What a Duke Wants

by Lavinia Kent

  Because money was survival. It gave her mind the freedom to dream of something different, of that small cottage with a garden.

  It gave her the chance to believe she had choices.

  Only they would be choices without Mark. Whenever she pictured that small cottage he was sitting in some corner of it, or outside splitting logs. A duke splitting logs. She was clearly demented.

  But did she want her dream if he was not in it? Could she be happy without him?

  “I would miss him if I left, you know,” she said.

  The kitten looked up at her wide-eyed.

  “You do think I am feeling sorry for myself and that it is not attractive.”

  Duchess struggled to be free and Isabella placed her back on the ground. Pulling a gulp of air into her mouth, Isabella puffed out her cheeks and blew out an extremely rude noise. There was some small advantage to always being alone. It was wonderful not to constantly monitor one’s actions.

  Standing, she shook out her skirts. The deep blue silk shimmered about her, tempting her to twirl in circles.

  Why not?

  Bowing to a narrow beech tree, she began to dance, Duchess chasing after the swirling fabric. The king’s coronation was in two days and she imagined herself at one of the private balls being held the night before. Dancing had always been one of her favorite things. During the few balls she had attended before running away she had danced with anybody who asked her. There was such joy in the precise movement, in the bend and curtsy, the intricate footwork that placed one in perfect position with one’s partner. It was hard dancing with an unmoving tree and a chasing kitten, but she made adjustments and ended in a great twirl, laughter flying from her. The cat looked up in confusion.

  It was with some disappointment that Isabella finished her imagined dance and curtsied politely to the beech.

  Maybe Mark could take her out someplace. There must be someplace that mistresses were allowed to go, mustn’t there? It would be far different from Almack’s, but she could adjust—just as she had to dancing with a tree and a kitten.

  That would need to wait until after the coronation, however. Mark had returned later and later each night as the king demanded more from his courtiers. Her job for now was simply to help him relax and forget for a few hours all that awaited him in the day.

  She twirled again, letting her skirts bell about her. She would not be disappointed in her isolation. She scooped up Duchess again and placed a kiss upon her nose.

  She would go out. It was early enough in the day that nobody fashionable would be seen for hours. Mark, or rather Strattington, was probably watching the king’s stocking being pulled up.

  And if nobody was out, then nobody could recognize her—her pursuers could not spend their entire lives looking for her. She would go and buy ribbons and bonnets and pretend that it was all just great fun, pretend that she was the girl she used to be.

  Why did being king mean that you required a room full of people in order to dress? Mark kept his face placid as the king’s corset was pulled tight. Really, there were some things that should be kept private. Although, as Mark attempted to shrug his shoulders in his tight, wrinkle-free jacket, he had to admit that even with only being a duke his life had changed and things that had once seemed preposterous now seemed normal. He might allow only Divers to help him most days, but that was far more than he’d ever had before. Douglas might occasionally have helped with his uniform coat or pulled off his boots, but it had been the exception rather than the rule. And he’d certainly never had to wait for Douglas in the morning before he could begin to dress—nor had Douglas shown up when he’d had a woman in the room.

  He’d almost screamed at Divers to get out the first morning he’d appeared at Isabella’s bedside. The top curve of one of her breasts had been visible above the coverlet and he’d seen the man’s eyes drop to it—not that he could really blame him. It was only Divers’s calm look that had kept Mark from action. Divers had clearly seen nothing out of the ordinary in his being there and it had forced Mark to realize that this was just one more piece of being a duke. He hadn’t liked being forced to don the mantle before he’d even put his feet on the floor.

  Being king must be like that—you simply adjusted to what must be. Although the king had been raised knowing he was going to be king. He’d never had the unexpected duty thrust upon him—well, taking over the regency might not quite have been expected, but King George had seemed rather willing. Mark was not sure he would have taken the duchy if there had been any choice involved.

  “I am glad to see you here.” The Duke of Hargrove strode toward him. “I always value another sensible addition to our company.”

  Mark nodded. He could not say that he was happy to be here.

  “And how was the remainder of your journey? I heard there was some commotion about a girl, a maid. I do hope it did not affect your journey.”

  Had the gossip about Isabella already spread through London? “My travel was quite satisfactory. Thank you.”

  “And the girl? What happened to her?” Hargrove asked.

  Before Mark could ask why Hargrove cared, the Duke of Brisbane’s voice spoke from behind. “Have you been fitted for your coronation costume yet?”

  “I’ll talk to you later.” Hargrove strode away.

  “Not a friend of yours, Brisbane?” Mark asked.

  “Let’s just say Hargrove and I tend to take different sides on almost everything, from voting in Lords to choosing our lovers.”

  Mark was not going to pursue that. “And what do you mean, costume? I must have seen it. I would admit to losing track, given all the swags of fabric that have been held against me in the last weeks. In truth I leave that all to my valet. He knows far more than I have any wish to.”

  “You have not seen it or I believe you would have remembered. You must ask your valet about it. Given your normal somber style of dress, I would imagine he is hiding it from you.”

  “Why would I remember my coronation attire? I am sure it is grand, but I must confess it all seems unbelievable to me.” Mark gestured down at his own dark coat. “I am still in mourning, but have been informed that there are many different shades of black and that I must know when it should be adorned with gold embroidery along with all the rest. I do not see the need to embroider so many layers of black when they do not show unless carefully examined.”

  Brisbane sighed softly. “I will begin with the easy question. If you had paid any attention you would realize that we are all to be dressed as Tudor nobility for the ceremony. Do you really believe that you would not have noticed a pair of bright puffed pantaloons, a properly padded codpiece, and a jacket with sleeves too broad to fit through a doorway? And the hats. I will not even begin to describe the piece of grandeur that will sit atop my head.”

  “Tudor?”

  “You really have not been listening these last days, have you? That is something else you will have to learn. It is all very well to think about something else—someone else—but you must still pay attention and consider. The king has spent twenty-four thousand pounds on his coronation robes alone and we do not even begin to figure the cost for the raised walkway to Westminster. I understand his need for pomp and show, it is a very valuable tool, but he does not consider how the people will feel about the cost. There has been outcry at his expenditures before and still he pays no heed.”

  Mark’s mind was still reeling from the thought of a Tudor costume. Damn right, Divers had been hiding it from him. He wouldn’t—although of course he would. An important lesson in life was learning when an issue was worth raising to a high level of importance. A Tudor costume was no more than a few hours of embarrassment. There would be some discussion of the padded codpiece. He did not need padding.

  “Your mind is wandering again,” Brisbane said. “You must learn to keep your ears open and think at the same time. Our mutual aunt, Lady Smythe-Burke, assures me that you are more than worth the time and effort. Now, what do you think of thi
s matter of blocking the queen from the coronation? He may have tried to divorce the woman, but she is still queen. And do keep your voice down. There are some answers you do not want to reach his ears.” Brisbane’s glance went to the king.

  It felt wonderful to be out in the air. July was hot. It was one of those moments she was glad to be a woman. The thin blue silk of her skirts not only twirled well, it was also light. Being dressed in a wool coat, waistcoat, and high linen shirt would have been unbearable. She glanced at a man on the other side of the street. And boots. Who would wish to wear boots when the weather was like this?

  She was young. She was fed. She had a place to sleep—a quite wonderful place to sleep. And she had money in her pocket, a great deal of money. It was preposterous that she had let herself feel morose because Mark was not the same in the morning as at night. Her sister had told her that the way men treated you before and after was subject to great change—although the one time she’d seen Lord Peter sneaking from her sister’s rooms in the early hours of the morning he had not looked stiff and forbidding. He’d looked like he should be whistling.

  She knew just how to put that look on Mark’s face. Last night she’d stood before him in nothing but her stockings and she’d seen that look. Of course the likelihood of Divers arriving bedside before they were properly awake did put a damper on those thoughts in the morning. One more thing to think about after the coronation. She could not mention it to Mark when he was expected to be dressed for the king each day—but afterward—afterward might be a whole different story.

  Oh, look at that bonnet. Isabella strolled across the street toward the most magnificent creation she had ever seen—feathers and froth in the most delightful shade of peach. It should have been ridiculous, but it was simply, simply wonderful. She’d have no place to wear it, but what did that matter? She’d be happy sitting in her own garden in such a flight of whimsy.

  Pausing before the window, she stared at the hat, imagining herself in it. She had just decided that she would indeed purchase it when a voice called from across the street. “Isabella Masters. You stop right there. I know it is you. Don’t you dare try and leave.”

  Chapter 19

  Standing across the street, her striped gown dancing in the breeze, was Isabella’s best girlhood friend, Annie Westers. Isabella glanced from side to side, searching for some possibility of escape. There was none.

  She pasted a smile on her face and stood waiting as Annie darted across the street. “It is you, Isabella. Where have you been these past years? Both your sister and brother would only say you had gone to the country for a rest. I knew better. You hate the country.” Annie leaned in close. “You didn’t have a baby, did you?” she whispered.

  Gaping in shock, Isabella didn’t know what to say. She’d been scrounging to find words before Annie’s question. Now she was simply speechless.

  “I guess not. I should have realized, given that you are as thin as always. I just couldn’t think of any other reason you’d stay away so long. Did you elope? Marry somebody most unsuitable? Do tell me that he’s gorgeous, at least. A handsome footman? But if that’s the case, why are you back? Did he die? That would be tragedy, of course—although it would be wonderful to have such an adventure and then come back to society afterward with no one the wiser.”

  “No, I have not married—and I no longer hate the country.”

  “That’s too bad—the not marrying a beautiful, but now-deceased footman part. I’ve always been rather fond of the country myself. Do you think we could leak a rumor about the footman? That would explain your being away and be almost as much fun as marrying the footman.”

  A pounding headache was beginning to form behind Isabella’s temple. Annie had never been quiet, but she had never been such a chatterbox. A part of Isabella was delighted to see her friend in such fine form, but this was not the moment for it.

  “I am rambling, aren’t I?” Annie’s face took on a slightly dejected look. “My husband claims I have started to speak endlessly and I fear it’s true. The problem is that he never speaks at all and I hate the awkward silence. I am glad that he is so busy with the king and the coronation. It is so much easier to be alone when there is no one there than when there is another person in the room.”

  Isabella considered the mornings when Mark turned into Strattington and nodded. “Yes, it is. I was not aware you had married. You didn’t even have a beau before I left. Who did you marry?”

  Annie reached out and grabbed her hand. “Lord Richard Tenant. I would have thought you had heard, but perhaps not. And, I have a child, a son. I have no idea where you have been, but it must have been the far corners of the earth not to have heard of my marriage. I had the match of the season two years ago.”

  “No, I have not heard anything.” It all felt quite unbelievable.

  “Oh, do tell me you are not doing anything besides admiring that delightful bonnet. I have been debating buying it for days. Do come and have tea with me. My husband will not be home until late tonight and I must have company. I will even promise not to talk too much.”

  “I really should not.”

  “Oh, but you must. I need someone to talk to, someone I can trust. I know it’s been years since we’ve seen each other, but that does not change the fact that we have always held each other’s secrets tight.”

  Could she talk to Annie? It seemed an impossibility, but it was true that Annie had never revealed her secrets to anyone, not even when she’d run away from Masters the first time. It was hardly more than a schoolgirl prank now, but still, Annie had held her tongue when it had been the riskiest thing either of them had ever done.

  “Yes, I’ll come with you—but you must keep our meeting quiet. I do not want anyone to know.”

  “Where is she?” Mark paced back and forth across the parlor of Isabella’s house. At least Douglas had returned from investigating the leases in Wales. It was good to have his friend back. “She’s always here when I call.”

  It was true he was hours earlier than expected, and that he had not sent her a note telling her to plan for him early, but still she should be here. It was a mistress’s duty to be here. He needed her. She was the one good thing in his day.

  A day in which he’d actually worn tights and pantaloons. He shuddered just thinking of the experience, and that had only been at his tailor’s premises. He could not even imagine that he was going to wear them parading in public—and parading was the word. He’d be walking on a raised platform following the king. The whole of London would be staring at his shins. At least he hoped it was his shins they’d be staring at. He told Divers that he was not wearing a codpiece of that proportion, but who knew whether the man had actually listened to him?

  “I am afraid I couldn’t say,” Douglas answered. “But then I don’t suppose you expect me to. I am not sure quite why you brought me with you. I could have told you my dull tale of farmland and cows and sheep later. I’ve never come calling on a mistress before.”

  “I’ve never had a mistress before.”

  “So why do you now?”

  “I’ve never been a duke before.”

  “So you chose Miss Smith to be your mistress because you’re a duke? For no other reason?”

  Mark scowled at Douglas. He was not going to answer that question. “So where is she?”

  “Do you want me to ask? I am sure the housekeeper or the porter would know. Or I could send a message to Divers. The man does seem to know everything. He may still be busy with the tailor, however.” Douglas gave him a knowing smile.

  Sinking into a chair, Mark added a scowl to his sigh. The deep pillows of the seat rose about him. A man should not be reduced to worrying about pantaloons. And certainly not a duke. He had estates to run, politics to argue—and a king to please.

  He nodded to Douglas. “Ask the housekeeper. I should have set a guard on her. I don’t like the thought of her wandering around alone. She’s not used to London. I’d hate for her to get into trouble.�
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  Douglas left and returned a moment later. “She went shopping—before the noon meal. They were expecting her home a while ago, although she did not leave a time. She may simply have stopped for ices or taken a walk in the park. It is a beautiful day.”

  So where was Isabella now? He glanced at the clock. It was far past the time she should have returned from any shopping expedition, even if she had taken a long walk. He didn’t know whether to worry or to be angered.

  A duke would be angered—although, of course, he would not show it.

  A man, now. A man could worry.

  Douglas came and stood before him. “You seem concerned. Is there any reason to believe she is not simply taking her time? I cannot imagine what harm could befall her. You never worried about your sisters when they were late.”

  “It is simply not like her.”

  “Do you know her well enough to know what is like her?” Only Douglas would dare ask such a question.

  “I know her well enough.”

  Douglas glanced about the parlor, his eyes stopping on the open door to the hall, and the steps leading up beyond it. “Yes, I would reckon you do.”

  “Oh, just spit it out,” Mark said. He could see that Douglas had more he wanted to say.

  “It’s not my place, Your Grace.” If Douglas was calling him Your Grace it was not a good sign.

  “I’ve said to just say it,” Mark said. “I am very aware that even if I dismissed you you would not leave. I am stuck with you for life, it appears, so say what you mean.”

  Douglas pulled in a deep breath, his chest filling visibly. “It is just, I think you are concerned that she does not wish to return.” He glanced about the room again. “She seemed a nice girl, not the sort who would end up here.”