Freedom. Isabella had only occasionally allowed herself to think of what might be possible if her future weren’t already determined; now that it was here, that it might well be her future, she was terrified.
What would she be if she wasn’t the Duchess of Gage?
“You see, Your Grace, here are the papers that prove your right to the title.” The solicitor, one of at least five who had been summoned to the room, pointed to a pile of documents that were not the type of reading material Nicholas usually entertained himself with—not that he would admit to reading novels, the more dramatic the better, to anyone.
First, none of the documents had anybody speaking to one another in terms of love. Second, the only mystery was whether Nicholas would fall asleep during their apparently unending explanations. And third, he couldn’t wait for the end, not because then the happy couple would finally be happy together, with the villain vanquished, but because then it would be done.
But he didn’t wander off, or interrupt the man who was speaking with a sly comment, or do anything he might have done if he were not the duke.
Only two hours into the title, and it had already changed him. The thought was an intriguing, if terrifying, one; he hadn’t thought about how this might affect him, beyond the basic change of going from Not Being a Duke to Being a Duke.
How else would it change him?
Last night he’d been too bemused to even ponder what it meant; it had been too late to come to the solicitors’ offices to learn the specifics, but this morning, he and Griff had gotten up at some ungodly hour—well, for Nicholas it was an ungodly hour, perhaps for Griff it was godly—and hastened over here to examine the documents themselves.
So far he’d nodded, and mm-hmed, and tried to look as though he understood everything they’d said to him. Griff, on the other hand, didn’t have to try to look enthusiastic—he was clearly thrilled to be presented with reams of boring words on ancient pieces of paper.
Nicholas really did have to wonder if they actually had the same parents at all.
“And here, Your Grace”—the solicitor was pointing to yet another piece of paper—“you’ll see that there are other, uh, obligations the duke—that is, the duke that was—had entered into.” The man’s finger shook, and Nicholas wondered if these documents were as exciting to the solicitor as a novel would be to him. And when the Lady of Mystery would begin her next serial. Those were words he’d like to read, unlike all the words currently in this room.
“What does it say?”
“It says, uh, it says, Your Grace, that there is a betrothal. To the Earl of Grosston’s daughter. Lady Isabella Sawford, it seems her name is.”
“And how does this affect me?”
The man cleared his throat. He didn’t meet Nicholas’s eyes. “It seems, Your Grace, that if the marriage does not occur between the earl’s daughter and the Duke of Gage—no matter who holds the title—the dukedom will have difficulty maintaining its current income. That,” he added, squinting down at the paper, “that the drought of two years ago forced the duke that was, the one who is no longer, into an agreement with the earl, and the earl has expended a not inconsiderable amount of money in propping up the duke’s holdings.”
“Let me see that,” Griff said, taking it from the man’s hand.
Nicholas uttered a snort. “Surely the earl can’t expect that this Duke of Gage will have to fulfill that Duke of Gage’s bargain. And what would the young lady wish? Expecting one husband, only to have another man as a substitute? It’s not as easy as swapping out a horse in a team pulling a carriage.”
“Of—of course not, Your Grace,” the man replied. He spoke hesitantly, and for the first time since he’d gotten the news, Nicholas felt a twinge of uncertainty.
“He wouldn’t, would he?” He addressed this to Griff, who was still staring at the paper in his hand.
Griff raised his head and looked at Nicholas. Suddenly he didn’t seem quite so enthusiastic. “This is as legal a document as the papers proving that you are actually the duke. It appears, Nicholas, that in addition to inheriting a dukedom, you will also be inheriting a wife.”
Epigraph
From the unedited version of A Lady of Mystery’s serial:
“You are mistaken, Your Highness.” Jane kept her tone calm. Unruffled. Surely Anthony would be here soon?
“No, my pet.” The man—the prince’s oily tone washed over her like a perfect rainstorm, a deluge of pain and pride and princeliness instead of rain. “Your father has promised you to me, in exchange for ridding him of several pressing debts obligations. Your lord has agreed to step aside. He will not be coming for you now. Not ever,” he added, reaching up one long finger to tidy his hair twirl his mustache.
—THE PRINCESS AND THE SCOUNDREL
Chapter 3
“And you won’t have to be the duchess after all?” Margaret sat cross-legged on Isabella’s bed, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. Both of them wore their nightgowns, only Isabella’s—of course—was far nicer, festooned with ribbons and random pieces of lace. Margaret’s was too short, and was made of plain white cotton.
Isabella plopped down on the bed next to her sister. “I hope not.” Oh, how she hoped not. “The parents are spitting mad about it, but if the new duke says no, there’s not much they can do. I wonder,” she said, lying down and spreading her arms wide, “if there is any kind of market for Nearly Duchesses. They could probably get a good price for me, I have even perfected the nod that says, I am grander than you, but I will not do you the discourtesy of saying it, even though we both know it is true.” She made a mock disapproving noise. “All these lessons, only to find the duke that was to be my husband isn’t a duke at all.”
And thank goodness.
Margaret lay down next to her. “Do you think the earl will let the duke off the hook that easy?” Margaret had given up on calling their father Father when she’d overheard him dismissing her as “not being worth the cost of keeping her,” since she lacked her older sister’s beauty. Hence the lack of decoration on her nightgown.
Isabella felt a tightening in her chest, the same tightening that had been her constant companion since she’d been told of her fate three years ago. “I don’t know. I hope the new Duke of Gage refuses to accede to the parents’ wishes, I know nothing about him except that his name is Nicholas Smithfield, and he is unmarried. If only he were married already, there would be nothing they could do.”
“Nicholas Smithfield?” Margaret sat up and looked at Isabella, her eyes round. “Nicholas Smithfield,” she repeated, only the second time she spun the words out so each syllable had its own moment: Nick-o-las Smith-fee-uld.
Now the tightening became nearly a clenching. “Yes, that’s the name, what do you know about him?”
Margaret smiled, and Isabella’s chest eased just a fraction. Her sister wouldn’t be nearly so jolly if there was something really horrible about the new duke.
Although knowing her sister, Margaret might be delighted if he were, say, renowned for being incredibly stupid or perhaps hating women whose names began with vowels.
“Only that he is supposed to be very popular with certain ladies, if you know what I mean,” and then Margaret winked, of all things, and grinned wider.
Isabella swatted her sister on the arm. “How do you know about ‘certain ladies’ anyway? And how did you hear about the duke?”
Margaret’s expression was smug. “Don’t think girls who aren’t out yet don’t know anything.”
“You always know more than I do,” Isabella responded. It had been Margaret who’d told her about the deal with the duke in the first place, so that when Isabella’s father informed her of it, she’d already gotten all her crying out, and had been able to maintain the icy reserve her parents seemed to require in their eldest daughter.
“That’s right, I do,” Margaret said in a satisfied tone of voice. “Well, my friend Harriet’s sister had her debut last year, and she was wondering i
f Mr. Smithfield—your new duke—might ask permission to court her, since it seemed he did like her. Only then Lord Cavanaugh came up to scratch, and Harriet’s sister took him instead, but in the meantime, she’d asked around, and heard all about him. I don’t know where Harriet’s sister heard, but their parents were not very enthusiastic about the possibility of your duke paying addresses to her, so there must have been some truth in it.”
“He’s not my duke,” Isabella replied. At least, I hope not, she thought.
“Has the earl told you what to expect?” Margaret’s tone was much less happy; it made Isabella’s heart ache to know that her sister knew full well what their parents thought of their youngest.
Not that they thought much of their oldest, either, but at least they paid attention to her, even if the attention they paid was usually in the form of admonishments.
And what Margaret didn’t know, and couldn’t ever know, was that the one time Isabella had tried to rebel, her mother had threatened to send Margaret away, not to let her have a debut or a chance to meet a gentleman who would appreciate Margaret’s joyous sense of humor and sweet smile.
Isabella had never objected to anything her parents had asked of her since.
“No,” she replied, her voice low. “No, he hasn’t.”
“The Duke of Gage, my lord,” Lowton intoned before bowing and stepping aside to let the man enter.
Isabella kept her eyes down, not looking at him, hoping that if she didn’t see him, he wouldn’t exist.
That didn’t work even in fairy tales, but for just a few moments she could pretend, couldn’t she?
“Your Grace,” her father said, stepping forward. Isabella felt her mother’s elbow in her ribs and rose. “May I introduce my wife, the Countess of Grosston, and my daughter, Lady Isabella Sawford.”
Isabella raised her head, her usual expression set on her face, only to wish, when she saw him, that Margaret had also included the information that the new Duke of Gage was incredibly handsome.
Isabella was not small, but the duke appeared to be at least six inches taller than she. Probably even more; he towered over her father, who was himself larger than the average man. He had dark blond hair that swept back from a strong widow’s peak, and piercing blue eyes—currently focused on her—above his autocratic nose. The intensity of his stare made it seem as though he might see inside to her very soul. His face was lean and sharply planed, his cheekbones strong, and he held himself with a command that he had to have been born with, not just assumed when he’d found himself suddenly a duke.
And his form; he was broad-shouldered and lean-hipped, and his long legs were encased in slim trousers that clung to his body in an almost indecent way. Or perhaps it just looked indecent because his whole self was so powerfully, handsomely male, and it was hard not to think of indecent things when one beheld him.
He was very plainly dressed, not wearing the fobs and signets and such that the last duke had worn. But he didn’t need any ornamentation; the severity of his dress only highlighted the strong, sensuous beauty of his face.
No wonder certain ladies found him intriguing. It would be hard to imagine any lady—not just certain ones—wouldn’t at least give him a second, if not a third, glance.
At this moment, in fact, she was staring back at him as thoroughly as he was looking at her.
“I am pleased to meet you,” Isabella murmured. The duke inclined his head at her, his gaze still intent and focused.
“Isabella, could you excuse us? The duke and I have some business to discuss.” Her father didn’t even wait for her reply, just sat and gestured for the duke to sit as well.
“Isabella?” Now her father’s tone was irritated; it usually took only one time for his command to be obeyed. But she couldn’t take her eyes off him, it was as though she was thirsty and he was water.
Or not water—perhaps a rich, decadent liquor the likes of which were imbibed by ancient gods on their way to an orgy. Only now she was thinking of what he might taste like, and she could feel her face flushing as the improper thoughts chased through her mind.
“Of course. Excuse me,” she said, finally breaking eye contact with him. She practically stumbled walking out the door—she, who had mastered the task of walking across a bushel of grapes in dancing slippers with a full water glass on her head, stumbled.
He put his hand out to steady her and she felt the contact like a burn on her skin. As though if she looked down at her arm she’d see his handprint there, even though he’d only touched her for a few seconds. And with a glove on, no less.
Oh dear. No matter what was going to happen—either she’d have to marry him, or she wouldn’t—she was going to regret it, she was certain.
Nicholas wished he could shout, Bravo! and applaud at the earl’s tactical move—showing just what he would be missing out on if he refused the bargain.
Because the earl’s daughter was lovely, so beautiful it almost hurt the eyes to look at her. She had dark hair swept up in some sort of elegant style, revealing the graceful curve of her neck. Her eyes were dark as well, and huge, while her mouth—that mouth was the embodiment of sin. Lush, full, and dark red, it immediately presented images of what could be done with it.
Or perhaps that was only Nicholas’s avid imagination.
Her body appeared to be spectacular as well, with round, full breasts, a small waist, and appealingly curved hips. He’d gotten good at gauging a woman’s figure through her clothing, no matter what the fashion. But her gown, thankfully for his perusal, was made to highlight how she was made—the neckline was low, exposing the upper part of her bosom. The patterned fabric clung to her upper body, down to the tiny nipped-in waist that then spiraled out into a wide skirt that moved enticingly when she walked.
She was taller than most women he’d met, and of course that set off some other imaginative thoughts, such as the possibilities that existed when partners had less than a foot of height separating them.
He could admire her all he wanted to, but the fact was that he still was here to negotiate a way out of this bargain without having to marry her. No matter how luscious she appeared. Because he’d had plenty of women—well, none as beautiful as she, but still—and he had yet to find the one he wished to be with for the rest of his life. And he didn’t think a moment of admiration worth shackling himself to one woman forever.
“Shall we sit, Your Grace?” The earl gestured to a chair, easing himself into one opposite as he spoke.
Nicholas sat and inclined his head. “Well?”
It was a negotiating tactic he’d learned from his father, who’d had plenty of opportunity to question Nicholas about something or another. Stay quiet until the other person has spoken more than they probably wanted to, just to fill the silence.
“The thing is, Your Grace, that the Duke of Gage, the one who held the title until you—”
“I know who it was, there is no need to go over those details,” Nicholas said. Another tactic? Make them lose their train of thought.
The earl crossed his arms over his chest. His expression was stern, as though Nicholas had done something wrong in being the actual duke. “Well, the thing is, is that I have spent a considerable amount of money. And the arrangement was that the duke would marry my daughter at the end of the Season. Her mother and I—” and at this he shot a worried look at the countess, and things clicked into place inside Nicholas’s head. She was the one who was behind this, and judging by her expression, she was decided.
“We have invested a lot of time and capital with the promise that Isabella would one day be the Duchess of Gage.” The countess spoke with a confident, arrogant tone that made Nicholas’s skin crawl even as he admired it. She would not be distracted or deterred by anything he might do.
“You can see my predicament,” Nicholas replied, spreading his hands out. “I have just found out that not only am I the duke, but that there is an impending duchess. That is a lot to digest within a mere twenty-four hours.”
“Of course,” the earl said.
“Of course,” the countess said at the same time, “but the truth of the matter is that this agreement was done in good faith, and we expect the terms of it to be fulfilled, even if the representative has changed.” He hoped to God that the countess’s daughter wasn’t nearly as terrifying.
Nicholas leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped loosely in front of him. “And what if I refuse the title? If I do not contest the previous duke’s case?” It wasn’t anything that had occurred to him until now, but right now, it felt as though a noose—a noose made of ducal strawberry leaves—was tightening about his neck, changing him forever.
And he rather liked who he’d been. Who he was.
Griff, of course, would have a fit at Nicholas refusing the title, but if taking it meant he had all this responsibility, not to mention a wife?
“You wouldn’t.” The earl spoke as though he could not believe Nicholas would even consider such a thing. And normally, Nicholas would agree with him—who would refuse a title just because it was accompanied by an unexpected marriage? Most men, perhaps all men, would just marry the woman and then maintain their previous habits. But Nicholas knew himself well enough to know that he would never dishonor his wife in that way, no matter who she was.
“I might,” Nicholas replied. “Not that your daughter does not seem to be a lovely woman”—perhaps the loveliest I’ve ever laid eyes on—“but I do not like having my hand forced.”
He let the words stop there and waited. He didn’t have long.
The countess lifted her head and met his gaze, her eyes the same dark almond shape as her daughter’s. The similarity made that noose feel tighter. “And you have considered what this would do to the dukedom? It seems as though you are entirely too rash, Your Grace,” she said, emphasizing the honorific, “or selfish, because you are willing to risk not only your own reputation as an honorable man, but also a title that has been in existence for hundreds of years. How do you think our young Queen would respond if you did something so reprehensible? Would you even be accepted in respectable society?” She sniffed, as though she knew Nicholas’s pre-duke society had generally been not so respectable. “Do you believe that we would have asked you here if we even thought for a moment the new documents were false?” She shook her head. “You are not what we intended for our daughter, but you do hold the title, whether you wish it or not. You will take the title and you will marry Isabella, or—” and she let the words just hang there, in an even better version than Nicholas’s father had ever done, the implied threat nearly palpable in the salon.
Put Up Your Duke Page 2