by Sophia Nash
And yet, he’d had little choice.
A loud snore interrupted his thoughts. He looked at the elderly gentleman slumped across from him. His Grace, the Archbishop of Canterbury.
It was the last person he wanted to see.
And yet, again, he had little choice.
Whoever said that with power and prestige came responsibility had been putting it mildly. Indeed, noblesse oblige was a millstone one wore while maintaining a benevolent air one rarely felt.
The archbishop let loose a highly inappropriate sound for a religious man. James had a flash of memory from the night of the outrageous party. In his majestic robes, the archbishop had nearly drowned in the Serpentine while trying to swim with the swans. James shook his head. He had the vague nightmarish notion that he might have been the one who had revived him by blowing air into his mouth. Yes, the Primate of All England facing him had downed more of that wretched brew provided by Kress than any of the rest of them. His Grace might sleep as soundly as the dogs now slumbering at their feet, but it was astounding the man did not wake himself, with such a devil-like symphony emanating from him.
James felt he should not be here for more than one reason. First, no Duke of Candover was ever supposed to set foot on these sacred grounds for good reason. Second, Isabelle would be here, as well as a host of gentlemen from her damned list she did not need. Third, there might be ladies from that double damned list she had provided.
He was here for only one reason: to put to rights something of which he knew next to nothing, other than the letter he held in his hands. The one he had nearly memorized.
My Lord Duke,
Only the most serious circumstances force me to ask this favor. Would His Grace be kind enough to arrange for His Grace, the Archbishop of Canterbury, to attend the Duke of Sussex’s house party?
Your servant,
AP
Why had Amelia Primrose made such an outrageous request? And since she had never asked him for one thing in all of the years she had been with the family, James was loath to refuse her. Clearly something was grave beyond reason. And since she had not told him what was afoot, he would have to find it out himself.
Not a quarter hour before James’s carriage drew in front of Angelus Abbey, the archbishop awoke, yawned hugely, and finally smiled, his little mouth forming a vee. “This carriage is very well sprung. Delightful outing. Say, Candover, would you happen to know if Sussex’s wine cellar is as well stocked as—”
“No idea,” James interrupted. “Now that you’re awake, I must ask you again—how long ago did you form an acquaintance with my sister’s abigail?”
“Is this the Penelope creature you spoke of?”
“Amelia Primrose,” James repeated for the fifth time in three hours. “Originally from Scotland.”
“A rather heathenish lot, those Scots, don’t you think?”
“How do you know her?”
“Penelope?”
“No,” he ground out. “Amelia. Primrose. As in a rose that is prim.”
The archbishop blinked. “Never heard of a flower being prudish. Are you certain you haven’t been nipping a bit of brandy?”
“There are no spirits in this carriage. But if you answer my question, I will arrange for a bottle of the best brandy in the region for you tomorrow.”
“Actually, I prefer Armagnac. The Dowager Duchess of Helston introduced me to the delights of—”
“I shall deliver a case of it to your chambers tonight. Just please, for the love of God, tell me how you came to know Amelia Primrose.”
“Everything I do is for the love of God.”
James rolled his eyes.
“No need for a tantrum, Candover.” He winked. “Amelia is a far lovelier name than Penelope, don’t you agree?”
He refused to reply. As soon as the Little Season was done, he was for Derbyshire. Living with four sisters would be a relief after this.
“Hmmm . . . She’s your abigail, you say? A bit long in the tooth for an abigail, no?”
James sighed heavily. “I told you she was my sister’s abigail. You apparently know her.”
“Your sister Prudence?”
“I do not have a sister named Prudence.”
“A fine brother you are. Forgetting your own sister’s name.”
He stared at the archbishop.
“You have half a dozen sisters if I recall. Your parents were models of propriety. Let’s see, let me help you remember. Prudence, Temperance, Levity, Morality, Chivalry, and, oh yes . . . Amelia.”
“I have five sisters. Faith, Hope, Verity, Charity, and Chastity. Amelia was Verity’s abigail. She is now employed by the Duchess of March.”
He furrowed his brow. “By my dearest Isabelle? But she does not need an abigail. She’s fully mature at thirty-two years old. What she needs is a husband.”
“She is eighteen.”
“The Duchess of March, you say? Eighteen?” He scratched his balding head. “Are you sure?”
James could not open his mouth.
“My, you are awfully short-tempered, Candover.”
James clenched his molars and prayed for deliverance from the Valley of Death by Archbishop. “Do you know Miss Amelia Primrose or not?”
The archbishop appeared greatly affronted. “Why, I do not know ladies in the biblical sense—other than my wife, of course. May I remind you, dear boy, that I’m the spiritual leader of our great country? You cannot imagine the pressure.”
James looked toward the abbey, still half a mile in the distance. If it were not so important, he would stop the carriage and walk the rest of the way. He attempted a different tactic. “Do you remember anything from that infamous night with Prinny and the rest of us?”
The elderly gentleman instantly retorted. “Of course I do. I have an excellent memory.”
James could not resist needling the man. “So you remember swimming with royal fowl?”
“I would never—”
“And drinking Kress’s god-awful absinthe and—”
“My dear,” the archbishop interrupted. “One should never condemn any part of God’s cache of earthly delights. Is it still raining?”
“No. You see, it’s very easy to answer a question. Will you do me the very great favor of answering mine?” He was considering torture.
“Of course, I will grant you a favor, Candover. As long as it’s in my best interest, of course.”
“Forget it,” James muttered. It was a testament to his state of mind. He never muttered.
“I never forget anything, dear boy.” And with that the archbishop tilted back his head and closed his eyes.
The carriage rounded the second to last wide turn toward the abbey. James had no choice but to insist that Amelia explain all directly. He was loath to do so. Both he and Verity’s former abigail had taken great pains to maintain a very formal rapport after she bore witness to his father’s great secret. It had been the only way, given the embarrassment.
He stared at the abbey ahead. He knew they were most likely the last ones to arrive. He had planned it that way. Less time with the hordes of guests.
And less time with Isabelle.
He would have to make a point of never finding himself alone with her. He stilled his hand, which was tapping the carriage bench.
He had missed her the last week. And now she was haunting his dreams. That face of hers . . .
She had the most expressive eyes. Highly unusual and not unlike a lioness. And her mass of shiny, lovely brown hair. Not as dark as his own, but a beautiful lighter shade, more like maple that shone in the— Lord, since when had he attempted poetry? And at this moment? Across from a demented tonsured religious? The madhouse was in his future.
God, how she had felt in his arms. So vibrant, and feminine, and bold. He closed his eyes for a moment and remembered her face—open, trusting, passion-filled. He feared what might have happened had they been alone, far from anyone else. He, who had prided himse
lf on his control. Well, he learned from his mistakes. He only had to do one thing. Remember the Duke of March.
She had always been very much like her father in temperament. Stubborn, proud, smart as a whip, a natural leader. Indeed, she was the best thing that had ever happened to the Tremont duchy.
He wondered how much of her mother Isabelle had truly inherited—if anything at all. The former Duchess of March had been such a mysterious, grave lady. Far younger than March, very quiet, seemingly devoted until the day she left, the winter Isabelle had been ten years old. In his distress, the Duke of March had shared with James the note his wife left behind when she departed England with a lover. Oh, they had done excellently in covering up the sordid event, telling all that Her Grace had gone to Brussels to care for a consumptive relative and become ill herself and died there. The last had been true, at least. James’s own mother had been quite different from the beautiful young former Duchess of March. And while both had been holding up the pretense of a loving marriage, his mother lived a joy-filled life raising her children and filling up her days with her passion for nature. She’d had the rare qualities of goodness, loyalty, and grace under all circumstances.
They were the very qualities Isabelle possessed in abundance, but did not know it.
A loud snore erupted from the archbishop once more. He hoped he himself did not snore. And suddenly he felt more alone than he had ever felt in his life.
There was no one who would ever tell him if he snored. Certainly not his servants. And his sisters would not dare to set foot in his bedchambers. And of the ladies he’d bedded, all rich widows with nothing to lose, he had never stayed to slumber in their presence.
What had possessed him of late? James closed his eyes and leaned his heavy head against the edge of the carriage back. Why was he so damned tired all the time?
And why was he dreaming every damned night of Isabelle Tremont? He could not stop reliving every hot moment—the way her form had molded to his so damn perfectly it made his mouth water. He had wanted to touch her, peel down that scrap of a silk bodice of hers and taste her.
And in his dreams he had.
Her face, creamy white under a waxing moon, had suddenly been bathed in the candlelight of his chambers in Derbyshire. And he had kissed and caressed her supple flesh as she moaned. His mouth had trailed his hands until he reached the juncture of her thighs. He had urged her slim legs apart intent on driving them both mad with desire. In the dreamy haze of thick passion, he had parted and stroked and finally tasted her as her sweet sounds of excitement changed to wild abandon.
Until he hadn’t been able to bear the strain of pent-up desire. He had crawled up her body with a deep guttural growl and positioned himself, nudging her thighs ever wider. The heaviness of his arousal had rested against the soft invitation of her body, and he’d gritted against the wave of intense desire to take her. And in his dreams he did. And each time, the wild rush of pleasure crashed the moment he took her innocence and he caught the shattering depth of hurt he had seen in her eyes that night in the garden.
He looked down at his hands in his lap. They were shaking like leaves of summer, against the rush of autumn’s first gusts. He would not let go. He would not give in to temptation. He would be damned more than he already was if he broke his word. He closed his eyes against the pain of it.
God, he wanted her.
And yet, he didn’t want her at all.
Bloody millstones.
Chapter 9
Letter from HRH, The Prince Regent
My dear Duchess,
More lists. Unless you can unleash that marvelous creativity I’ve seen in your young mind. Don’t ask how I’ve managed it—but the best and brightest flowering young ladies of the Little Season (albeit some are seconds and thirds since the best of the crop are usually already plucked by the start of summer—except you my dear, as we both know you have your pick of the curs) are on their way to Sussex’s drafty pile.
And if I were you, I should give up on Old Sobersides, as your delightful Miss Calliope Little refers to James Fitzroy. Candover is not worth your efforts, my dear. Onward and upward I always say.
And as for the rest of the royal entourage, you are to make sure the Duke of Barry finds his way toward marital bliss for he is A Good Man. But don’t bother with Sussex—you shall have your hands full with all the characters gathering for the grand marital hunt of the season.
Write to me, my dear. And give my warmest regards to that dear Calliope Little creature. I adore aging crones masquerading as girls of four and ten. From a distance.
À Bientôt
G.
Nota Bene
The list of Hopefuls and Has-beens:
Lady Pamela Hopkins—likes to wager. A lot.
Lady Katherine Leigh—whinnies. A lot.
Lady Judith Leigh—the giggler of the lot. Her flaming hair makes up for it. Almost.
Lady Susan Moore—always with the headache. (Or causes my own.)
Until I receive Candover’s list of (certain to be) rubbish, I shall send the only gentlemen I can coax from their hunting boxes:
The Marquis of Haverston
The Earl of Bronway
Mr. Parker (widower with two squalling brats to entertain Miss Calliope Little and occupy Miss Amelia Primrose.)
Mr. Adams (a handsome gentleman but with an unfortunate tendency to discuss shop instead of assuming a proper tonnish facade of world-weariness.)
Keep this list. You will need it. They all look so much alike—the simpering ladies in white dresses and the wasp-waisted gentlemen peacocking about with quizzing glass ribbons lacing their fingers.
James had never enjoyed déjà vu. One should not have to repeat nightmares. And this house party of Sussex’s was like an awful re-creation of the visit to the Duke of Kress’s ancestral estate in Cornwall. Then, James had been ordered south to oversee the marrying off of the most notorious members of the royal entourage. But this time? He had no one but himself, and Amelia Primrose, to blame. Not that he would ever blame her for anything. It was just the opposite. He owed her too much.
These were his thoughts as he surveyed the lounging guests in Sussex’s ancient cavernous great room, of which one side featured a fireplace that could roast a half-dozen pigs at once. Clearly designed to fulfill the master’s porcine addiction.
The medieval chamber featured more than a few seating areas, perfect for private conversations. And every corner of it was filled with the same ladies who had been in Cornwall. Only now they were joined by a covey of gentlemen all preening and vying for the attention of . . . Isabelle and Mary, at first glance.
He clenched his teeth. No. He would not go to Isabelle. He scanned the chamber once more for Amelia Primrose, without luck.
His eyes were drawn back to Isabelle. Candlelight played across her features, illuminating her lively expression. His gaze traveled to the delicate hollows of her collarbones, and to the elegance of her shoulders and hands.
She conversed with . . . he squinted . . . Devil take it. What was the Duke of Barry doing here? Prinny had ordered him to make himself scarce after Cornwall. Why, if the populous in London learned Barry had woken up across from a dead man in Carleton House the morning after the night of sin, it would renew rebellion against the aristocracy. The newspapers had learned and trumpeted all of the excesses of the bachelor night except that one, hideous fact that Prinny managed to keep secret. Not one month ago the country was in anarchy and on the brink of revolution. If the news leaked about the lifeless man across from Barry, well . . .
James walked toward the pair as his peers pretended not to watch his every movement. When he met one gentleman’s eyes, the peer lowered his gaze as a mark of deference. It never failed to make him feel like a different species of animal.
“Barry?”
The younger duke glanced up from his chair across from Isabelle. “Ah, Candover.”
“What brings you here?”
“Isabelle?” James said with a short bow. “I hope you are well.”
“Very well, thank you. Barry and I were just having a most lively discussion on gaining wisdom in advanced years.”
“And the conclusion?”
“It’s an illusion,” she said with an artful smile. “One is either born wise or not. The rest is mere education. He agrees with me.”
“Of course I do,” Barry said. “How could I not after we each confirmed the other was born wise?”
“But you are forgetting experience,” James said. “And one can only gain that with age.”
“Pfft,” Isabelle retorted.
Barry was studying Isabelle’s profile while James studied him. “I’m all amazement, Barry. Didn’t Prinny suggest he would skin you alive if you dared show your face again this year?”
“He did.”
James respected Barry. He was the only one of the entourage who had earned it. Barry might have done something unpardonably grave the night in question, but at a very young age he had earned great valor during the war against Bonaparte. A former Lord Lieutenant of the 95th Rifles, Vere Sturbridge, the new Duke of Barry, had retired from the battlefield last year at the age of twenty-four when he unexpectedly ascended to a distant cousin’s duchy with a single crumbling castle, crippling debts, and no fortune.
“So?” James inquired.
Barry glanced at Isabelle across from him. “Isabelle and I were just discussing our dilemma. It seems I’m not the only one to have received a royal command two weeks ago to,” he lowered his voice, “marry.”
James looked between the handsome young man and Isabelle. A coldness invaded his spine. “I see.”
Barry did not notice the drop in temperature. “But as I decided to take a wife when I inherited, now is as good a time as any. The prince has only hastened what I intended. Family is everything in life, don’t you agree, Isabelle?”
She glanced at James before returning her gaze to Barry. “I do.”
Barry looked at him expectantly, but he said not a word.