“At this rate he’ll have given up on me and rode on,” Isabella thought, nearing the verge of despair. This was so unlike her - secret assignations to meet a Duke were not how she usually spent a Wednesday.
“It’s not an assignation,” she corrected herself; “We’re not spies, and this isn’t the peninsula.”
It was only a secret because she hadn’t wanted to share the fact that she was riding out to a folly, completely unchaperoned, with England’s most eligible bachelor to her sister in case…In case she told her it was a bad idea.
Which, Isabella thought as Horatio finally delivered her to her destination, it was.
The Duke of Blackmore was a vision of male perfection. He sat casually in his saddle, his large frame relaxed and elegant. His dark gaze followed Isabella, and for a moment she thought that perhaps he was annoyed with her he looked so angry, but then he broke out into a smile.
“Miss Peregrine you came, I had almost given up on you.”
“Oh I am sorry your Grace - but Horatio,” Isabella gestured to the horse, who had begun to happily munch on a nearby Honeysuckle plant, which was emerging from its winter hibernation.
“He’s a sturdy fellow,” the Duke said approvingly, and Isabella longed to roll her eyes. Honestly, did all men think women were incapable of doing anything by themselves.
“Well I fear he is no match for your fellow,” Isabella said, almost waspishly, as she regarded the Duke’s stallion, who was a veritable beast of an animal.
“Melody just looks like trouble, he’s really a big softie,” Blackmore said affectionately, rubbing the stallions broad neck; “We follow the path towards the village, then take a turn off for the folly.”
He urged Melody into a slow trot, and Isabella followed suit, her irritation quickly dissipating as they chattered. Well as she chattered.
“I think to find a husband I shall have to change my approach as your Grace suggested,” she said thoughtfully. The woods about them were thick now that they had left the well worn path, and branches of trees threatened to push her from her saddled, but she gamely pushed them aside.
“I can offer no advice on dresses or ribbons,” the Duke responded; “But talk war tactics to me Miss Peregrine and I shall see what I can do.”
“Well for starters,” Isabella said, as the woods began to thin and they emerged out into lush parkland, which she supposed belonged to Blackmore; “For starters I have not been following the latest fashions in decorum. It is clear from having read some of my sister’s periodicals that my health is far too robust to be considered charming and attractive.”
“What?” Blackmore asked, spluttering with indignation; “How can that be?”
“Well all the women who appear to have their pick of husbands are said to be “delicate” and seem prone to fits of fainting,” Isabella replied earnestly, her eyes dancing with mirth; “Honestly, I’ve been going about this all wrong your Grace. In order to find a husband I must act like I am constantly on the verge of dying off altogether.”
“So to snare yourself a catch you must cast up your accounts at the most opportune moments?” the Duke replied with confusion.
“I rather think his Grace has missed the point,” laughter bubbled from Isabella’s throat - was the Duke teasing her or had he just spent so many years among men that discussing bodily excretions were the norm?
“Casting up one’s accounts, as you have suggested, is in fact the opposite of lady-like and delicate - I think I should be quarantined and removed from every guest list if I tried that. I need to follow what fashion dictates, ‘tis a pity I’m not blonde,” she added with a rueful sigh as they finally reached their destination and dismounted.
“Oh no, I much prefer a red-head,” Blackmore said softly, lifting his hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind Isabella’s ear. The intimacy of the action seemed to catch them both unaware, and for a second they stayed like that - he with his hand resting against her cheek, Isabella with her face turned up to look at him.
“His Grace is most unfashionable in that regard,” Isabella replied in a whisper, breaking the spell between them.
Blackmore’s hand dropped to his side and he gave a lazy smile.
“I have never in my three and thirty years been accused of being fashionable Miss Peregrine, I’ll give you that,” he said; “Though fashion is fickle - I like to think I am a connoisseur of classic beauty.”
They were walking across the lush grass now, having left the horses to graze on the grass,making their way towards the towering folly. Isabella was glad that the Duke’s attention was was busy as he walked beside, with his face turned forward he could not possibly discern the flush that crept across her cheeks.
Was he calling her a classic beauty? No, of course not, she chided herself - he’s merely making conversation. A man like the Duke of Blackmore must have spent many afternoons - no nights!- with women far more beautiful than she. Isabella was merely a diversion for him, a chance to escape from his nephews…
Blackmore inhaled deeply, and squared his shoulders as though he were about to say something important; “The fourth Duke commissioned the folly in 1749. The esteemed architect Mr. Sanderson Miller _”
Laughter escaped from Isabella’s mouth, before she had a chance to stop herself.
“Is something amusing Miss Peregrine?” the Duke’s eyes narrowed in annoyance.
“Oh no,” she began, then laughed again; “Well yes actually, you sounded terribly stuffy your Grace, I felt like I was intruding on a history lecture.”
“Well we have come to see the folly,” Blackmore responded, flustered; “What am I supposed to talk of?”
Isabella bit her lip, annoyed with herself; it appeared that despite his large frame the Duke of Blacmore was quite the delicate flower.
“No I’m sorry,” she stopped walking and turned to face him; “I shouldn’t have made fun of you so. I am often told that -”
What Isabella was often told was lost to the world as Blackmore silenced her with a kiss that was both decisive and demanding. His hand slipped to the small of her back, and drew her body towards his, so that she was pressed against the hardness of his chest.
“No I’m sorry,” the Duke said with a wicked grin as he released her, leaving Isabella feeling bereft as his lips left hers; “I find it hard to make sensible conversation with you when all I can think of is kissing your perfect mouth.”
“Oh.”
Her cheeks flushed pink and her head felt momentarily dizzy, as she struggled to regain her footing - the Duke had been most solid to fall against.
“It is a very pretty tower…” she said after a moment, unable to form any witticisms.
“Gothic I believe,” Blackmore said with a smirk, tucking Isabella’s arm under the crook of his own, as he led her forward.
What had he been thinking, stealing Isabella away for an afternoon rendezvous? There was a serious chance that the Michael was going to lose control of the one shred of restraint he had left and ravish Isabella completely. Their all to brief kiss had merely whetted his appetite not sated it. The object of his lust glanced at him as they walked across the grass, arms linked, and it was like being hit full force in the chest.
Why had he been avoiding women like her for long? What was it about them that had so frightened him?
Their innocence, their inability to make conversation, their love of money, titles, wealth…
He listed off the reasons in his head, but none could be applied to Isabella. True she was innocent, but she had reacted eagerly to his kisses. She was more amusing to speak with than most men he knew. And she genuinely did not seem interested in his title - more frightened by it actually.
They reached the door of the tower, which looked weather-worn and immovable. The grounds keeper had obviously been keeping the hinges well oiled however, for when Michael put his shoulder against the door to force it open, he found himself flat on his face as it gave way with no resistance.
“Don’t.
”
He gave Isabella a withering glance. Her shoulders were shaking with the sheer effort of not laughing at his predicament.
“I’m not,” she protested reaching out a hand for him to grab, and helping him to his feet.
“I have led men into battle,” Michael grumbled brushing down his clothes, the tips of his ears pink; “You’d think I could open a door.”
“There’s no need to be embarrassed on my account your Grace,” Isabella giggled; “I shan’t tease you.”
Michael replied with a sound that was halfway between a grunt and a laugh - nobody had teased him since his first day at Eaton, and the thought of Isabella acting any other way except kind was unthinkable.
“I shall hold you to that promise Miss Peregrine,” he said sternly, softening his tone with a smile.
In the half darkness of the small entryway, Michael reached out to take Isabella’s hand in his own.
“The stairs are narrow, I’ll go first,” he said gruffly, leading the way up the spiral, stone staircase, his heart thumping erratically in reaction to feeling her tiny hand cradled in his grip.
“It’s quite spooky,” she called from behind him, as they slowly ascended the steps. The grounds-keeper had obviously not extended his care of the folly to dusting, for cobwebs and dirt abounded. Michael was beginning to have second thoughts about the wisdom of choosing this as a romantic location, until he pushed open the door at the top of the tower, and led Isabella out onto the turret.
“Goodness you can see for miles,” Isabella’s voice was filled with wonder, as she took in the sight before her. The tops of the trees stretched for miles, and in the distance Blackmore Manor was displayed in all its glory - the symmetry of the landscaped gardens was best appreciated from a height.
“That’s the village over there,” Michael waved lazily to his left; “And Longleaf Hall is behind us.”
“I feel like a medieval archer,” Isabella said with a giggle, resting her arms on the parapet, and gazing out at the Bedfordshire countryside; “Did you spend much time up here when you were a child?”
Michael exhaled, the lump in his throat forming again and making him suddenly nervous. How could he explain to her the days he had spent here after his father’s death, convinced that he was a murderer? His heart ached for the lost, lonely little boy he had been. As he had grown however, the tower became a sanctuary for him, a private place where he could practice speaking - shouting his words out to the treetops below, until his pronunciation was perfect. That was years ago, and now Isabella was here glancing at him with warm eyes.
“I spent some time here,” he ventured, coming to stand beside her, and resting his elbows on the parapet as well; “Poor Edward always begged me to take him with me when I came, but I was quite selfish, this was always my secret hiding place.”
“I’m honoured that you have deigned to bring me if that is the case your Grace.”
“Please call me Michael.”
The light teasing sparkle in Isabella’s eyes vanished as she took in the enormity of his request.
“Oh my - my Michael.”
My Michael, it sounded like an affectionate phrase whispered by a lover and it made Michael grin, perhaps one day Miss Peregrine would use it. Perhaps one day he might call her “My Isabella”. His loins stirred at the idea of making her his, his in every way. Michael took a deep breath and forced himself to tear his gaze away from her, least try to seduce her completely atop the tower.
“How is it that you never married?” he asked, suddenly desperate to know.
“What a question to ask a woman your Grace,” Isabella replied lightly. What a question to ask indeed.
“It was not a deliberate choice,” she responded after a moment of thought, her gaze moving from his face and to the trees below her brow furrowed; “It is just life got in the way. It passes by so quickly you see – and it’s not like it is for you men. I am considered as old and attractive as poor Horatio down there.”
“But you’re only -,” Michael paused - it was the height of rudeness to discuss a woman’s age, even he knew that. “You’re younger than I am, and that’s not old.”
She gave a peal of laughter and looked at him askance, as though he were in possession of two heads.
“Your Grace, if you’ll forgive me, but when it comes to marriage you’ll never be too old to be considered a catch.”
Michael harrumphed in annoyance, though he knew it to be true. Look at his own father, married in his late seventies to a girl just gone eighteen and nobody had batted an eyelid - they had considered him a catch.
“And why have you not married your Grace?” Isabella, her voice innocuous, her expression innocent - though Michael could see that there was more than a hint of interest in her eyes.
Not for the first time in his life Michael struggled to form the sentence he wanted to say. How could he describe to her how it felt to have spent his childhood thinking that he had somehow killed his father, and then his teenage years struggling to cope with the speech impediment which that fear had left him with. He had only learned to be truly comfortable with himself in the army, in the heat of battle - that is until now. With Isabella his shoulders did not feel tense and he did not have the gnawing anger that he usually felt in his stomach. But how could he say that to her, how could he word that so that he did not trip over every sentence and stutter and stumble like the idiot he was.
“I have never cared to. I don’t believe in all this Byron-esque romance nonsense,” was the reply he finally managed to produce, the tone of his voice bland, bored almost. He could see that this nonchalant reply had upset her slightly, after all Miss Peregrine had been most honest in her own surmising of her marital state. A task that was no doubt harder for a woman.
His words appeared to have broken the spell which had fallen between them, and Isabella shivered as a cruel February breeze bit the air.
‘You’re cold,” Michael said disapprovingly, taking in her light riding attire. True the forest green shade of the material complemented her eyes, but for goodness sake what was wrong with women that made them so averse to layers. A good warm overcoat was just what she needed.
“Oh it’s just the wind,” Isabella protested, but Michael would not listen. Assuming a commanding tone, he bade her make her way down the stairs so that he could return her to Longleaf Hall.
“Honestly your Grace, it was just a breeze,” Isabella protested as they made their way back down the spiral staircase. The steps were uneven and in his haste Michael stumbled on the last step and fell against the wall, pinning Isabella beneath him.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his face only inches from hers. His lips only inches from her own plump lips, which were parted in surprise at his sudden proximity.
“Don’t be,” she whispered, her eyes wide.
Michael kept still for a moment, savoring the anticipation as he looked down at Isabella’s white face, waiting, waiting…
He dipped his head so that his lips found hers, emitting a low growl as he savored the softness of them. She was trapped beneath him, completely at his mercy, and yet as he deepened his kiss, parting her lips with his tongue, he realised that it was he who completely at her mercy.
“Oh Michael,” Isabella moaned as his lips left hers and began to trace their way down her neck. Her hands wrapped behind his head, her fingers running through his hair. Michael pressed himself against her, his manhood throbbing with desire.
It would be so easy to take her here, they were alone, she was willing.
‘Oh Michael,” Isabella moaned again, as his hands slipped upwards to cup her breast through the fabric of her dress. Her cry was a mixture of lust and fear - and it jolted Michael from his reckless pursuit of her purity. Isabella might appear to be responding to his kisses - but she had no idea where they might lead. She was an innocent, and if he took advantage of her anymore he would be the wort kind of cad.
“My apologies,” he said curtly, pulling away from her.
“I had best return you to Longleaf,” he said brusquely, unable to look her in the eye, in case she flinched away from him.
“Of course your Grace,” he heard her mummer, as she lifted her skirts to hurry after him. Michael crossed the distance from the tower to where the horses stood grazing in three long strides, his brain working overtime as he plotted his next move. Absently he reached out an arm and assisted Isabella atop Horatio, allowing his hand to linger at her waist for only a moment.
Their ride through the woods was conducted in silence this time, Michael’s mouth a grim line as he thought what would be the best way to approach having nearly seduced Miss Peregrine.
“If your Grace would be so kind as to leave me here,” Isabella broke the silence. They had reached the end of the bridle path, where the woods thinned revealing the gate to Longleaf. Michael, jolted from his reverie, swore as he realised that he had spent the whole journey in silence.
“I leave tomorrow your Grace,” Isabella was saying, her eyes downcast, not meeting his gaze; “It is best if we say our goodbyes. Thank you for your -”
“I will call on you tomorrow,” Michael’s words were quick and hard, but he softened them by reaching out his hand to graze Isabella’s fingers, which gripped Horatio’s reins, with his own.
“Your Grace,” she inclined her head.
“Michael,” he reminded her sternly before she turned to leave. He waited while she led Horatio away, remaining there for a few pensive minutes after she had disappeared from sight. He was going to call on Isabella tomorrow and propose marriage - that was if he could get the words out. His throat was closing over and as he turned and led Pharaoh back along the bridle path, he began to try to force the words out.
“M-m-m,” he began, wondering what it was that was making him so nervous that his stutter had returned ten-fold. An image of Isabella smiling shyly at him flashed through his minds eye and he realised that his anxiety was not in asking the question, but was actually the fear that she might say no.
Proposing to a Duke: A Regency Romance Novel (Regency Black Hearts Book 1) Page 5