and Mary were not like most ladies. And so they warmed up their mounts and their bodies with a brisk trot on the sandy track shaded by a broad arch of ash trees. Isabelle finally allowed the gray mare her head and broke into a canter, breaking away from Mary on the bay gelding. The wind felt good on her face as she urged her mount toward Serpentine Road in the distance.
The weather showed the first hints of fall—crisp, clean, and ready for change. And so was Isabelle. She’d offered James her hand and he had not accepted it. She’d given herself in his embrace, and he had regretted it. And now there was not an hour of the day when she could not remember it.