She had read all of the Gothic romances as a girl but had never believed that the contents were real, as some young ladies in her acquaintance did. All she had ever wanted was a decent, respectable gentleman who would treat her well. Romantic love was for the fairies, as far as she was concerned.
She sighed deeply as Mr Wilson and her mother kept talking about her accomplishments as if they were ticking off a list. No, she did not have any romantic expectations, but suddenly, she strangely yearned for something more. Mr Laurence Wilson left her cold, as polite and respectable as he was.
She berated herself silently. Mr Wilson was a catch, and she should be very grateful that he was paying any attention to her. She wasn’t so young anymore. She would end up on the shelf entirely. Her two older sisters, Jane and Fredericka, were already well married and settled by her age, she reminded herself. And Mama was always saying that she had been married at the ripe old age of eighteen.
Mr Wilson turned to her now, crossing his legs as he balanced his teacup in one hand. She squirmed slightly, beneath his gaze.
“You enjoy music, Miss Northwood?” he asked. “I have spare tickets for the symphony next week at the Palladium.” He paused. “Perhaps your good mother and you could accompany me if you are so inclined.”
Isabella smiled. “I am already attending with my dear friend, Miss Eleanor Weston, and her parents, Mr Wilson,” she replied quickly. “But I am sure that we can mingle at intermission …”
His face turned a bit sour. “Yes, of course,” he said. A pause. “But my family has a private box. You would see much more if you attended with me. A bird’s eye view of the orchestra …”
“Oh, you are so lucky, Mr Weston,” said her mother, her eyes sparkling. “A private box, no less! Perhaps we could be so inclined to let Isabella attend with you, instead of going with Miss Weston and her family, if I chaperone, of course …”
“Mama,” said Isabella sharply. “I have already promised Eleanor. It is not a polite thing to refuse her invitation. Especially if it is to take up another offer.”
Mrs Northwood reddened slightly. “But I am sure that dear Eleanor would not mind so much, my dear. You go everywhere together, after all …”
Mr Wilson laughed. “Oh no, Mrs Northwood, your daughter is correct,” he said. “I should not have put her in such a position.” He turned to Isabella. “I should not have put you in such an awkward spot, Miss Northwood. It was not polite at all. Please, accept my apologies.”
Isabella inclined her head. At least he had backed off gracefully. It was true he should not have asked her again after she had told him the circumstances. It was not proper etiquette in any way. And she was a stickler for proper etiquette. Eleanor often teased her about it, saying that she needed not to be quite so rigid. That etiquette wasn’t everything in life, after all.
“Of course I accept your apology, Mr Wilson,” she said. “I trust you do understand that it would be entirely rude to suddenly decline my dear friend’s invitation, to accept another, to the very same event.”
He smiled, looking very pleased. “I think that is another thing that I greatly admire about you, Miss Northwood,” he said slowly. “Your propriety. You are obviously very aware of what is the proper process. Unlike some young ladies, who are rather more flexible in that regard. It shows a lack of respect, in my opinion.”
Isabella’s smile froze on her face. Had his insistence that she go to the symphony with him rather than Eleanor been some kind of test to see if she followed proper protocol? Again, she was beset by how calculating it all was. Sizing her up shrewdly to see if she was a proper young lady in all regards.
But before she could answer, he stood up, placing his teacup on the tray. “I am afraid that I must be away,” he said, still looking pleased with himself. “I have another appointment, and it would not do to be late. Would it, Miss Northwood?”
Isabella stood up, smoothing down the creases in her gown. “No, of course not, Mr Wilson.”
Her mother stood up, too. “Thank you for your visit, Mr Wilson.”
He bowed slightly towards both ladies. “Thank you, Mrs Northwood, for letting me into your charming home and having the company of two such lovely ladies.”
Her mother blushed slightly. “Oh, the pleasure has been entirely ours, Mr Wilson.”
He walked up to Isabella, taking her hand and pressing his lips against it in a perfunctory manner. “I hope to see you at the symphony as promised, Miss Northwood.”
Isabella inclined her head. “As I hope to see you there, as well, Mr Wilson.”
The next minute, he was gone, striding out of the room. Isabella turned to her mother. “Well, that was interesting,” she said slowly. “I am not quite sure what to make of Mr Laurence Wilson at all.” She paused, biting her lip. “But he is a respectable, polite gentleman, to be sure.”
Her mother nodded. “He is a catch, Isabella. His family is genteel and moderately wealthy if not flush with it.” She raised her chin. “You could do far worse, my girl. Time is ticking. Your sisters were married and had their own homes at your age, remember.”
Isabella reddened. “Yes, Mama, I am well aware of that fact,” she said, feeling diminished, as she always did when her mother talked about how she wasn’t getting any younger.
But at that moment, before she could say anything else, her father suddenly strode into the room. His face was mottled slightly with some strong emotion. Isabella felt her heart start to beat a little faster. It was unlike Papa to look animated. He was usually so self-contained. What was going on?
“Isabella,” he barked, without further ado. “I have good news, daughter. Very good news, indeed.”
“What is it, Papa?” she asked slowly, mystified.
He beamed at her, looking like the cat that had just eaten the canary. “I have just accepted an offer for your hand in marriage, that is what,” he said triumphantly. “A very good offer, indeed.”
“From Mr Wilson?” asked Mama quickly, looking shocked. “Well, that was quick work. He only just left us …”
Her father looked irritated. “No, not from Wilson,” he said. “Who the deuce is he, anyway? Just another dandy, idling with our girl’s affections, from a moderately well-to-do family.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “No, my dear, this is a far better proposition, I must say.”
Isabella’s heart started hammering. What on earth was going on? This morning was taking a very strange turn, indeed.
“Well, from whom then, husband?” asked her mother, looking gobsmacked.
Her father took a deep breath. “From a duke, no less, my dear.” He turned to Isabella. “Jasper Blackbourne, the Duke of Penthurst! Now, what do you think about that?” His eyes gleamed with triumph.
Isabella’s head began to spin. A duke had offered for her hand? Impossible. She was a perfectly respectable young lady from a good family, but she didn’t run in those circles. They were very far above her, indeed.
But as her father’s words started to sink in, something jarred within her. Quite violently. She had heard of this duke, before. His name was strangely familiar to her.
“The Duke of Penthurst?” she repeated. “But … I have heard of him …”
She strained to put her finger on what she had heard. Vague rumours. A dashing duke, who had led his family on a merry dance. Running wild. Ruining his reputation in every way possible. Her blood ran cold.
“No, Papa,” she gasped. “The Duke of Penthurst, while having great title and wealth, is not a respectable gentleman, at all.” She paused, feeling herself begin to shake. “You cannot accept him. You must see that.”
Her father glanced at her sharply. “I am afraid it is too late, Isabella,” he said. “I accepted the offer. It is done.” He drew a deep breath. “You are now betrothed, my dear. Well, what do you have to say to that?”
She stared at him, not believing it on any level. And yet, he looked serious. He was serious.
Her father had just got her engaged to
a rogue duke. A gentleman she had never met, not once, in her life. And a gentleman who was no gentleman at all if the rumours about him were correct.
Her heart sank into her feet. Her life was over. There would be no hope of any happiness for her now. None at all.
Chapter 2
Jasper Blackbourne, the eighth Duke of Penthurst, sighed with irritation as he adjusted the book in his hands. He had been trying to read the thing for over twenty minutes now, but not one word had managed to sink into his mind.
The candle next to him was starting to burn low and sputter. He glanced around at the library, where he was sitting. The heavy embossed curtains were drawn firmly closed, but he could see smidgeons of bright sunlight through the cracks. He hadn’t even realised that the sun had dawned, and that morning was upon him. Another damn morning.
He sighed again. He had been out all night, at a party in a disreputable area of the town, and should be abed, sleeping it off. But as soon as he had crept into the house, trying not to wake his father, he had felt suddenly drawn to the library.
His mind was still whirring, his blood pumping, and he knew that he needed to calm down a little before he could sleep. Reading in the library until he finally felt tired would be just the ticket.
He squinted, against those bright pockets of light. Another morning. He glanced down at the book again. It was useless. It wasn’t calming him. He couldn’t concentrate at all. His mind was spinning, almost incoherently, in his tiredness. Those same thoughts, tumbling over and over again.
He thought he would be well rid of them by now, but it seemed that he was accursed. It was going to haunt him forever, and no amount of wild parties, or running around as if he were trying to escape his own skin, was going to change that.
He jumped, his heart pounding as the door suddenly flew open. His father was standing there, staring at him, with a slightly contemptuous look on his face. And then the older man strode into the room, muttering under his breath, pulling back the curtains so that the bright sunlight suddenly streamed into the room, causing Jasper to draw back sharply as if he was a vampire confronted by the day.
His father rounded on him. “This is disgraceful,” he rapped. “I know very well that you have not even been abed yet. That you stayed out all night, yet again. The servants informed me.”
Jasper smiled weakly. “Yes, well, I thought that I would read for a while, you see. Settles the mind …”
His father leaned over, blowing out the candle. “You need to pull yourself together, my boy. You do realise that, do you not?” His eyes flickered over him. “I have been very tolerant of you. Very tolerant indeed. But you are seven and twenty now. You are the duke since I had to give up the title due to my health. Not a young lad, sowing his wild oats, anymore. You have responsibilities …”
Jasper’s head started to pound. He was in no mood for a lecture, not after having not slept a wink. And he could see by the manic look in his father’s eyes, and the way that his mouth was working furiously, that the old man was only just beginning.
It was going to be a tongue lashing, indeed. His head pounded harder.
“Why do you do it, Jasper?” asked his father, shaking his head. “We have talked about this, over and over. About how you must quieten down and start to lead a more respectable life. Many fathers would have cut you off a long time ago. And I am starting to regret my decision to pass the duchy to you. If I were still a strong man …”
Jasper felt a flicker of guilt, which he tried to suppress. There was no point to guilt. He was who he was. He had tried to change, quite desperately. He had tried to escape the torment of his own mind and lead a better life. But it never worked. Or not for very long, at any rate.
He was very well aware of the rumours circulating about him. They were greatly exaggerated, of course, as all rumours seemed to grow and develop a life of their own, as was their way. But he had done enough to start them. He knew that the very proper, respectable families did not want him to go to their prim dinner parties any longer, and tried to keep their prim, respectable daughters away from him, even though he was a duke.
He smiled again at his father. It wasn’t good for the old man’s precarious health, to get this worked up. He had better stand up, say sorry, and that he would endeavour to do better. And then retire to bed.
But just as he was about to do so, his father took a deep breath.
“I am telling you it must stop,” he said, in a quiet, determined voice. “And I have taken matters into my own hands to make sure that it does.” He paused, drawing himself up, to his full height. “I have put in an offer of marriage, on your behalf, to a young lady who lives in the district. Her father has accepted. You are now engaged to be married, Jasper.”
“What?” spluttered Jasper, standing up, his head pounding harder. “You have done … what?”
“You heard,” replied his father grimly. “And I do not know why you are acting so surprised. I always told you that you must be married by the age that you are. You need to produce an heir so that the future of our great family is assured. That is your duty, and by God, I will see that you do it, before I draw my last breath.”
Jasper ran a hand through his hair. This was a disaster. He didn’t want to get married at all. The very thought of it was anathema to him.
But of course, he shouldn’t be surprised. The old man had been threatening it for years. He had managed to stave him off, in one way or another, but it had always been there, hovering over his head like the sword of Damocles. Threatening to end his life of restless drifting, once and for all.
He swallowed painfully. It had caught up with him, at long last. Marriage.
He digested the awful news slowly. “To whom have you put in an offer of marriage, on my behalf, Father? Can I at least know that?”
His father nodded grimly. “Of course you may, Jasper. A perfectly respectable young lady, by the name of Miss Isabella Northwood. Her parents are wealthy landowners in the district. God-fearing. Pillars of society.” He paused, smiling with satisfaction. “Exactly what you need, my boy.”
Jasper strained his mind. He couldn’t remember ever hearing of Miss Isabella Northwood before, even in passing. And he most certainly had never met the lady. Probably another pious, proper young lady. They were a dime a dozen in this small community. And they had never interested him at all. Too much to live up to.
No, he preferred the slightly more risqué ladies, who did not adhere so rigidly to society’s rules. The artistic, flamboyant ones, who often flirted with their reputations. They didn’t place any demands upon him. They didn’t ask him questions. They let him be exactly who he wanted to be.
His lip curled. He could just imagine what this Miss Northwood would be like. A dull church mouse, who arranged flowers in the church for Sunday service and ran her life like clockwork. It would be too much to hope for anything more. He was doomed to a life of eternal dreariness.
A deep upsurge of sorrow took him by surprise. That it had come to this. That his life had not panned out the way that it had been meant to. If only things had been different. If only fate had not snatched away the best thing in his life, all those years ago …
“What do you have to say?” barked his father, interrupting his reverie. “Do not even try to back out of it, Jasper. I have given you every chance to find a proper young lady of your own to wed, but it has become increasingly obvious to me that matrimony is not on your mind, where ladies are concerned …”
Jasper took a deep breath. “I cannot say that I am thrilled, Father. But yes, you have always said that I must be married by this age. So I shall demur and accept your edict.” His lips tightened. “Are you satisfied?”
His father stared at him hard. “Yes, well, that is a slightly better attitude,” he concurred. “I am pleased, at least, that you are not fighting me over the issue.” He suddenly sagged slightly, looking pale in the sunlight. “You cannot run forever, Jasper. It has been years. A long time to get over it all …”
Courting A Sinful Stranger: A Historical Regency Romance Book Page 19