by Sophia Nash
Isabelle shook her head in disbelief. What was it about this game that seemed to bring out the worst in everyone? She would go for a gallop over golf any day of the week.
James sidled up behind her. “I refuse to play another hole with him.”
“Why?”
“He’s a damned cheat.”
“Really.”
“Yes,” he insisted.
“How do you know?” Isabelle could not believe how juvenile men could be.
“He played my ball.”
“Maybe it wasn’t your ball.”
“Of course it was my ball.”
“How do you know for certain?”
He smiled in a particularly sly fashion Isabelle had never imagined he possessed. While he was being ridiculous, it somehow made him more human. More lovable, oddly enough.
“Because I played his ball,” he said with a peculiar light in his eye.
“And look how that turned out.” She shook her head in exasperation. She did not wait for his response. Instead, she made her way toward Sussex, who was pretending not to watch Amelia mounting the fifth tee.
James caught up and the three of them silently watched Amelia hit the ball so brilliantly that it landed within inches of the last pin.
“You play very well, Miss Primrose,” James said as Amelia descended the mound to join them. “If I did not know your whereabouts the last decade, I would assume you spent many hours on the links.”
“I suppose,” Amelia replied, “I should have told Your Grace that I have my father’s clubs, and sometimes your sisters and I would amuse ourselves by hitting a shuttlecock at Boxwood when you were in Town.”
“Well, I’ve never thought much of the sport,” Sussex muttered.
“Why is that?” Isabelle inquired.
“It reminds me of croquet,” he replied, his jaw set. “Only it takes twice as long, and some people play by a mysterious, ever-changing set of rules. Where’s the fun in that, I ask you? Foxhunting is far more enjoyable than whacking balls.”
“I like whacking balls,” Amelia announced.
Isabelle tried to intervene, but Sussex would not be denied.
“It’s quite obvious you like to whack balls,” Sussex seethed. “A lot.”
Amelia paled, and James immediately stepped in front of Sussex. Nose-to-nose, he said softly, with an edge, “You go too far. Apologize.”
Sussex regarded him with unrestrained anger. “It’s rather the other way around. She might look like a saint, but I assure you she is a bloody thief in the night who robs gentlemen of their dignity and far worse.”
In a blur of motion, James grabbed the knot of Sussex’s neck cloth and twisted his fist.
“No, Your Grace . . . he is correct,” Amelia said, and stepped forward.
James did not let go. “I would sell my soul before I’d believe that,” he said hotly.
Isabelle couldn’t breathe for the tension. She’d never seen him so angry. “James,” she whispered.
He ground his teeth and released Edward in one swift motion. “I will have a full accounting,” he said, pinning Sussex with a furious gaze.
She had to stop this disaster from unfolding further. She grasped Sussex’s arm and tugged on it. It felt rather like trying to pry an old oak tree from the ground. “Come along, Edward.” She looked pointedly at the other man. “James . . . not here. People are in front and behind. Obviously there’s some sort of misunderstanding. We’ll settle this later when—”
“There is no sodding misunderstanding,” Sussex insisted, glaring at Amelia. “The conniving mushroom dared to steal my name that night we were all of us half dead with drink. She plays the martyr very well by the by. But I assure you there is not a single reason she could concoct to defend her abominable actions—even if she suggests she was foxed to the gills.”
“Whatever are you talking about—” Isabelle began faintly.
“Go on, tell them”—Sussex’s eyes narrowed to slits—“wife.”
Isabelle had never seen eyes as tortured as Amelia Primrose’s. And James’s face was stark and drawn tight as he gazed down at the exquisitely beautiful woman with her blond hair drawn back at the nape of her swan-like neck. He did not turn to face the man he addressed.
“If you were not who you are, Edward Godwin,” James whispered, his hands clenched at his sides, “with God as my witness, I would—”
“No. Please listen,” Amelia interrupted, finally breaking under James’s steadfast gaze. “I’ve said he’s correct. But it will be annulled. I guarantee it.”
James’s tortured gaze was still fastened on her sorrowful face. And then he leaned down toward her, and for one terrible instant Isabelle thought he was going to kiss her. Instead he whispered something in her ear.
Isabelle thought she heard James say something about always protecting her, taking care of her.
Sussex cleared his throat and appeared ready to do murder.
Isabelle could not breathe. There was something so strong, so powerful, so . . . wildly raw and protective in James’s hard features as he stared at Amelia, that she felt like the wind had been sucked out of her lungs.
Without a word, James finally turned and stalked toward the gathering house ahead.
Isabelle inhaled raggedly. God. Was that it? Was James in love with Amelia Primrose? And why had he not acted upon that love? Surely not because she was an abigail from the Lowlands. But still . . . his reaction was beyond chivalry, beyond everything. It was . . . primal.
Amelia turned to her, her face paler than the sands of time. “Go after him. Please. I beg you.”
God. Oh God. Oh God. And Amelia loved James.
She tore her eyes from Amelia when Sussex finally said tightly, “Oh, go ahead. Don’t worry. I won’t kill her,” adjusting his neck cloth. “Yet.”
They were all mad, Isabelle thought as the world she thought she knew spun out of control. Amelia and Sussex married? James loved Amelia? She had less than no desire to go after James. But she had to get away and so she pretended to do as they bid. Her legs felt like rubber and would barely do as she wanted. She kept moving forward until she stumbled behind a copse of trees, light-headed and disoriented.
Once behind the low-lying branches, she fell to her knees on a carpet of moss and leaves. She was ill. More ill than she’d ever known. A cold film of sweat broke out on her forehead. She would not retch. She would not.
Instead, she drooped down on her side and curled up in a ball, her arms wrapped around her knees. Her hands gripped her arms and finally, blessedly, she gulped in air to ease her aching lungs. She concentrated on breathing. She would not cry.
Duchesses did not ever cry.
Chapter 10
It could not be true. James was certain. Amelia Primrose would not marry a man who was three sheets to the wind and not in possession of his faculties.
Especially not the Duke of Sussex.
Unless she had had no choice. And he would wager his last farthing that at the heart of her actions, she had married Sussex to somehow protect his own family’s secrets or the Duke of Sussex. God, he was sick of secrets. Sick of burdens. Tired of the game. And Isabelle . . . dearest, loveliest Isabelle. At so many points during the round she had made him remember what he had felt during his youth—the joy of shared laughter and lighthearted fun. And when she worried the edge of her bottom lip with her teeth as she addressed her ball in the rough, he had wanted to pull her behind a tree and kiss her senseless.
But it was not to be. He should know better than to indulge in that dangerous game.
He only wished he had pulled her along with him when he left the hellish scene. There had been a look in her eyes that he wanted to ease. But he had a more powerful urge to protect her from the secrets and the ugliness that he had to untangle on his own.
And so he churned on, toward the gathering house, and forced his mind toward a plan. At least now he understood why Amelia had asked him to bring the archbi
shop to Sussex’s estate.
Abruptly, he changed direction, cutting through a small wood toward the archbishop among the last foursome behind him on the course. He would pin down His Grace, Mr. Divine High and Mighty Divert All Questions right now.
Too late, he spotted Calliope Little in his direct path. Bent over, obviously searching for her ball in a stand of trees, she looked up and then straightened.
“What’s going on?” she asked with her usual disregard for his station. “It looked like you were about to knock down Sussex.”
“Not your affair,” he ground out.
“Nothing ever is,” she retorted. “Since when has that mattered?”
“For once, we are in complete agreement.” He kept walking, and she glued herself to his side, trotting to keep up like one of his greyhounds. “Miss Little, for the love of God . . .”
“How ridiculous you always are with me. Look, I know you like me. You don’t have to pretend the opposite all the time.”
He stopped dead in his tracks. Sometimes, if one was very lucky, and one truly paid attention despite the chaos all around, one was given the chance to learn a truth.
He looked into Calliope’s wide brown eyes, brimming with intelligence. “What did you say?”
She snorted. “They say hearing is the first thing to go with age.” She chewed on a thumbnail as she examined him.
“Stop that,” he said stiffly. “It’s inelegant.”
She did as he bade. “I said sometimes you are extremely pigheaded.”
He refused to comment.
“I said, ‘I know you like me.’ ”
“No. The other part.”
She gave him a look that suggested he was an idiot. “I said you don’t always have to pretend the opposite. Everyone knows that if someone is irrational and irritated with someone else all the time they either love the person or truly loathe them. Although, some married couples seem to bicker endlessly. In those cases . . . they love and hate each other at the same time.” She stopped and blinked.
As she was speaking, it had all fallen into place. Sussex loved Amelia. Even if Amelia had married Edward against his will and full knowledge that awful night, the man James knew as well as he knew himself . . . that man was a gentleman and would not behave like an ass unless there was passion beneath all that hurt pride. Of course, he would still have to knock Sussex senseless in private. What he had said was unpardonable, and he hoped Amelia would make him pay for it the rest of his days.
Calliope Little was speaking again and he regained focus. “ . . . but no one could ever possibly loathe me. My father always insisted to anyone who suggested otherwise that I’m extremely lovable.”
“Miss Little?”
“Yes?”
“Your father was a highly intelligent man.”
For once she did not utter a sound.
He placed a hand on her shoulder. “I wish I had known him.”
She gulped. “I do, too,” she said in a small voice that broke his heart. She would not meet his eye. “Your Grace?”
It was the first time she’d condescended to him. “Yes, Miss Little?”
“Calliope.”
“Calliope.” He waited.
“Please don’t let her down.”
He frowned. “Why would you ever think I would let down Miss Primrose?”
“I’m referring to Isabelle. You know, she might be the strongest, best person I know, but everyone needs someone they can count on,” Calliope said quietly, not answering his question. “In fact . . . Oh, hello Isabelle.”
James followed Calliope’s gaze to find her walking toward them, her head down. “Isabelle,” he echoed quietly.
She nodded without stopping, and continued walking along the line of trees on the edge of the expanse of lawn—toward the threesome. The archbishop was taking practice swings on the mound.
He turned back to Calliope. “I require your aid.”
“Anything,” she breathed.
“Look, I don’t have time to explain, but will you chaperone Miss Primrose and His Grace straight away?”
Calliope broke into a wide grin. “I’d love to.”
He nodded and abruptly strode onto the center of the fairway toward the threesome.
“Hey,” Calliope called out, laughing, “take care.” She pointed toward the archbishop, addressing his ball on the tee.
James plowed forward and muttered, “Old canker doesn’t have a prayer of a chance of hitting me in the middle of the—”
“Fore!” Calliope screeched.
He had just enough time to bend forward and grab the back of his head before the ball hit his back. Pain radiated near his spine. He held back a string of oaths by the skin of his teeth and waited for Calliope’s certain laughter.
He looked up to see her shrug helplessly. “You all right?”
“Perfect,” he said dryly.
She darted off in the opposite direction, one of them older and wiser—the other just as wise as she had always been.
James lengthened his stride to reach the archbishop, who stood on the mound, his gnarled hands still gripping the club. Even at this distance he could see vast amusement coloring the old man’s face.
Isabelle had not stopped walking. She was petite, but she had always been able to walk faster than any other lady of his acquaintance as well as three-quarters of the gentlemen he knew. “Isabelle,” he called out to her.
She was almost to the threesome and continued her pace. Obviously, she had not heard him.
Mary, the archbishop, and Barry were listening to Isabelle when he finally caught up. “ . . . and so, if Your Grace would be kind enough to consider my—”
“Pardon me, Isabelle,” James interrupted. “This is my affair and I require a private word with the archbishop.”
The archbishop ignored him and kept his attention on Isabelle. “I’m sorry, my dear. You were saying?”
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mary’s warning glance. He bit back the primal desire to protect Isabelle from the certain to be sordid mess to be corrected.
“I would request the honor and privilege of a private interview at the soonest opportunity that did not inconvenience Your Grace.”
The little old man actually smiled.
James was not sure he had ever seen the man’s teeth until now.
“My dear,” the archbishop said very kindly. “It’s obvious to me that something very grave is on your mind. Does this concern Miss Amelia Primrose?”
He started. Where was the archbishop who had ridden in his carriage for two solid hours, who thought Amelia was Penelope, who was not one of his sisters named Morality, Temperance, and—
“Yes, Your Grace,” Isabelle said simply.
Mary’s face filled with concern. “Isabelle, what is wrong? You are not well. Please take my—”
Barry grasped Isabelle’s arm before James could turn to examine her face.
She gently rebuffed Barry’s support, but there was not a hint of color in her face. And her eyes were devoid of emotion—like the blank orbs of the busts of great philosophers who stared into space at his great hall in Derbyshire.
“My dear,” the archbishop continued, concern on his serious face. “Let us return to Angelus Abbey at once, where we can converse in private. I sent a note to Miss Primrose last evening, responding to her request for an interview this afternoon. I shall leave it up to your good judgment if you would like to include Miss Primrose. Or not.”
“There is no question that I will attend,” James insisted.
Barry chuckled. “How’s the back? Or was it the neck?”
James examined the former Lord Lieutenant. “Remarkable humor for someone who should be worried about his own neck.”
“Lady Mary,” Barry said, his expression darkening, “I do believe we have somehow managed to lose Miss Little. Would you care to join me while I go in search of her?” He bowed stiffly and offered his arm to Mary, a lady nearly five years his se
nior but appeared five years his junior given his war years.
As the handsome couple walked down the fairway, James, not for the first time, wondered if Mary Haverty did not like Barry very much. He did not have time for these stupid thoughts. He returned his attention to the archbishop and Isabelle.
Her features had still not returned to their usual vivacity. Above all else, he wished he could have a private word. But he could not. He must attend to familial duty first. He exhaled and addressed the archbishop. “I fear we must postpone the pleasure of the last hole. We can all of us return to the abbey in my open carriage if you like.” He extended an arm to Isabelle, who did not move.
The archbishop studied first Isabelle and then him, as if James were a fly on a jam pot. “I never discuss anything of importance while facing a horse’s bum,” he announced, reverting back to his nonsensical self. The man was an out and out actor of the highest order. “I shall return silently on the back of the horse who carried me here. But I shall be in the orangery at four o’clock.” With that parting remark the old man turned on his heel.
He motioned for Isabelle to proceed with him. She would not meet his eye, but after a long moment she walked forward. He matched his stride to hers. “Isabelle,” he began. “I’m more sorry than I can say that you were forced to witness all that.”
“I’m not,” she said woodenly.
“It was not fit for a lady’s ears.”
“I’m a damned duchess, and was brought up to understand all parts of life—the good, and the ugly.”
They had reached the edge of the shaded wooded area and she suddenly stopped short. He did the same and faced her.
He hooded his eyes. “Perhaps. But that doesn’t mean you should have to go out of your way to involve yourself in something ugly that does not concern you.”
“I assume you’re speaking of Miss Primrose?”
“Of course.”
“She’s in my employ now. Not yours,” she retorted.
“Perhaps,” he replied calmly. “But this is my concern.”
“That is quite obvious,” she replied.
“I beg your pardon? What are you implying?”