It was another second before she realised that the sobs were real, and not a figment of her imagination – and that they sounded like they belonged to a child.
“Hello?” she called out carefully, into the thickets where the soft cries were coming from. The bushes before her shook ferociously in response.
“Who’s there?” Isabella called again, her heart in her mouth, her sketch-pad clutched tightly in hand – in case she needed to use it as a weapon.
The bushes shook and trembled as their occupant extracted himself.
Isabella smiled as the monster in the bushes revealed himself to be a young boy of no more than four years old.
“Was that you I heard crying?” she questioned, hunkering down so that they were eye to eye.
“No. I’m too old to cry,” the young boy replied defensively, though his perilously trembling lower lip told another tale.
Isabella bit back a giggle, adopting instead a serious look to match her young companion’s.
“Oh of course you are, I pray you accept my apology sir,” she said solemnly; “Are you out here alone?”
As the boy stepped closer, Isabella observed that his clothes were the type worn by the children of the nobility and not the usual sort worn by the local farmer’s children.
“I went on an adventure with my uncle and my little brother Theo,” the boy said, moving closer to her as he spoke, his blue eyes round with innocence; “Theo is nearly three, I’m nearly five.”
“Oh wonderful,” Isabella replied, inwardly marveling at the minute details children thought were important. She had no care for what age this “Theo” was – though she was beginning to suspect that this young man’s Uncle might be a big, bad, blue-eyed Duke.
“Theo had to – he had to go –,” the boy went red with embarrassment, and Isabella immediately understood that he was trying to say Theo had to relieve a call of nature, but had obviously been told that such things should not be discussed in front of ladies.
“No need to explain, I understand,” she said reassuringly and the boy visibly sagged with relief.
“So Uncle Michael brought him behind a hedge,” the boy continued in a rush of words, confirming Isabella’s suspicions on who his Uncle was, “He said to me – you wait there James and don’t move a muscle – “
“But you moved?” Isabella guessed wryly.
“I saw a monster!” James protested, his hands stretching out to demonstrate how big this monster had been; “He was so big and he had black fur, with white stripes and an angry face – and his teeth – “
James bared his teeth to Isabella in a snarl, so she could fully understand the horror of the “monster’s” fangs. In truth, if the monster had been a badger – as she suspected it was – it’s bite was quite dangerous, and the beast could have seriously harmed poor James.
“So, I said I’d better chase him to make sure he didn’t eat Theo,” James continued; “But he disappeared into the bushes and I couldn’t find him – then I couldn’t find my Uncle Michael and Theo. Do you think the monster ate them?”
The boy’s lip shook again as he brought his tale to an end - the fate of Theo and his Uncle up in the air - and he looked up at Isabella with tear filled eyes.
“No,” she said firmly – a badger might be ferocious, but no beast that she could imagine would be any match for the Duke of Blackmore; “I’m sure that your Uncle and Theo are fine, and that they’re looking for you right now.” Clapping her hands together brusquely, she began to walk towards the bridle path that ran between Longleaf and Blackmore Manor, all the while chattering to distract young James from his fears, and herself from the excitement she felt at seeing the Duke again.
James reached out his pudgy fingers to her to hold as the walked, and this was how the Duke found them, hand in hand, strolling through the woods.
“I knew he was charmer,” Blackmore said wryly as he came upon them, his blue eyes resting on Isabella’s hand which clasped James’; “But I didn’t think he’d start off so young.” Blackmore stood tall, in casual attire, with a small child Isabella assumed to be Theo, perched happily upon his wide shoulders.
“Your Grace,” Isabella said, once more flustered by this man’s presence.
He was huge, built like a farm labourer. The tight, sinewy muscles of his thighs were highlighted by his buckskin breeches and his shoulders threatened to burst through his coat.
For the past few season’s mens fashions had tended more towards the romantic, and the men of the ton had dutifully trussed themselves up in elaborate fashions that Isabella had always thought to be almost ladylike in their detail.The Duke - having spent the last year in Vienna, and the five years before at war - appeared to have no inclination to imitate Lord Byron like the other men of the beau monde. He was pure man.
“Is something amusing Miss Peregrine?”
Isabella bit her lip, the thought of the Duke of Blackmore dressed in the foppish clothes of a dandy had made her smile, if only because he was far, far too masculine to pull them off.
“No your Grace,” she shook her head; “Just glad that I was able to return your young nephew to you.”
Both sets of eyes fell upon James, who had been trying to look small and invisible.
“I-I-I,” the young boy began to stutter as he visibly quailed under Michael’s stern look.
“James was saving both you and Theo from a monster,” Isabella interjected, with a smile to the young boy who looked as though he was going to burst into tears again.
“The monster was shaped rather like a badger you Grace,” Isabella continued; “Perhaps James’ Papa might have a word with him about how dangerous badgers can be.”
“Er,” for a second the Duke looked flummoxed, unused perhaps to the delicate sing-song nature that one must adopt around small children.
“I’ll tell his Papa,” he replied after a pause, with a stern look at James and a wink to Isabella. Blackmore lifted young Theo from his shoulders, and placed him down beside his brother.
“You hold hands with Theo on the way home James,” he instructed, and the two brothers dutifully held hands, walking slowly on a few steps ahead.
“So we meet once more under a leafy canopy Miss Peregrine,” the Duke said with a smile; “If you would help me return my charges to their parents, I shall bring you back to Longleaf. We are much closer to Blackmore Manor than your own home.”
“Of course,” Isabella said, her heart skipping a beat at the thought of once more being alone with this slightly intimidating man - albeit under the curious gazes of two children.
“Are you friends with my Uncle?” James asked, almost suspiciously as he glanced between the Duke and Isabella.
“That’s not how we address a lady James,” Blackmore interjected sternly, saving Isabella the quandary of working out how to answer him.
Was she friends with the Duke? No. Friendly perhaps. Though most people she considered herself to be on friendly terms with didn’t make her as nervous as the towering man beside her.
“It’s just a short stroll,” Blackmore said absently, his hand brushing against hers as they walked. She tried not to react, but the mere moment of connection took her breath away. A flush crept over her cheeks, and her stomach ached with delicious agony.
“Indeed,” was all she could say in response, her reply slightly strangled as she bit back the desire to run. Run far away, very quickly…because the Duke of Blackmore was trouble.
Blackmore Manor loomed large against the sky, as Michael, his nephews and Isabella crossed the landscaped grounds together. The grand house was three stories tall, built from soft, buttery Bath stone and each facade was twelve windows wide.
“It’s so big,” Isabella said in awe, as she took in the huge proportions of the house, her green eyes wide.
“It was built in the late sixteenth century by the second Duke of Blackmore,” Michael said as though reeling off lines he had learned for his school master; “ He was quite the scholar and had se
ven libraries installed to house his collection of books.”
“Tell her about the ghost in the Red Room,” James interjected, clearly unimpressed by his Uncle’s history lesson.
Isabella raised her eyebrows sceptically; “A ghost?”
“The phantom figure of the first Duke,” Michael replied with a wry smile, offering her his arm to assist her up the steps which led to the terrace. From there they could access the house through the less formal Venetian Parlour, whose doors opened out onto the west facing veranda.
“He had three wives, all of whom died in childbirth,” Michael continued, the words from the very familiar story falling easily from his lips; “He died on Christmas Eve and his fourth wife delivered his heir on Christmas Day. It’s said he haunts the Red Room, which was the Duchess’ suite whilst they were married.”
Isabella gave a shiver - it was a sad and tragic tale.
“I can hear his chains clinking at night,” James said solemnly.
“No he can’t,” Michael said in a low voice as the young lad skipped ahead of them; “What he hears is the sound of water in the pipes.”
Blackmore Manor had quite recently installed indoor plumbing into a number of its rooms. Michael had been much influenced by his short friendship with Beau Brummell, before the dandy had fallen out with the Regent, and as such was an advocate of daily bathing.
Isabella’s eyes widened appreciatively - there were not many houses in England that could afford such luxuries.
“I will fetch Augusta,” Michael said, as he led Isabella into the Venetian Parlour, so called for the elaborate frescoes upon the ceiling. The two young boys had disappeared down one of the house’s many corridors, and Michael felt almost nervous being alone with Miss Peregrine.
“Sit,” he said, only adding “please” as he noted Isabella’s eyebrows shoot up at his commanding tone. He hurried from the room, seeking either his mother or his sister-in-law to relieve him of the anxieties of entertaining Isabella in his home.
“If she was a courtesan, I’d simply throw her over my shoulder and take her upstairs,” he thought, frustrated, to himself. But Isabella was no such thing, and as such had to be entertained with tea and biscuits, not displays of cave-man like seduction.
‘Augusta,” he said with relief, as at last he found his sister-in-law in the music room, idly tapping out a tune on the piano-forte.
“Is everything alright?” his sister-in-law asked, surprised by his flustered appearance. Michael prided himself on being incapable of being ruffled, unflappable even - but Isabella, seated in the parlor was making him nervous beyond belief.
“James went missing,” he said in a rush, holding up a silencing hand to Augusta’s “O” of surprise; “But was found in the woods by a Miss Peregrine who is residing in Longleaf with her sister. She is now seated in the Venetian Parlour and I don’t know what to do with her.”
“Did you offer her tea?” Augusta’s tone was innocent, but Michael could sense the giggle that was threatening to burst forth.
“Yes, and then I came to find you…least anyone suggest anything untoward was happening,” he bit out through gritted teeth. He knew she was finding this terribly amusing, and that she would relay everything to Edward later.
“I fail to see how tea and cake could be seen to be in anyway salacious, but I shall be happy to chaperone you both,” Augusta said graciously, standing up from the stool and brushing down her skirts. She led the way from the music room, and down the corridor - collaring a footman upon the way to fetch tea, and dispatching Theo and James, hidden behind a large Greek Urn, upstairs to their governess.
“And I thought Wellington was the greatest military mind,” Michael said admiringly as he followed the capable Augusta as she led him into battle.
“Wellington could not hope to posses the skill-set of a mother of three young boys,” Augusta said absently, sweeping into the parlour to greet Isabella with a welcoming smile.
“I apologize for Blackmore’s manners,” she said conspiratorially, once everyone was introduced and seated; “But he has been amongst men for far too long and I’m afraid he has none left. Tell me how long have you been in Bedfordshire for Miss Peregrine?”
Michael listened, eagerly, as his sister in law extracted from Isabella all the things he had wanted to know - without knowing that he wanted to know them.
She had been at Longleaf a month. She loved the countryside. She rode, she walked, she painted.
She was leaving for London the day after tomorrow.
“So soon?” Michael set down his ridiculously fragile cup in its saucer, so forcefully that the pale, weak tea Augusta had served him sloshed over its rim.
“Yes.”
The Duke could tell that Isabella was steeling herself against her fear. She stared fixedly at the floor, composing her features, before squaring her shoulders and giving him a bright smile.
“Yes, we leave the day after tomorrow,” she said, half to Augusta, half to him; “I am so looking forward to seeing some of my old friends - though I will admit I find London quite stifling, I prefer to be out of doors.”
Michael thought that he preferred Isabella out of doors too, the sun turning her cheeks pink and the wind ruffling her hair -
“There is always the Green Park of course,” Isabella continued; “Though it is not fashionable I know.”
“Oh but so much more relaxing than the Ring,” Augusta protested, referring to the pleasure paths in Hyde Park, where the beau monde went to see and be seen; “I swear the ladies one sees there must spend hours and hours getting dressed just for one five minute carriage ride.”
Michael was inclined to agree, the women he had courted and seduced spent hours every day attending to their toilette, it was a wonder they got anything done.
“Speaking of carriages,” the Duke set down his tea-cup; “I’ll go and find someone to send Edward’s new phaeton around to the front - Miss Peregrine will need to be brought home.”
The Duke stood and left the two women alone, as he went to find a footman. Edward had always been fond of shiny-boys-toys, and while Michael usually assumed an air of boredom when it came to such things, the sporty open carriage had secretly thrilled him.
“Is it safe?” Isabella asked a few minutes later, accepting his helping hand up the step. Augusta had declined to escort them on their drive home, citing a fear of traveling in such a precarious vehicle. Michael could see the same fear in Isabella’s eyes as she took in the phaeton; the Hooper-High Flyer had over sized leaf-springs at its rear, making it much higher than a standard gig or curricle. Its top was down so that Michael and Isabella could appreciate the dry weather as they sped along the short road to Longleaf.
“It is only dangerous if the driver decides on acting dangerously,” Michael reassured her as he took the reins and urged the two bay-horses on.
“I did not realise you were leaving for town quite so soon.”
They were half-way between the Manor and Longleaf when Michael spoke, breaking the comfortable silence that had fallen between them. Michael turned to look at Isabella, who had paled slightly at his mention of her departure.
“My brother in law wishes to take up his seat as soon as Parliament begins,” Isabella replied, her hands beginning to fidget in her lap as she spoke; “And actually, I know it sounds perverse, but I wish to leave as soon as possible too. I cannot bear the waiting.”
As an impatient man Michael understood her feelings.
“I was always the same before a battle,” he confided, keeping his gaze straight ahead on the road, the reins tight in his grip; “ Other men used to dread the dawn and hope that it would not come, but I always wanted it to arrive sooner so I knew what I was fighting, rather than imagining it.”
Isabella looked at him, her face a little surprised.
“I am not comparing going to London to the great battles that you have fought your Grace,” she said lightly; “I would not belittle you or your men by doing that.”
&n
bsp; Their conversation had taken a more serious tone than Michael had intended; he had not meant to speak of the wars on the peninsula, merely let her know that he understood how she might be feeling.
“Of course not, I would accuse you of no such thing,” he said cheerfully, attempting to lighten the tone; “I am merely trying to turn your head to a more tactical style of thinking Miss Peregrine.”
“War tactics your Grace?”
“Exactly!” Michael said excitedly - he was a master of plotting, and his tongue was unlikely to trip over itself if he was talking about a subject he was comfortable with.
The phaeton turned a bend and Longleaf Hall came into view.
“Can you meet me tomorrow?” Michael asked in a rush. It was not proper he knew that, but he wasn’t planning an assignation with Miss Peregrine, he merely wished to help her plot her assault on London.
“I…” Isabella looked uncomfortable.
“There is a folly not too far away, it gives wonderful views of the woods and perhaps I can help you with your war strategy,” Michael continued, sounding more bossy than he had anticipated he would.
“I can try,” Isabella said softly.
The drive which led to the front door of Longleaf Hall was short, and too soon a footman was rushing to greet them.
“I shall meet you at the fork in the bridle path at noon,” Michael said as he handed her down to the footman. He was not sure if she had heard him, but he hoped she had, for his plan to help Isabella find a husband involved his showing her that he might make excellent husband material.
Chapter Five
“This is a bad idea.”
There was nobody on the bridle path to hear Isabella argue with herself, as she made her way towards where the path forked. Left to Blackmore Manor, right to the small farming village if Blackmore. The horse she rode was a bay gelding of such advanced years that Isabella almost felt guilty for sitting on his back. He was however the only horse that the groomsman would permit her to ride out on alone.
“He won’t give you any trouble Miss,” Harry the groomsman had said with satisfaction as he walked Horatio into the yard for Isabella to mount. Indeed, Horatio had given her no trouble at all - apart from plodding along at a rate that was was akin to a tortoise.
Proposing to a Duke: A Regency Romance Novel (Regency Black Hearts Book 1) Page 4