The Dream of a Duchess

by Sande, Linda Rae

  Grinning Isabella turned to regard him. “Your grandmother?”

  Octavius bobbed his head and back and forth. “I suppose. She died before I was born, so I’ve never thought of her in that regard.”

  Isabella winced. “I met all four of my grandparents when I was younger. All four have since died.”

  “I always imagined Heath would outlast me,” Octavius murmured, referring to Arabella’s father. Albert Brotherton, Arabella’s brother and Clarinda’s father, was the current Earl of Heath. “Your uncle will certainly outlive me now.” Especially after he learns you’re still alive.

  He and Norwick had only briefly considered taking the Earl of Heath into their confidence. They had merely agreed that the fewer who knew about Isabella’s fate, the better off she would be.

  The duke led her to the stone bench opposite of where they had been standing and turned to sit down.

  “What is he like?” Isabella asked as she settled onto the gray-veined marble.

  Octavius furrowed his brows, rather surprised at the question. “When was the last time you were in his company?”

  Shrugging, Isabella seemed to do some figures in her head before she said, “I think I was ten... so... eleven years ago.”

  The duke appeared even more perplexed than he had in the breakfast parlor that morning. “How is it you haven’t seen him in so long?” Surely Craythorne had brought his family to London for the Season.

  “Father wouldn’t allow it. My mother didn’t go with him to London during the Season, so we only saw my uncle when he paid a visit to Craythorne Castle,” she explained. “He was on his way to Portsmouth once. To visit a friend at the Naval Academy.”

  Octavius continued to frown. He hadn’t noticed Arabella’s absence from the seasonal entertainments, but then, his attentions had been on Jane. On courting her despite them both knowing he would eventually marry her one day.

  Had Craythorne learned of Arabella’s affaire with Norwick? Did the earl think his wife would cuckold him? Keeping her from London during the Season would have been cruel to a woman who grew up with the expectation of attending balls and soirées, routs and musicales. “Pardon my curse, but Craythorne was an ass,” he murmured.

  Isabella pinked up a bit at hearing his assessment of the late earl. “I think he believed my mother would tell her brother that he was a cruel man. I don’t think she ever did so in her correspondence to him, you see, because Craythorne sometimes opened the letters before the footman saw to posting them. But if she were to have a moment of Heath’s time in person, she might beg to be allowed to stay under his protection—and Craythorne didn’t want to take the chance she would leave him.” Her throat suddenly closed up, her mind’s eyes filled with the memory of how her mother had looked with her head twisted in Craythorne’s hands, with her lifeless eyes staring up at the ceiling. “And then she did. For good.” She quickly swallowed in an attempt to stifle the sob that was sure to follow.

  Closing his eyes, the duke seemed to ponder what to say. He hadn’t meant for their trip to the folly to end in tears. After what had happened earlier that morning, he had thought to gauge her reaction. Learn her expectations. Determine a course of action for their future. He should offer for her hand while he was at it, but now was not the time. She didn’t yet know everything. Until she knew the truth about her parentage, he didn’t want her to make decisions that would affect the rest of her life.

  At the same time, he needed an heir. He didn’t want his dukedom in the hands of a regent. He wanted to raise his son with an appreciation of the responsibility of his office as well as the privilege it afforded.

  Offering to keep Isabella as his châtelaine was a means of giving her a place to call home until her brother was informed she was still alive. A means of keeping her close should Norwick finally decide to pay a call and confess. A means of allowing her continued access to his horses, for he was quite sure she was onto something with her breeding choices. He might have a contender that summer, two or three next year, and even more the year after.

  “Please accept my condolences,” Octavius said suddenly. “I wish... I wish I knew what else to say, but I admit to being at a bit of a loss.”

  Isabella finally allowed a sigh, a catch in her breath due to a sob. “I have never wished to vex you,” she whispered. “I never want to taunt you or test you as my mother did my father,” she added with a shake of her head. “She always managed to stop just in time. Just before Craythorne would have cuffed her, or slapped her, or done something worse. She always threw herself into his arms and begged forgiveness at just the right moment.”

  Octavius winced at hearing her words. No wonder she had been so convinced the man had killed her mother. She probably thought all men were capable of such violence against their women.

  “I never lifted a hand against my duchess,” he whispered hoarsely.

  “You had no reason to,” Isabella countered.

  Rather shocked at her response, Octavius turned to stare at her. “However would you know such a thing?”

  Squirming a bit, Isabella angled her head to one side. “The servants speak of her as if she were a saint.” She sighed. “As if she could do no wrong. And yet, since she never once set foot into Huntinghurst, they never actually met her.” Her brows furrowed in confusion as she considered their opinion.

  How had they come to think the duchess was a saint?

  Straightening on the bench, Octavius arched an eyebrow. “Her public persona was well-honed,” he agreed with a sigh. “No one would ever believe her true nature.” He couldn’t believe he was finally putting voice to his less than complimentary memories of Jane Ludlow. Memories were always kinder of those who died before their time. Especially those who died in childbirth. He had loved Jane, though. Had probably loved her since before he was breeched. Loved her enough to make a promise he would love no other.

  The heart wants what the heart wants, Norwick had said.

  Damn, but the man was right.

  It was Isabella’s turn to sit up straighter. “Whatever are you implying?”

  The duke placed a hand over the one she rested on her thigh. He lifted the gloved hand and regarded the kid leather for a moment, wincing when he saw how worn it was, wincing again at seeing the frayed edge of her sleeve. “Jane was spoiled. She never would have worn a riding habit past a single Season. Never would have worn a pair of gloves that didn’t appear new. Never would have lifted a finger to help the maids, or a horse, or...” Spend a night with me when I needed her, he almost added.

  “She was your duchess,” Isabella argued. “Would you expect her to do any of those things?”

  Octavius angled his head first one way and then the other. “I suppose not,” he finally agreed. Time had allowed him to remember the reasons he shouldn’t hold Jane in such high esteem any longer. How she had never made the trip to Huntinghurst despite his efforts to make it as comfortable as their mansion in London. How she rarely allowed him to bed her, despite his efforts to see to her pleasure first. How she complained the entire time she was expecting his heir while at the same time, she held a hand over her belly and spoke soft words of love and affection she never put voice to him. How she made comments about the discomfort of carrying a babe and how it would be the death of her.

  And it was.

  “She was not a saint. Nor an angel,” Octavius whispered, his gaze aimed at the horizon below them.

  “Mortals never are,” Isabella replied as she wiped away a tear.

  Octavius turned and regarded her, his frown firmly in place. “You are,” he countered quietly, remembering how he had asked that she share her bath and spend the night with him. Perhaps her shock at hearing his words had kept her from protesting, but she did as she was told. This morning, she hadn’t cowered in his bed as if she were frightened of him, or gazed at him with cow eyes, or acted as if she had been thoroughly compromised, but rather behaved as if they shared a bed every night.

  He squeezed his eyes sh
ut in an attempt to wipe away the memory of what she had done to him before his cock could respond.

  How had she known what to do? Because I showed her. How had she known how hard to hold him, and how to move her hands, and when to touch him just so? Because I showed her.

  Well, he wanted to show her much more. Do much more with her. If she accepted his suit, then he would.

  Isabella swallowed, not sure what to say. Did he think her an angel because she had agreed to share her bath? Or his bed?

  Or did it have something to do with his horses?

  When he remained mute, her attention went first to him and then to white pasteboard box he held.

  The box in which Norwick’s letter and her mother’s ring had been delivered. The ring was no longer in it, though, and she lifted her eyes to find Octavius holding it in between his thumb and forefinger. He was studying the diamond in the noonday light.

  “What is it?” Isabella asked in a whisper, not wanting to break the spell that seemed to have been cast over the folly just then. The birdsong was still evident, and the leaves on the surrounding trees still rustled a bit in the slight breeze, but otherwise all was quiet around them.

  “It’s hardly worthy of you,” he said with a sigh.

  “It’s not paste,” Isabella countered, half-tempted to add, Is it?

  “No,” Octavius said as he shook his head. He seemed to come to some decision, though, and he straightened on the bench. “I have to travel back to London. Preferably this afternoon,” he said suddenly, before realizing it was far too late to make the fifty miles in just one day.

  He lifted one of her gloved hands and peeled the worn leather from her fingers. Daring a glance at her before he slid the ring onto her fourth finger, he added, “Race you back to Huntinghurst?”

  “I think not,” she murmured then. “At least, not yet,” she added as she regarded him for moment. “I have something more I need to discuss with you.” She scooted a bit closer to him on the bench, and after a moment, she leaned against him.

  Wrapping an arm around her back, Octavius pulled her until her head rested against the front of his shoulder, his lips kissing her forehead until curiosity had him asking, “You have my complete attention.”

  A half-hour later, the two made their way back to Huntinghurst, allowing the horses to set the pace.

  Neither one expected callers to be waiting for them at Huntinghurst.

  Chapter 39

  A Visit from a Father and a Cousin

  A half-hour earlier

  Clarinda stepped down from the Norwick traveling coach and stared up at the front façade of Huntinghurst in awe. “You didn’t tell me it was this large,” she accused.

  David Fitzwilliam dared a glance at the edifice and gave a shrug. “A hunting lodge, it is not,” he agreed as he offered his arm. “Come. Let’s see if we can find the owner, shall we?”

  Giving him a glance, Clarinda paused. “I don’t know why, but I admit to being a bit nervous,” she whispered, just as a stableboy appeared from the east side of the house. The boy bowed in their direction before assisting the driver with the horses. A footman suddenly appeared from the house and made his way to the trunk tied to the back of the coach.

  “It seems we’re expected, at least,” David replied. “And as for being nervous, I am the one feeling a bit discombobulated at the moment.”

  Clarinda rolled her eyes, rather surprised the earl would admit to such a state. But for the entire trip from London, David had been nervous. Worried. A bit more talkative than usual.

  And quite amorous.

  She wondered then if his sexual advances had simply been a means to take his mind off how he was going to tell Isabella that he was her father.

  Well, no matter. Their bouts of lovemaking in between naps and a few stops at coaching inns had certainly passed the time.

  A butler appeared and gave a deep bow. “Welcome to Huntinghurst, my lord, my lady. I am Peters. Although His Grace has been expecting your arrival, he isn’t yet back from his ride.”

  The Norwicks exchanged glances. “We’re actually here to see Lady Isabella. Is she in residence?” David asked.

  Obviously shocked at the query, the butler gave a shake of his head. “She is riding with the duke.”

  “Perhaps we can wait in the parlor?” Clarinda suggested, daring a glance up at her husband.

  “Of course. I’ll show you to your rooms,” Peters offered before he turned around and headed into the house. “And then I’ll see to it tea is delivered to the parlor.”

  As they made their way into the house, Clarinda’s gaze took in the massive great hall and the grand staircase that split in two at the first landing and then led to the first story. “Izzy is the châtelaine here?” she queried, obviously impressed by the interior of the estate home.

  “She is,” David affirmed. “There hasn’t been a housekeeper here for a few years, so she oversees the maids.”

  “Can we have a châtelaine?” Clarinda asked, sotto voce. I rather like the idea of someone else seeing to the maids.”

  David frowned. “You have a housekeeper,” he reminded her. “Banks is quite efficient, I should think.” He didn’t add that the woman had held a similar position at The Elegant Courtesan before he had it shut down.

  “Oh! Do you suppose the duke is proposing right now?” Clarinda whispered, her attention darting about as she took in the walls of large paintings and the busts of Roman generals and the like. “Oh, I do hope he’s chosen someplace romantic. Like a folly,” she murmured. “I thought you might propose in a folly.”

  David furrowed a brow, struggling to remember just where Daniel had proposed to her. David had never actually asked for her hand but simply stepped in and made sure her affections were transferred to him before they wed. Had Clarinda been able to tell the difference between him and Daniel, he feared she would have chosen Daniel that day when they both paid a call on her.

  Now, where had Daniel proposed?

  Kensington Gardens.

  Well, at least that could be considered romantic, he supposed with a bit of relief. “If he is proposing, he’s doing so counter to his claim that I had to tell her about me first,” he whispered as they made their way up the stairs.

  “Are you expecting her to react badly?” Clarinda asked in surprise.

  Not sure how he expected Isabella to react when told the truth, David merely shrugged. “What would you do? If you learned your father was someone other than Heath?”

  Clarinda took a deep breath, made necessary as they had just reached the top of the stairs and she was a bit winded. “Weep a bit, I suppose. Then there would be screaming, and wailing, and gnashing of teeth—”

  “You’re not helping,” David complained, just then catching her teasing grin. “You minx!” he added in a hoarse whisper.

  Waving into an open door, Peters said, “This is the parlor, and your rooms are this way.” He continued down the adjacent hall, finally stopping to open a door to reveal a decidedly feminine bedchamber decorated in peach and green. “For you, my lady. And for my lord...” The butler moved down to the next door along the corridor. “The master bedchamber.” He opened the carved door to reveal a room done in navy blue and dark woods. “I’ll see to it tea is delivered to the parlor, and the trunks are delivered here. Will your servants be joining you?”

  “Their coach was still being serviced when we left The King’s Arm in Farnhurst,” David replied. “I expect them shortly.”

  “Very good, my lord. I’ll see to their quarters straight away.”

  Clarinda shed her pelisse and hat and left them along with her reticule on her bed before she made her way to David’s room. “This is all far grander than I imagined,” she admitted as she moved to help David remove his greatcoat.

  “I don’t know why we bothered to bring my valet along. You’re so much better at this than he is,” he murmured.

  “Better at what?”

  “Undressing me,” he teased. He gat
hered her into his arms and gave her a kiss. “Thank you for not screaming and wailing and gnashing your teeth when I told you about Arabella. About Isabella,” he murmured.

  Clarinda gazed up at him through her dark lashes. “I thought about doing so,” she admitted a bit sheepishly. “For just a moment. Two, really. But then I sorted that we weren’t yet betrothed when you had your affaire.” She sighed. “So then I wondered if perhaps I was your second choice.”

  David gave a start and then shook his head. “I don’t recall having a choice at the time. If you remember, our fathers arranged the betrothal.”

  Arching a brow, Clarinda considered his response for a moment. “I did,” she whispered.

  David blinked. “You did?” he repeated, a bit confused.

  Clarinda captured her lower lip with a tooth and gave a shrug. “I may have made a suggestion to Heath...” She admitted, an eyebrow arching up.

  David lowered his forehead to touch hers. “How? Why? You thought me the worst possible rake at the time,” he accused. To this day, she still employed a Bow Street Runner to ensure he didn’t take a mistress or engage in trade. How could she have had feelings for him back when she was so young?

  “The heart wants what the heart wants, doesn’t it?” she replied with a shrug.

  Stunned at hearing the familiar phrase, David stared at his wife for a several seconds before he pulled her into hug. “I love you, Clare.” He was kissing her with a good deal of passion when he suddenly realized they were being watched. Clarinda realized it as well, for her lips pulled away from his at the same time a startled gasp sounded from hallway.

  “Clarinda?” Isabella said in surprise, her hand just then dropping from having covered her mouth. “Lord Norwick? Oh, it’s so good to see you!” she said with a huge grin as she dipped a curtsy.

  “Izzy!” Clarinda hurried to meet her cousin at the threshold, the two hugging as they giggled.

  “My lady,” David said as he gave a bow, a grin appearing at seeing the cousins’ reunion. A moment later, and Isabella was suddenly in front of him, giving him a kiss on the cheek.