Once and Future Duchess

by Sophia Nash

  Barry had seated himself on her other side and had been everything kind and attentive to her in his gentle, reserved way. She was now certain that men who had gone to battle and stared death in the face were far more compassionate than others.

  She attempted to ignore James, who’d had the good sense to completely ignore protocol for perhaps the first time in his life and seated himself as far away from her as possible. Each time she glanced in his direction, he was conversing with Mary Haverty, who was across from him. His forehead showed no signs of tension, and Mary was all easy charm. Isabelle envisioned—­as only a female mind can in the space of an instant—­Mary as his wife. They were the same age, they had grown up together, Mary would be the perfect duchess, and she was in desperate need of a husband, given her dwindling funds.

  “Penny?” Barry intruded on her thoughts.

  “Who knew there were so many ways to serve bacon?” she replied with a smile.

  Sussex interrupted them. “She likes bacon.” He nodded toward Amelia, who was on his other side.

  It was the first time Isabelle had seen them together as a ­couple in public. Their passion and love for each other was almost painful to witness. Oh, Amelia had not a hair out of place, and the arch of her back was as strict as always, but there was a certain knowing look in her eyes, a slight blush on the crest of her cheeks that gave away the truth: here was a woman who loved and was loved in return in full measure.

  Oh, they had not announced a single thing. And no one else in the house party would guess, but Isabelle just knew. And she felt a welling of happiness for the two of them.

  “Will you honor me with a stroll in the garden after dinner?”

  “Of course,” she replied. She was glad to escape the rigors of polite conversation with ladies who insisted of speaking of naught but the weather, the newest style of hats, and the eligibility of every gentleman within a three-day drive.

  Out of doors, as she gazed at the stars above them competing against the small lanterns half hidden in the branches of the tall trees interspersed between the landscaped terraces, it felt eerily familiar. Like the evening of the Allens’ ball in London.

  She glanced sideways at Barry beside her. He was nothing like the seaweed-­scented rear admiral. Vere Sturbridge, the Duke of Barry, was tall and handsome. He had a wide, thin mouth, a broad Roman nose, and longish sandy hair. His noble profile spoke of generations of aristocracy. He was a bit lean of frame, no doubt due to his war years, but he had that impossible quality difficult to define.

  He had good character.

  “I’m glad to have this private moment with you,” he murmured, his voice deep. “I’ve been given leave to pass along a confidence.”

  She tilted her head to see him better in the encroaching darkness.

  “It will also bring you ease, I think. It certainly did to me.” He halted and faced her. “It was as I suspected but would not say without proof. Amelia Primrose was the one who shot the man.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It was an act of self-­defense. He was advancing on her, had threatened to, uh, possess her.”

  She looked into the night sky as a flock of mysterious birds flew to some unknown roost. “I knew it had to be bad. That was why she married Sussex—­for protection.”

  “She admitted all in a note, which I burned. She did not say it, but we all know that Candover’s sister Verity Fitzroy was there that night, and I am certain she was the one who concocted the entire idea.”

  Isabelle bit back her agreement. She adored Verity. But really, this was outrageous.

  “Miss Primrose begged my pardon most ardently.”

  “I don’t need to ask if you will forgive her.”

  “Of course I did. I took her aside just before dinner. If only she had come to me sooner. I could have relieved her guilt by explaining that she had not killed him, merely wounded him.”

  “I wish she had trusted me enough to confide in me,” Isabelle said wistfully.

  “I am confiding in you,” he said quietly. “And I hope you will always give me leave to do so.” In a natural motion, he grasped one of her hands with his own. “My dear Isabelle, I’ve been thinking quite a bit about our conversation of the other day.”

  “You were so very kind to me.”

  “I would say the reverse is true, my dear.”

  “I will never be able to express how much I appreciate the kindness and comfort you provided that hour, Barry.”

  “Vere . . . please.” His voice was deep and low, and felt like a comforting blanket on her well-­hidden frayed nerves.

  She looked at him.

  “No one ever uses my given name. I should like you to use it.”

  She swallowed. “Of course. I should be delighted . . . It’s such a lovely name . . . Vere.”

  He squeezed her gloved fingers lightly. “As I said, I’ve been thinking quite a bit. And I’ve come to several conclusions.” He glanced over her shoulder and then urged her a few steps closer to the lanterns under an ash tree.

  She paused, uncertain. “This sounds serious.”

  He scrutinized her face and smiled. “It is.”

  She swallowed awkwardly and hoped he had not noticed. “Go on.”

  “Are you truly inviting me to tell you these serious thoughts, Isabelle?”

  “I hope you feel you can tell me anything, Vere. Especially after the other day.”

  He seemed to make up his mind. “I’ve decided that it is, indeed, very likely that love can blossom when rooted in trust, and friendship,” he murmured.

  His eyes were so expressive it was difficult to stare long at them. She glanced at their joined hands. “And you said you were no good at poetry,” she replied.

  He chuckled. “Do you want me to go on?”

  A small prick of hesitation itched her mind. She ignored it. “Yes.”

  “We are both of us at a crossroads in life. And it would be very easy to each go our own way.” He squeezed her fingers again comfortingly. “We will always share a deep friendship, of that I have no doubt. But perhaps we should not go our separate ways.” He stopped.

  She went still, uncertainty flooding her.

  “Indeed. And perhaps, after careful considerations of all the reasons that need not be said for they are not romantic, we should form an alliance—­” He halted mid-­speech and shook his head with a harsh laugh. “It is very clear to me and probably to you even more so that I haven’t the faintest clue how to make a proper proposal of marriage, Isabelle. It’s just that I like you very much.”

  “You’re doing very well actually.” She couldn’t help but smile.

  He exhaled. “I’m a lucky fellow, then.”

  “I would say I feel precisely the same way. Very lucky to know you. I esteem you greatly,” she confided.

  He cocked his head to one side. “That is all well and good, but you have not been kind enough to offer an answer.”

  She paused, trying to feel her way in the morass of uncertainty. “If I were to agree,” she said quietly, “there would have to be absolute truth between us.”

  “I would not expect otherwise,” he murmured.

  “It must be understood very clearly . . .” She paused before rushing the difficult words that must be said. “ . . . that ours would be above all a marriage of convenience. Between very good friends, as you said.”

  “But do you believe as I do that love might blossom from deep affection?”

  “I do not know. No one can predict the future.” She nodded slightly. “But neither of us must expect more, really, because that might only lead to great disappointment.” The soft skittering of a little night creature over leaves passed nearby. “I think I’ve come to finally understand what generations before us have always advised and practiced.”

  “And what is that?” he urged, a small smile lurking at the corners of his handsome mouth.

  “That marriage is a contract to combine property and produce heirs.” She felt awkward
telling this man, quite possibly her future husband, these things.

  “And?”

  “And love is not a contract. It’s a feeling that cannot be controlled by a piece of paper.”

  “Ah . . .” He looked at her gravely. ”But love is an action. And perhaps with enough practice, and given our mutual respect for each other . . .”

  “Love is an action. I agree wholeheartedly. In fact, as far as I have witnessed, we see eye-­to-­eye on everything. And respect and kindness would rule us—­which can only promote happiness.”

  He smiled, and Isabelle realized she had not often seen him do that.

  He turned at the sound of distant voices and laughter. A handful of Sussex’s houseguests had apparently decided to take advantage of the lovely late-summer night as well and were stepping onto the stone landing, leading to the terraces.

  He returned his attention to her and she shyly did the same.

  “Yes,” she said quietly. “I accept your offer, Vere. I shall be honored to be your duchess, and I shall endeavor to make you happy.”

  An expression of good cheer and satisfaction formed on his even features. “That will not be difficult, Isabelle. You already do.”

  Isabelle was still in disbelief. She would spend many if not most of the rest of her days in this gentleman’s company. With any luck, she would bear the future Duke of Barry and March. Her father, were he still alive, would weep for happiness. Yes, one day soon, if the stars aligned, there would finally be a male child to carry the March duchy.

  And the same moment she broke her gaze from his, he bent down and pressed a warm kiss on her cheek. “Will you grant me leave to announce it, my dear?”

  A small pit of fear formed in the back of her throat.

  “Too late,” he said with a chuckle as a night shadow zigzagged toward them.

  She looked up and tried to make out the guests coming toward them against the glare of the lantern overhead.

  She remembered to smile as the ­people approached.

  But she could not hold it in place a moment later.

  “James,” Mary said, her cat green eyes sparking in the sconce’s candlelight, “it’s so very warm. Shall we suggest a turn in the garden to the others? I should like to take the night air.”

  He immediately deferred to her wishes. There was something about Lady Mary Haverty that made it next to impossible to deny her anything. Thank God she did not ask for much more than the mundane.

  And so they collected a party of eight to join them for a tour. Of course Calliope, the archbishop, who still refused to speak to him (which might just be a blessing), Sussex, Amelia, and two other ladies and gentlemen whose names and titles James could not be bothered to remember, stepped outside into the moonlight. He was glad Isabelle was not of the party. It was just too difficult at present.

  He saw them in the distance before anyone else. Without thought he attempted to divert the attention of his party, pointing out the stars in the clear night sky.

  He felt a tugging on his coattails.

  “Something is going on over there,” Calliope whispered far too loudly.

  All conversation came to a screeching halt.

  “Lovely,” Mary muttered, then attempted to drag the attention of all the others back to the constellations, without success.

  A small hand slipping into his own dragged him back to reality.

  “Come with me,” Calliope insisted. “We need to talk.”

  Words designed to strike fear into the hearts of all males.

  He went along with her like a cow to slaughter.

  She led him to the other side of the terrace.

  “Go and get her before it’s too late,” Calliope whispered.

  “I can’t imagine what you—­”

  “You know exactly what I mean,” Calliope said, rolling her eyes. “If you don’t, then I will. I’m still her companion. It’s in my list of duties.”

  He looked at her.

  “Keep all wolves at bay.”

  “There are no wolves in England.”

  She snorted. “Perhaps, but there are handsome Riflemen. Oh, pleeease go and get her.”

  He gave one nod, turned suddenly and took the stairs two at a time.

  If only he had been more coherent he would have noticed that everyone on the terrace took that as permission to follow him.

  And as he reached the outer rim of light cast by the lantern they stood under, he heard the words he had always known he would hear. The ones that would be like a knife to the heart.

  “Will you grant me leave to announce it, my dear?”

  And a moment later . . .

  “Too late,” Barry said, followed by a deep chuckle, filled with the warm knowledge that he had won the great lottery of the marriage mart.

  James could not breathe. Could not make his jaw unclench. He finally became aware of Mary’s words near his ear.

  “James, look at me. Please.”

  He couldn’t move a muscle to save his life.

  He felt a tugging sensation and finally allowed Mary Haverty to drag him a few long yards away from the others.

  Some of the gentlemen were already slapping Barry on the back. And the ladies were embracing Isabelle.

  A part of him died.

  They were just so damned beautiful together. And so perfectly right together. He was only three years her senior, and would protect her, and cherish her in every way. He would ensure her happiness until the day he died. Yes, Barry was the gentleman who his godfather would have chosen for his only child.

  He was certain.

  James felt beads of cold sweat forming on his spine and on his brow. It was suddenly hotter than blazes.

  And they would join portfolios of properties and improve Barry’s with Isabelle’s fortune until such time as they began prospering on their own.

  James could see it all.

  The air he had finally sucked into his heated lungs was near to bursting. But he stayed. He stayed and watched all the well wishers offer their congratulations and wander back to the terrace, chattering with excitement.

  He unrooted first one foot and then the other to walk toward the official new ­couple.

  Barry made it easy for him by taking over. “I shall ever be grateful to you, Candover, for presenting me to Isabelle at that ball in London.”

  James bowed without a word.

  Mary rushed in. “Oh, Isabelle, James and I are overcome with happiness in your joy. Do let me offer my congratulations, Barry.”

  He felt Barry’s hand on his arm. “I promise to keep her happy. I am sorry I did not ask you for her hand—­as I know her father tasked you with overseeing her happiness.”

  His head felt disengaged from his body as he swiveled to look at her. He had guessed this might happen. But now he realized he had not truly thought it would.

  He almost jumped forward and ripped off Barry’s head when the young former Rifleman leaned down and pressed a kiss to Isabelle’s face, pale in the moonlight.

  It was only later, in the private hell that was his chambers, did he thank God that Mary had been beside him to drag his sorry carcass away.

  Her small voice still rang in his ears. “I know, James. I know.”

  He had not seen Mary’s own pain through the haze of his wild agony.

  Chapter 18

  The Duke of Sussex had stared hard at Barry and Isabelle under the lantern light. Something was off. They had appeared far too comfortable with each other.

  It was too ill mannered to suggest it. One just did not say that sort of thing after someone announced their intention to voluntarily take on a leg shackle. Even if it was to Isabelle, one of the dearest, most decent ladies in the world.

  He turned his gaze toward the love of his life—­Amelia Primrose. Amelia Godwin, almost Duchess of Sussex, whom he would officially wed as soon as he could figure out some bloody secret she would not tell him herself.

  Lord, if this was a Scottish way of doing things, he was in f
or a lifetime of frustrations that would try the patience of a saint.

  Why must this figuring out business be a condition prior to marriage? He wanted to strangle her.

  He’d never wanted to strangle an angel before.

  And yet . . . if he looked deep within himself—­the part he rarely examined—­he knew it was just the opposite.

  Yes, Edward Godwin had been feeling out of sorts the entire day. Not surprising given the fact that he’d been feeling similarly the entire blasted summer. Ever since that infamous night at Carleton House.

  But he was feeling particularly peckish today. And he was never peckish. By the time supper was served and not one of Cook’s endless series of dishes failed to interest, he knew it was serious.

  The time was ripe for a moment of truth. And Edward would be damned if an Englishman couldn’t take on a Scot and win. Edward linked arms with Amelia and began to stalk away in the direction of the vegetable garden, ignoring the rest of the onlookers who all drifted away after Barry’s announcement.

  “Come on, then,” he insisted. “Hurry.” Amelia stumbled and he reached down and scooped her up to carry her in his haste.

  “Edward,” she scolded. “Put me down.”

  “No,” he said, stubborn as Calliope.

  He reached the tomato vines and unceremoniously put her down.

  “I figured something out,” he stated.

  He looked down and studied her delicate gloved fingers resting on the dark blue superfine fabric of his evening wear. His shirt was startlingly white in the moonlight.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m very intuitive you know.” He was stalling and they both knew it. “I am also excellent at mathematics.”

  She brushed at an invisible spot on his lapels. “I will concede that you are most likely good at any subject you set your mind on,” she said.

  “My cousin has been the bane of my life.”

  She started.

  “You probably don’t know him.”

  She refused to open her mouth.

  And that is when he knew. He kept going, like a bird dog on a grouse’s scent. “Percy Godwin’s greatest aim in life was to somehow manage to become the Duke of Sussex. He had only one thing standing in his way. Me, of course.”