Once and Future Duchess

by Sophia Nash

  “That I finally understand the way of it now.”

  “Go on, then.”

  “You don’t need my damned list. You are in love with Amelia Primrose.”

  He exhaled but did not blink. Here was finally a way to kill any possible remaining expectation. “I think you mean Amelia Godwin,” he replied.

  “And you have no one to blame for that travesty but yourself,” she said hotly.

  “I agree,” he said quietly, his throat closing. He was very good at killing love everywhere he went.

  “At least I can be glad you had the grace not to agree to marry me.” She paused, finally fully meeting his eye. “I am glad I have finally seen your true character.”

  He stiffened. “And what is your opinion?” He was surprised by how much he cared about her answer.

  “You are not the man I thought you were. You reject anyone and everyone. Reject any possibility of love. You prefer to live your life all alone.”

  His heart stuttered and his mind for perhaps the first time in his life failed to think logically. Indeed, why was she talking about love? “Go on, then,” he said, his voice uneven.

  Isabelle exhaled roughly. “For as long as I remember, I looked up to you on all levels. I wanted your approval even more so than my father’s. Do you know why?”

  He remained silent, unable to form words.

  “Because you had confidence in me. You were certain I would succeed at everything I had to learn to be the future Duchess of March.” She swallowed. “And you gave me your attention—­your time. You came twice a year for as long as I can remember and you were the one who taught me how to sail, how to shoot, how to sit a difficult horse, how to judge a person in my employ, and bookkeeping. You taught me about cultivation, and how to ensure the comfort of tenants, and even about the beauty of wildflowers, and every last bird and insect. And you—­” Her voice broke off abruptly and she looked away.

  He edged closer. “Yes?” The tension was unbearable.

  “You spent hours with my father, especially when he was dying, reassuring him, telling him I would not fail. And I will never be able to repay you for all you did for me, for him, for everyone who depends on me. But,” she looked at him with sadness, “I now see that you did not do any of this due to a sense of love. You did it out a sense of duty.”

  “There are many who would argue that duty is a form of love,” he murmured.

  “It isn’t when it’s something you use to keep yourself apart from everyone and everything. And I know why. You don’t want anyone to see who you truly are. To be vulnerable. But that’s no way to live life, damn it, James,” she said, her hands clenching at her sides. “It might protect you a bit more from pain, but it also dulls all joy in life. I . . . I’m not like you and I never will be. I don’t know who you are. And I don’t think you want anyone to truly know you,” she said with finality.

  Her eyes were so remote there could have been two continents between them. She finally glanced away, took her leave, and left him there rooted to the spot like a two-­hundred-­year old oak.

  And that was when he feared he might have taught her the last lesson she would ever learn from him. Disappointment. Isabelle Tremont, the eighteen-­year-­old Duchess of March, in possession of the soul of someone three times her age, was now finally, thankfully, beyond his touch.

  It was a relief really.

  Except it was not.

  He stared at her petite form marching regally away from him. And he cursed the same foul word three times. He then cursed his father, her father, and every other person to whom he had given his word in the last thirty odd years. He then cursed Sussex, the archbishop, and even God . . . for making a female he could not have. A female he had carefully kept at a distance because it was decided she was far too young for him, and her father—­his godfather—­had very clearly specified on his deathbed that he wanted him to guide her toward a marriage with someone her own age. The old duke’s May-­December marriage had proved disastrous in the extreme, and he was adamant in his last wish that James was to make certain that his daughter not make the same mistake.

  His godfather’s words were burned in his memory: No wife should have to feed her husband porridge. And I won’t have the same for Isabelle. She will marry a man no more than three or four years older than she—­not one of your contemporaries, James. You are all too jaded and old for Isabelle.

  But now she had become a woman. A beautiful, passionate, wholehearted woman. A lady mature far beyond her years. And ready for any and all of the difficulties she would surely encounter in her life. And only hoped she would not become like him and face the world alone.

  The caw of a crow flying low in the sky jarred him from his thoughts. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply to bring calm to his mind. He felt twenty years older.

  He took one last deep breath, opened his heavy eyes and finally forced his legs forward. There was no more time for reflection and pain. He had to hurry. He had to meet the damned archbishop in the orangery to find out if Amelia’s marriage to Sussex was official, recorded, or whatever it might be. But first he ought to privately meet Amelia and find out precisely what had happened that night. He was certain that she had done something to save the man’s ass. Or worse, maybe his own.

  And then . . . and then?

  He had to fix the greatest problem of his life.

  He had to go to the woman whose opinion mattered to him more than any other, for some damned reason, and he had to make things right and good. He might not be able to have this lady whose face would not leave his mind at night, and whose lithe elegant body pressed against his own that night in the garden still haunted him—­but he would be damned if he could leave it quite so badly.

  He had to figure out a way to leave it better than this. He would be haunted forever by the distress in her eyes.

  He wanted to shield her from pain. It was a near primal emotion that rose up within him.

  He had no idea what to do or say to her. For the love of God, he was losing his mind. His methodical thinking stuttered into a lower gear. A more base cog.

  Bugger life and the carriage it arrived in. Bugger abstinence, golf, promises, duty, and responsibility.

  And most of all . . . bugger love.

  Hell. He needed a damned drink.

  And he would have it.

  Chapter 11

  Isabelle made her way to the orangery at the appointed hour despite the blazing headache that was now her ugly companion.

  The archbishop was a difficult, albeit kind man. A man of the cloth, and devoted supporter of the Prince Regent. But his intelligence often parried with nonsense. And while she knew he admired her, she sometimes had the vague feeling that he liked watching her as well as everyone else commit gargantuan sins if only so he could resurrect them from their misery.

  For that reason she always listened to him with a grain of salt the size of a cantaloupe.

  The orangery door was ajar and so she quickly entered and closed the door behind her. She searched for the archbishop in the first chamber filled with palms of every shape, most likely used during balls. A ball was never a ball without palms. They were very convenient, really. They were good for hiding, kissing in secret, and disposing of terrifyingly bad canapés.

  Ah, he was hiding beside the tallest palm. He was reading a book that did not appear to be the Bible. It looked more like a novel. He quickly closed it and hid it in the foliage.

  He cleared his throat. “My dear Isabelle, so we meet to discuss the fate of Miss Amelia Primrose—­perhaps Amelia Godwin, if I understood from the lady’s note. Is that it?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “My dear Isabelle, you must not worry so. Miss Amelia Primrose is not married to Sussex. I assure you I would remember something that important.” He scratched the bald crown of his head. “I think. Well, in any case, even if some bastardized form of a ceremony might have—­but not probably—­taken place, there would be carefully documented recor
ds.”

  She willed him to continue silently. It was vital he did not get off track when he was in this sort of mood. She had learned from experience.

  “I would remember writing them. It requires great care and excellent penmanship—­at least by one of my scribes—­and I’m quite certain there were no scribes or anyone capable of writing anything coherent, I’m sad to admit, in attendance that night. At least I am almost certain.”

  “Even if the document had been drawn up,” Isabelle said carefully, “and no one has admitted to seeing it or watching anyone draw it up, correct? Well, it would have to be found, and then filed officially, no?”

  “Precisely, my dear. And I would remember that, too. Officially recording and filing it. Right.” He said the last with a hint of uncertainty.

  Flattery always helped him remember. “Your Grace is famed for always performing the rituals of your office with great care. I stand in awe of your great ser­vice to the Crown.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “So why are you so interested in this affair?”

  “I’m certain I don’t understand what Your Grace is implying.”

  “Men of the cloth always know when someone is lying through their teeth.”

  She felt like an ant. He was very good at making a ­person feel like an insect.

  “And where is Miss Primrose?”

  She shook her head. “I could not find her. Perhaps she is still on the course.”

  He shook his head sadly. “So you are here to solve the problems of a Scottish abigail you’ve only recently employed?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  His eyes suddenly gleamed. “I suppose you do this because of a sense of duty?”

  She stiffened. That was James’s overriding attribute, not hers.

  “No answer?”

  “No. I’m not here because of duty, really. I’m here out of kindness. She needs my help.”

  “Well, I shall pay you a kindness, my dear. Let ­people solve their own problems. You will be doing them a favor. Unless a life is at stake, of course. And don’t bore ­people with advice. Let them sort it out. It will make them stronger or kill them.” He smiled benevolently, as if he had just carved one of Moses’ own tablets.

  “Isn’t Your Grace not following your own direction by giving me advice?”

  His smile abruptly disappeared.

  “I shall make it clear, then, my dear, as you’ve suddenly become your true age.”

  She’d made a huge tactical error and now she must pay the penance. “Thank you, Your Grace.” She bowed her head.

  “Have you not wondered why the man who has the most to lose has not sought me out? Has not said one word to me about this entire affair—­probably all imagined by Miss Primrose. The Scots are not of the Church of England, after all, and they like to stir the pot, if history is any indication.”

  Her vision blurred.

  “Yes,” he continued, “if the Duke of Sussex wanted an annulment to this imaginary farce of a marriage, where is he? Why are you here and not he?”

  There was a reason this small man was the Archbishop of Canterbury. He was capable of reducing duchesses and dukes to fools. He was very, very, very good at it.

  “And if Candover truly wanted to correct this situation, where is he? And Miss Primrose knew of this rendezvous, too.”

  She could not speak.

  “Even children know actions speak louder than words. And it was very clear to me by the way you and Candover were behaving that there was something more involved than the fate of Amelia Primrose and Sussex.” He harrumphed.

  Wordlessly, Isabelle curtsied deeply, signaling her pardon and her intention to beg her leave.

  His words stopped her. “You know, my dear, everyone makes mistakes. Even me.” He shuddered. “Almost never, of course, in my case. But . . .” He paused for breath. “ . . . the mark of a truly good soul is to learn from mistakes . . . and more importantly to acknowledge it all by apologizing.”

  She nodded.

  “Paying homage to me also helps,” he said with a self-­satisfied smile. He extended his hand.

  She leaned forward to lower her lips to within an inch of his hand as a sign of deference.

  She regained her feet and looked at the wise man.

  His smile was as satisfied as a matron who had just married off the last of five daughters.

  James paced the floor of a small chamber in Angelus Abbey. It was cold in this north-­facing room, but he’d been led here by Sussex’s butler, who had doubted any of the other guests would have reason to come here. Except the one person whose presence James had requested.

  A draft of wind rattled the sole window and he moved away. He came to a stop before a delicate escritoire. The lengthening shadows of the afternoon light filtered through the window. Glancing down at the writing desk, James saw a number of miniatures in gilt frames. He closed his eyes and forced his head to one side to crack the tension in his neck and then to the other side.

  Where was Miss Amelia Primrose?

  He dropped his head forward and reopened his eyes, only to focus more fully on the little paintings. He stilled.

  The first was obviously a likeness of Sussex’s mother. Edward had her same alluring, even, happy combination of features, except for one or two.

  This was the woman his father had loved. And lost. And had privately longed for the rest of his life whilst he married another to set up his nursery for that was his duty.

  It was not hard to understand why his father and the former Duke of Sussex had fallen in love with the great, wild beauty in the picture before him.

  James forced himself to move his gaze to the next miniature. Sussex as an adolescent smiled in the picture. Edward had been and ever was of easy temperament and wit; he had obviously inherited his charm and nature from his beautiful mother. James’s gaze wandered and stopped on a tiny watercolor, half hidden among the others. Slightly faded, it depicted an eye, green and familiar. As he reached to examine it, someone knocked on the door.

  “Yes?” He withdrew his hand in haste.

  Miss Primrose’s face peeked around the heavy door.

  “Do come in,” he requested.

  “I’m sorry I kept Your Grace waiting,” she said, closing the door behind her.

  He acknowledged her and walked from the escritoire to the window. “Will you join me? The view is quite lovely from here.”

  Without a word she crossed to him but bowed her head, unwilling to take in the colors of a late-summer afternoon.

  “Why did you do it?” He kept his tone even and low.

  “I won’t pretend to misunderstand,” she said, almost all trace of the lilt of her homeland gone. “I am more sorry than I can ever say, Your Grace. I fear—­”

  “James,” he said quietly.

  Her eyes darted to his and then toward the view beyond the window.

  He could palpably feel her discomfort. “James . . .”

  “I’m sorry for interrupting you,” he stated. “Please go on.”

  “I’ve always been too reticent,” she began. “Especially with Your Gr—­with you. I know why, of course. It’s because of the gratitude and esteem I hold for you. I thank the Lord every night for your intervention, you see. You employed me without references, without—­”

  He raised two fingers to stop her, and forced a smile. “No, my dear. Your gratitude is misplaced. You forget that it was very simple. There were no other candidates who applied to me for the position. Verity was infamously ungovernable.” He stopped and looked at her.

  She rushed into the awkward silence with an explanation. “I should have come to you straight away at Carleton House that night . . .” Her voice faded. “But I did not. In the end I decided I would not. It was the least I could do to repay you for taking me in. I would have starved under a hedgerow if not for your kindness so many years ago.”

  “Don’t be absur—­”

  “No. Please listen to me. It was not Barry who shot that man in C
arleton House the night before your wedding,” she said harshly. “I shot him, and I nicked the Duke of Barry, who passed out cold in the process. I killed a man.”

  Silence settled between them like a dense northern fog.

  A hundred questions crowded his mind, competing to be spoken aloud. But she plunged onward.

  “And because I was such a coward, I had the archbishop marry me to Sussex, both of whom were blind with drink.” Wretchedness turned her lovely face into something so remorseful that it was hard to witness. “I married him,” she continued softly, “to protect myself from the gallows. Everyone knows it would be next to impossible to hang an English duchess but very easy to dispose of an abigail from Scotland.”

  “This has my sister’s signature lunatic reasoning written all over it,” he surmised darkly.

  “No,” Amelia insisted. “I knew what I was doing.”

  “I don’t believe that for a moment,” he retorted. “But why did you shoot this man? Who was he?”

  “I shot him—­” She swallowed. “I shot him because he was threatening me in the gaming room.”

  He was not surprised. There were too many stories of gentlemen taking advantage of females such as Amelia Primrose. “Go on, then.”

  “We argued and he would not see reason. Without thinking I grabbed one of the dueling pistols from the display case and cocked it, shouting a warning, which he did not heed. The Duke of Barry must have heard us and stumbled through the door behind the man. And Verity trailed Barry’s footsteps. I don’t remember firing . . . just the smoke, and the shock on your sister’s face.” Her voice proceeded haltingly as she looked away in shame. “When I think I could have accidentally killed Verity. Your own flesh and blood. The person who means more to me than just about anyone—­”

  “And I am guessing it was my dear sister,” he repeated, “who instead of going in search of me, chose to take matters into her own hands and insist you marry Edward Godwin, and set up Barry to take the blame. But why she had to involve two dukes instead of just one—­”

  “I should have never agreed to her idea. Although I’ve always thought Mary Haverty and Barry would marry, and . . . and—­” She stopped herself and evaded his glance. “And your sister was not the one who killed this man. I take full responsibility.”