by Sophia Nash
“Isabelle,” he murmured. He was impeccable, his clothes expertly tailored to his strong, powerful trunk of a masculine body. Not a single hair on his head was out of place or an inch of him reminiscent of last night.
He was the damned premier duke of a royal empire.
She placed her small hand in his large one—the one that had done such unspeakably wicked things to her—and he automatically raised it to his lips. She kept her eyes on his boots, watching for one to move back.
“Don’t you dare kneel,” she finally said.
He did not move. “Isabelle, I do not have the right to beg your forgiveness. The only thing I dare to beg of you is to allow me the privilege of making right some minute part of what I did to you last night.”
She shook her head. “No, no, you’ve not the right of it at all. Let me show you the way of it.”
He did not utter a syllable as she kneeled before him, their hands clasped between them.
“You asked me not to kneel,” he murmured.
“Since when does a man taken by the passion of the moment deny his natural inclinations? Yes, and then this is how it goes. The way I should have considered the day in your garden.” She cleared her throat. “ ‘My dear, please ease the anxiety that fills me, leaving me awake each night. Please make me the happiest of men,’ or rather, shall we say, ladies, in this case.” Cool resolve filled her when he did nothing to stop this farce. “Yes, and so on and so forth. I see it is not your style. So let’s alter it all midway through the calamity.”
He did not interrupt her.
“ ‘So, my dear Isabelle,’ is what you would say. ‘Shall we not forgo a wedding in St. George’s, then? Far too ordinary. Shall we not have the archbishop sign a special license and take on the leg shackle? Yes, let’s rush it. So convenient to do it straight away, appease His Royal Highness, and then go back to our lives. You in Derbyshire, and me in the Lake District. We only really need one heir who could wear two hats.’ ”
His face remained impassive. He removed his hand from hers, as if it was anyone’s hand. “Are you finished?”
She stood up. “No.”
He waited, like a stone warrior from the Middle Ages.
A ball of fury rose in her, and before she could stop herself she slapped him. “For the love of God, share yourself. Get angry. Show some emotion. Anything but this reserve. I can’t stand it. Don’t you care about anything?”
He slowly nodded. “You do not know the half of it.”
“Then show it.”
“I cannot be angry with you, Isabelle. Not after what I’ve done to you.”
She snorted with annoyance. “How ridiculous. We both know I did it to myself.”
He smiled halfheartedly and then slowly lowered himself and took her hand in his. His cheek showed the distinct mark of her hand. She thought it must sting like the devil.
“Isabelle, marry me. I will not insult you with false words as you suggested. You know I never have and I never will. And I will not insult you by playing the draconian tyrant. I approach you as an equal. If you marry me, I promise to do my utmost to ensure your every happiness. It would be a union of kindness and respect—two very rare ingredients I have yet to see in most marriages.” His words gained force. “Marry me if only for one incontrovertible fact—you could very well be with child. And please, Isabelle, marry me because I’ve ruined you. It’s unpardonable what I did. And because I will only ever be honest with you, the fact is that if you are not with child and eventually think of m-m-marrying,” he stumbled, “another gentleman, you must consider an ugly fact. Many gentlemen will not be understanding—and worse.” He would not voice the ugliness of it. Vertical slants of a palm tree next to him cast shadows down his face and form. “So will you . . . have me?”
She prayed she would not allow the bitterness that was taking root in her soul to thrive for any great length of time. She would have to battle it.
She would not honor him with a reply. Instead she turned away, but then stopped, her face toward the exit. “I give you my vow that I will inform you if I find myself with child. I would not worry in that corner. I cannot stop you from feeling guilt. No one can make anyone feel anything. The only thing I insist is that there must be no more private discussion between us. I promised someone I would remain here for the next several days and I will do so. But I do not want to see you again after I leave. And I hereby cancel my membership to the sodding royal entourage.”
He did not stop her. Or say another word. She left him, blindly finding her way through the jungle of the orangery.
Chapter 15
Isabelle fled the scene of her greatest nightmare. Oh, it had been even worse than she thought it would be. And Calliope was wrong. And Amelia was very wrong. He didn’t need or want anyone. He wanted duty, and kindness, and respect. Passion was madness and unproductive.
And so she ran. She ran as fast as her skirts would allow. And when she could no longer run, she walked. And walked.
She would not cry. She was too barren of emotion. God, she was becoming just like him, she feared.
Well, she would not allow it. She would live her life. She would find her happiness.
She rushed through a patchwork of fields and enclosures. Miles of hedgerows were behind her, and still she walked northward. Toward home.
She would not go all the way, of course. But it eased the ache of her heart. It was as if her heart was a compass and knew its way home.
Isabelle walked until she could walk no more. These stupid kid boots from the Frenchified boot maker in London could not withstand the rigors of the countryside.
She would rest at the crest of this last hill and then negotiate the hollows and hills back to Angelus Abbey. And then she would immediately begin packing, collect Calliope, and go.
But at the crest of the hill she looked down, only to find a ruined castle.
And she suddenly realized she had walked all the way to the Duke of Barry’s neighboring estate.
To one side of the castle stood a two-story square stone structure. An ancient, abandoned pigeonnier—or dovecot. She began to walk toward it, gathering renewed strength, until she ran inside the safety of its walls. There, she lay down in fresh hay, breathing in the familiar scent. And she studied the honeycombed interior walls where doves had at one time paired off and built their nests in the now barren stone ledges.
God.
She wanted to go home. To the Lakes, where she could see the fruit of her efforts. She was tired. She felt different. Older. Worn.
And did she really need a husband at this very moment? She was a damned duchess when all was said and done. And the prince was merely prodding the rest of the unmarried members of the entourage to get on with it and wed, not because the country was on the verge of anarchy. The fury of the masses had been quelled when Abshire married Verity Fitzroy and turned about the entire hysteria surrounding the Duke Diaries. The prince wanted everyone married because he was a careful old bird despite his extravagant ways and the careless ways of his own personal enjoyments. Oh, His Royal Highness would understand and accept her decision.
Her mind whirled in thought, blindly staring at the castle in front of her. Oh, she would one day take a husband. Produce an heir. But, truly, it did not have to be for another half-dozen years. And she would do it the way ninety-nine percent of the aristocracy did it. By arrangement. Everything written out by solicitors—signed, sealed, and stamped with His Majesty’s blessing. Just as . . . James would do it one day. She finally understood the way of it. Marriage was not about love. One could not even count on family being about love.
And finally, for the first time since she was a young girl and her mother left her behind to join a mysterious lord in Brussels whom she apparently loved prior to her marriage . . . she wept for the mother who did not love her enough to stay. And for her dictatorial father, who married a lady he had loved, and yet drove her away in his demands and increasing fear as her mother beca
me more and more remote.
And while Isabelle finally wept, she wept despite being a proper duchess. Her father was wrong. Duchesses were allowed to cry—especially for the mother who had left her behind. And dukes should cry, too—for the wives who left them or the fathers who didn’t trust them.
The Duke of Sussex sniffed out Amelia in the old nursery. She had known she could not avoid him much longer. She was playing a dangerous game, waiting for Isabelle to help Candover see the error of his years of sadness in adhering to promises that were out of date and just plain wrong.
When Sussex came through the door, Calliope took one look at his face and knew a lit explosive when she saw it.
“I do believe the archbishop wants to practice putting on the south lawn,” Calliope said, and did not wait for a reply as she sprinted from the brightly lit chamber.
Dust motes floated in the rays of sunlight from the open window. And the symphony of birds celebrating morning’s return filled the air.
“I understand the Duchess of March has ordered her affairs to be packed and she is taking her leave,” Sussex said. “I assume you will feel compelled to go with her.”
“That’s what one does when employed, Your Grace,” Amelia said.
He snorted. “We both know that is a farce. Calliope needs a governess like Candover needs a nursemaid. Miss Little could rule the world.”
Amelia smiled for the first time in a long time. “Women should rule the world.”
He pointed a finger at her. “Don’t get any ideas.”
And then he ran out of steam and she would not break the silence. Instead, she pleated her hands like any good servant and patiently waited for the inevitable crack of composure.
“So, the thing of it is . . .” He cleared his throat and recollected his thoughts. “Look here, I won’t let you go until you tell me what the hell happened that night at Prinny’s bloody Carleton House of All Things Bad. I know you had a reason to do what you did. And I know it must have been a good reason.”
“And why do you know that?”
“Because you’re a bloody saint. Everyone agrees. But you’ve taken it too far. No one likes a martyr.”
“I’m not a martyr. I’m simply someone who knows how to repay a debt.”
“What kind of debt?” He jumped at the unintended clue.
“Can’t you guess?”
“Well, obviously something grave. You married me because it was something so serious you required the protection of my position.”
She gripped her hands. She knew how to deflect questions. She’d invented the art. What had possessed her to say something about debt? “There is nothing you could possibly do that would be so awful that you would need my name.” His face drained of color. “Unless . . . Did you kill someone?”
She went still. And then lifted her chin.
“Were you asked to kill someone in payment of some debt?”
“No!”
“Someone was blackmailing you. I smell it. Tell me who it is. I shall thrash him and then I will kill him. Who—”
“No one was blackmailing me,” she inserted.
“But you killed someone.” It was said without judgment.
This was the beginning of the end, she sensed. “Yes.”
“Are you going to tell me why or not?”
She swallowed against the lump in her throat. It was not her place to tell Candover’s secret. But she could admit her own wrongdoing. “I’m not the saint you think I am. But I was protecting myself.”
“And?”
“And a man was advancing on me after threatening me, and I grabbed a weapon which I did not think was primed and loaded.”
“He was an evil man,” Sussex said, disgusted. “No man of good character threatens a female.”
The balm of kindness invaded her. “Indeed,” she replied.
“Was this the mysterious man found opposite Barry?” he asked softly.
“Yes.”
“It is not like you to allow another person to take the blame for your actions. Clearly this was someone else’s idea. Bloody, sodding hell. Did Candover do this behind my back? He’s always had it out for me. The man is the master of deception, I tell you. Can lie through his teeth.”
She started. “No!” Too late did she see the glint of untruth in his eye. He was spouting all sorts of nonsense to push her to reveal all. She gritted her teeth.
He sighed loudly. “You know, you are not the only one who is alone in the world. I am, too. I’m an only child. I know loneliness.” He looked vastly ill at ease disclosing this, and now he was genuine. “But sometimes you have to trust in someone. Confide in someone. Let someone help you. Let me be the one.”
“All right,” she finally murmured. “I will ask one favor of you, since I will tell you my plans.”
“Yes?”
“Please be kind enough to inform Candover everything I will tell you. Tell him that I have saved most of my wages over the years, and along with all my references from him, his sisters, and now Her Grace, I will do very well in Scotland. No one is to worry about me. But no one is to know where I am, for I will not place all of you at risk by association if all of this comes out later on.” She paused. “I have one last favor.”
“I haven’t agreed to the first request,” he said like a bear of a grouch.
Was this the gentleman who had truly charmed half the ladies in London?
“Oh go ahead. I’ll do almost anything you want as long as you agree to my last request,” he said, disgruntled.
She changed the course of the conversation. Deep in her heart, she feared she would not deny him. Indeed, she had loved him from afar for so long she could not remember when it started. “When you said you were an only child? That you understood loneliness?”
“What about it?” His face flushed.
“Are you truly lonely?”
He stared at her. His silence confirmed it.
“You said that you have to trust in someone,” she said softly. “Also have someone in your life to whom you can confide. Let someone do the same. And I think you were speaking about what you need, not what I need. The person who can provide it is not the person you imagine.” She pressed onward. “It’s Candover. Please insist he should do that, too. With you, Edward. I’m not asking. I am begging. I’ve only ever begged someone one other time in my life. Please. Do this—for you and for him. Do not relent.”
It was the first time she had used his given name.
“All right,” he replied quietly. She bowed her head.
“I’ll put him in thumbscrews if necessary,” he whispered, lifting her chin. “But, my darling, I need more than one confidante. And ladies are far better at it than gentlemen. Let me be yours, Amelia,” he urged her. “For the love of God, let me help you.”
She raised her eyes to meet his. “Why?”
“Because, well, there is something about you.”
When he did not go on, she pushed him. “Yes?”
“It’s maddening. Whenever I saw you with Candover’s sisters in the past, I had the strongest desire to either earn your respect or kiss you senseless.”
She started. “I know what it is,” she said with a faint smile.
“And what is that?”
“I am the only one you cannot charm.”
Finally a flicker of humor entered his eyes. “There is that. But lately . . .”
“Lately, what?”
He took a step closer and bent down to whisper in her ear, “Lately, I’ve had more the desire to strangle you.”
She stood stock-still. “Perfectly understandable, given—”
Her thought was cut short when he suddenly took her in his arms and lowered his lips to hers.
A wave of wickedness flooded her passionate Scottish heart. She had never been kissed before, and when it started, she feared she would never be able to stop.
His hands caressed her head and expertly removed the pins that always irritated her from the tight c
hignon she artlessly did herself each morning.
And as her locks of hair fell to her shoulders, he lowered his lips to nuzzle the crook of her neck. Tiny shivers ran down her body.
“So, my love,” he whispered in her ear, “do you prefer the rack or the cage? I fear you’re in for one or the other, maybe even both . . . if you do not marry me.”
She giggled. And then stopped. She’d never heard such a childish sound come from her throat.
“Do that again,” he groaned.
And she did. It tickled her throat and allowed a trickle of light into her soul. “Yes,” she said, “I will.”
And she proceeded to kiss him as she had imagined she would all those years in the little bed and simple bedroom at Candover’s seat in Derbyshire. She rather feared as she gave herself with abandon that she would never, ever see it again. But change, she had learned, was good. Very good, indeed.
He settled her into the crook of his arms and began a very long, slow perusal of her neck and far, far below anything that could be remotely described as proper by a Scottish abigail, but not anything bordering passionate enough for a duchess of the realm. “Edward?”
“Yes? Obviously I’m not doing this as well as I should. You must concentrate, I tell you.” His hand delved somewhere very intimate.
“I love you,” she said softly, the lilt of her native tongue in evidence.
“Ah,” he replied, “that makes it very convenient, for I love you, too.”
He kissed her again, and she tasted . . . was it bacon? She loved bacon.
“But I also,” he continued, pressing his lips to different parts of her body between each endearment, “cherish you. Adore you. Revere you. Cannot live a single day without you. Need you. God, I will never, ever get enough of you. Come closer, damn you. And whisper in my ear all the other secrets you’re hiding in that head of yours. It’s the rack and my tongue if you don’t. I know burdens when I see them, and I’ll be damned if I’ll face down that icicle Candover without the fire and brimstone of facts to melt his arse.”