“No need to stand on my account your Grace.”
The only person who was capable of inserting such dripping sarcasm into addressing him as “Your Grace” was -
“Sebastian,” Michael said, not a little shocked to see his younger half brother standing in the doorway. He gestured for the younger man to enter into his library, reached for a decanter and pouring them both a healthy measure of brandy.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Michael asked curiously, pushing the cut glass tumbler across the table to him. Sebastian took it and sipped thoughtfully, as though assessing the quality of the spirit before he would answer.
“Your friend Courtnay,” Sebastian said quietly, ignoring Michael’s look of annoyance. Sebastian had a habit of referring to any members of the ton as “your friend” when he spoke to Michael, and in this case the Viscount Courtnay was most definitely not his friend.
“What about him?” Michael asked, hoping he wasn’t about to announce that Isabella had changed her mind and was now engaged to the fiend.
“It seems a few of his creditors have put some pressure on him to deliver any money he owes,” Sebastian said grimly; “He’s promised them that Miss Peregrine will be engaged to him by tonight and married by special license by the afternoon tomorrow. I won’t say what methods he proposed to use, but suffice to say they were not Byron-esque with romantic sentiments.”
Sebastian drained his glass, a faint look of disgust on his face.
“Thought you’d like to know,” he said, turning to leave.
“Thank you,” Michael called out faintly after his brother’s retreating back. What on earth could Courtnay have planned for Isabella?
“Rowley!” Michael called agitated and his elegantly dressed valet and social secretary appeared wordlessly at his side.
“What balls have we been invited to tonight?” Michael barked impatiently; “Or better yet, what event might Isabella Peregrine and the Viscount Courtnay be attending together?”
“The Ruxbridge’s Soiree,” Rowley said without hesitating; “Two of your footmen have a shilling on their announcing their engagement at it.”
God damn it, was everyone in London a compulsive gambler?
“Well let’s go then,” Michael stood up, ready for action; “We’ve got a damsel in distress to save.”
“Your Grace,” Rowley coughed discreetly.
“Mmm?”
“Well it doesn’t begin for another two hours,” his valet said delicately, his face turning red; “And your Grace is rather…under-dressed for such an occasion.”
Michael looked down at his rumpled clothes and conceded that Rowley might be right.
“Fine, let’s get me ready,” he grumbled; “But we need to be there to save Isabella before that cad does.”
“Oh and we shall your Grace,” Rowley assured him, before muttering as a dark aside; “Just not in those breeches…”
Chapter Fifteen
The Ballroom of the Earl of Ruxbridge’s St.James’ home was heaving with what appeared to be every member of England’s “Top Twelve-thousand”. A footman announced the arrival of first Jack and Lavina, then Isabella separately - though their entrance caused barely a head to turn.
Except one.
“Miss Peregrine.”
Viscount Courtnay arrived at her side soundlessly, a smile pasted across his lips. Isabella told herself that she was being silly, that she was merely over- reacting to Blackmore’s news that he was only after her dowry - but tonight Courtnay’s smile seemed almost evil, and his eyes had changed to a cold, hard blue. Had his eyes always glinted with greed, she wondered idly. Surely not, it was just that she was comparing them to the Duke’s which were deep as the sea and -
Drat that man.
“My Lord,” Isabella smiled shakily,pushing all thoughts of Michael from her head.Viscount Courtnay was perhaps going to propose marriage to her and she had to cut him off before he had a chance - she had no time to be rhapsodizing about the colour of the Duke of Blackmore’s eyes. Isabella looked around for Lavina and Jack, but they had quickly become lost in the crush, and so she allowed Courtnay to lead her into the ballroom.
“You look beautiful tonight Isabella,” Courtnay said, slowly as though he was reading lines from a play. His voice was flat, like he had spent a long time re-hearsing how best to speak - and somehow missed his cue.
“As do you my Lord,” she replied in an off-hand manner, her neck craning this way and that as she scanned the faces of the guests, looking for -
“Is there someone you wish to see?”
Courtnay’s tone was so waspish, that Isabella’s head snapped around to turn and look at him.
“Oh no my Lord,” she said, then becoming aware that it was obvious she had lied explained; “Well yes, but only my sister.”
“Indeed.”
Was it her imagination or did the Viscount look fearful. His left eye kept twitching and now that she was properly looking at him, Isabella saw that he looked quite pale.
“Are you alright my Lord?” she asked with concern. The Ruxebridge’s were seasoned hosts -anything less than a “crush” was beneath them - and so the ball room and every room adjoining was filled to bursting point with jabbering, boisterous guests. It would feel quite suffocating if one was not well.
“It is rather crowded here,” Courtnay replied, tugging at his collar, his usually pristine cravat looking slightly rumpled; “Perhaps you will take a short stroll on the terrace with me - I need a bit of fresh air.”
“There are plenty of people outside,” the Viscount continued irritably, sensing a reluctance on Isabella’s part. This was true, the terraces were lit up and couples and parties moved freely about in the unseasonably warm April air.
“Of course my Lord,’ Isabella conceded, allowing Courtnay to link his arm through hers and guide her outside to where a smaller number of the Ruxbridge’s guests mingled in the moonlight.
“I am glad to have a moment alone with you Isabella,” Courtnay began the moment they passed through the French doors onto the patio. Isabella took a deep breath, it was now or never.
“And I wish to talk with you my Lord,” she said firmly, coming to a halt and facing the Viscount with a frown; “It has come to my attention that your interest in me pertains only to my dowry and the uses it might have in paying off your gambling debts- which, I am told, are numerous.”
Courtnay looked down at her, his mouth opening and closing in shock.
“I can assure you that your sources are much mistaken Miss Peregrine,” the Viscount said after a moment’s hesitation, struggling, it appeared, to contain his annoyance. He placed a strong hand on Isabella’s elbow as she attempted to turn away from him.
“Unhand me my Lord,” she hissed, glancing down the terrace at the other guests who had not yet noticed their quarrel, she did not wish to cause a scene.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible Miss Peregrine,” the Viscount said grimly, also glancing at the other guests, and satisfied that they were not being watched, dragged Isabella through a set of French doors and into a darkened room which appeared to be a study.
Isabella went to scream, but the large hand over her mouth prevented her.
“Hold still,” Courtnay hissed in annoyance as she struggled against his powerful hold of her; “I have already arranged for someone to accidentally find us here, but I had rather hopefully planned that we would be caught in a passionate embrace, not a forced one.”
“What?” Isabella wrenched her head free of his grip, and stared up at him in disgust; “You had planned for me to be caught in a compromising position so that I would have to marry you?”
“Yes,” Courtnay spat; “I sensed you were becoming disinterested and I needed a way to make you my wife.”
“Most men would just propose,” Isabella replied sarcastically, how had she failed to notice how insane this man was in all the weeks that he was courting her.
“And most spinsters who belong on the sh
elf would be grateful that anyone was taking any interest in them,” Courtnay snapped; “Least of all a Viscount.”
“Oh”, Isabella’s jaw dropped at the odiousness of his statement. With a season’s worth of rage at her father, stepmother and now the Viscount Courtnay, Isabella wrenched herself free, drew back her arm and -
Bang.
“Oh fiddlesticks,” she whispered, as the Viscount slid to the floor, thoroughly unconscious after her fist had made contact with a soft spot on his temple.
“Remind me never to call you an old-spinster.”
Isabella’s head snapped up, turning in the direction of the French doors, where the Duke of Blackmore stood looking suitably impressed at her handiwork.
“I came to save you,” he continued softly, making his way across the room to where she stood; “But I’m obviously a bit late, you appear to have saved yourself.”
She had forgotten the sheer size of the man. Blackmore towered above her, his broad shoulders and athletic frame blocking the sight of the Viscount unconscious on the floor behind him.
“You could help me dispose of the body,if you’re so eager to help,” she suggested lightly and Blackmore gave her an obliging smile. With the strength of three men, he lifted the Viscount bodily and disposed of him in an ante-chamber connected to the library, closing the door firmly behind him.
“Where were we?” Blackmore asked in a low growl, covering the distance between them in three long strides. Isabella gulped, she wasn’t prepared for him to be so close, his sheer bulk still overwhelmed her.
“We were discussing your poor time keeping skills,” she said blithely, trying to pretend that she was not aware of Blackmore moving closer towards her. With every step he took forwards, Isabella took a step backwards, so that in a mere matter of seconds she was backed up against the wall, Michael’s broad frame blocking her escape.
“I offer my sincerest apologies for being tardy Miss Peregrine,” the Duke said softly, his blue eyes boring into hers before he rested his forehead against her own as though the weight of his regret was too much.
“You got here in the end,” Isabella whispered, lifting her hand to stroke his cheek and wondering if she was reading too much into his statement of apology. Her touch seemed to act as a spark, for the moment she took her hand away the Duke had her pinned against the wall, his hip locking her hip, his lips locking to her lips.
Isabella felt as though all the air had been squeezed from her lungs, as with a light, almost dizzy head she responded eagerly to Michael’s hungry kisses.
“Oh Michael,” she whispered, as his lips left hers to trace a line of tingling kisses along her jaw and down her neck. Of their own volition her arms wrapped themselves around his neck, drawing him towards her. As the Duke’s head bent lower, tracing the mounds of her bosom, Isabella’s hips bucked in longing against him.
“Isabella,” Michael growled, trapping her hands above her head and ravishing her mouth with his own once more, plundering her soft recesses with his demanding tongue.
“I’m sure that Lord Courtnay said that we would find him in the library. I wonder where he - oh!”
Isabella stiffened as she heard footsteps enter the library and someone crying out in shock at finding not Lord Courtnay, but the Duke of Blackmore inside - and ravishing Miss Peregrine at that! Isabella felt a deep flush creep up her chest, spreading to her neck and across her face. She was aware that her clothes were in a disarray, her hair was coming undone and her lips must be obviously swollen from the Duke’s deep, passionate kisses.
“Are you Ok Miss..?” one of the voices called, and Isabella could see that the person in question was trying to peer around the Duke, who was attempting to block her from view.
“Oh Miss Peregrine, is that you?”
The voice belonged to Lady Jersey, one of the ton’s matriarchs and a patroness of Almack’s; Isabella gulped, if there was one person that she would not wish to be caught in a scandalous situation in front of, Lady Jersey was it.
“Miss Peregrine is fine,” Michael said curtly, throwing a glare at Lady Jersey and her companion; “She has in fact just done me the honour of accepting my proposal of marriage.”
Lady Jersey looked as shocked at this announcement as Isabella felt.
“Is that so?” the older woman asked, throwing a quizzical glance at Isabella, who stood frozen to the spot her mouth hanging open in shock.
“I-I-” Isabella began to stutter, unsure of how to answer.
“I must escort Isabella back to her sister my Lady,” Michael interrupted, placing his arm around Isabella’s shoulders and leading her bodily from the room.
“Michael what are you doing?” she hissed, when they had walked far enough up the hallway that she was sure she would not be overheard.
“I’m taking you back to your sister as I told Lady Jersey,” Michael said grimly; “Then I am going to sort out this mess we’ve got ourselves into.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Please tell me I’m not going to have to call you out Blackmore?”
The mood in White’s was tense, as a roomful of well-heeled men waited with bated breath to see if Viscount Longleaf was going to be drawing pistols with the Duke of Blackmore.
The Duke reached inside the breast pocket of his coat and extracted a piece of paper, much to the rooms relief - it wouldn’t do to draw arms in a club.
“A special license,” Blackmore said quietly to his friend; “The Archbishop wrote it himself just an hour ago.”
Numerous eyebrows were raised; there were not many present whose title held enough clout that they could call on the Archbishop of Canterbury at three in the morning.
“Splendid,” Jack replied, his face visibly relieved that he would not be required to shoot a Duke at sunrise, and he gestured for his friend to sit with him. As Michael took his seat the rest of the club members resumed their drinking and carousing.
“Do you think she’ll consent?” Michael asked after a pause, in which a brandy was discreetly placed before him by a member of staff. He imbibed the amber liquid deeply and waved for the footman to fetch him another.
“I don’t think she has much choice,” Jack replied honestly; “Lavina tells me it was all a big misunderstanding - and while we both believe in your innocence, society will not be as quick to disbelieve such a juicy morsel of gossip. Especially where it concerns you.”
“I’m worried she’ll refuse me,” Michael admitted quietly, his thoughts on Isabella’s look of terror when she realised that they had been caught together in a scandal. He sipped on his drink, wondering if he should say more; the patrons of the club had returned to their raucous drinking and card games, but he was aware that eyes still slid across to where he sat. He was the Duke of Blackmore, he had caused a scene with the season’s most sought after catch, there would be many wives in Mayfair and beyond quizzing their husbands tomorrow morning, he did not intend to give them anything more to talk about.
“Oh she was spouting some such nonsense to Lavina as I was leaving,” Jack hid a yawn behind his hand, he was too old for all this drama.
“Don’t worry,” Jack added with a smile, as he saw the stricken look on Michael’s face; “Lavinia was telling her that she must marry you for your reputation as well as her own. She can’t leave you being whispered about, no more than you could leave her.”
Michael nodded, and gave a deep sigh - this was not how he had planned to get Isabella down the aisle. In some respects he was just as bad as Courtnay; his actions had forced the woman he wanted into a position where she was forced to marry him. True, he had not planned it - but now that the wheels were set in motion, the thought of having Isabella as his bride was filling him with the strangest of feelings…Hope?
“This is good,” he said, raising his empty tumbler to once more be refilled, it was the brandy that was filling him with warmth, not the thought of Isabella warming his bed.
“When do you think we should do it?” Michael asked after a few mom
ents silence, he had no idea about matrimony and marriages; “As a man who has been married for more than four years, I am deferring to your superior knowledge of the fairer sex.”
“In that case here’s some advice old friend,” Viscount Longleaf stood and stretched - he could handle no more spirits; “Don’t ask me when the best time to marry your intended is - ask her herself. It’s a lifetime commitment, don’t fall at the first hurdle.”
“Touche.”
Michael raised his glass to his friend - he had a lot to learn.
When they had merely been friendly neighbours in Bedfordshire they had been afforded more privacy than they had as an engaged couple, Isabella thought miserably the next morning. She was being assisted into a morning gown of soft lavender by Sarah while Lavinia dashed in and out of the room, searching for the perfect jewelery. The previous morning the Duke had arrived, and with Lavinia chaperoning, had arranged that a quiet marriage would take place in the morning room of Longleaf House, the London residence of the Viscount and Viscountess Longleaf.
Isabella had tried to reason with the Duke that a hasty marriage of convenience was no longer needed as she was taking herself off the marriage market to seek employment, but he was not to be swayed from his course of action.
“I have made my bed with you Isabella,” Michael had whispered fiercely the previous day; “And we will both enjoy lying in it, believe me.”
That was yesterday morning, and this morning found Isabella readying for the ceremony, her stomach filled with butterflies at the thought of standing up in front of a room with the big, brooding Duke of Blackmore.
“Sarah can you leave us for a moment,” Lavinia said to the maid, once Isabella was dressed and ready. The young woman bobbed and discreetly left the room, a knowing smile on her face.
“I don’t know how much you already know Izzy,” Lavinia began, beckoning Isabella to come and sit beside her on the bed; “But if you have heard rumours that it is very painful, then ignore them. It will only be slightly uncomfortable…”
Proposing to a Duke: A Regency Romance Novel (Regency Black Hearts Book 1) Page 11