Put Up Your Duke

by Megan Frampton

  And if she didn’t know herself, how could she possibly expect her husband to? So until then, she would strive to be as selfish and imperfect as possible.

  It was a goal, even if it wasn’t one she was particularly proud of. But it was far truer to herself than striving to be the best hostess, or the ideal debutante, or the complacent and welcoming wife.

  It would have to do.

  She woke early the next morning, her mind already running through all the things she’d need to get done that day—it was true she could plan a ball in less time than most could, but there were still so many things to be done.

  At least it would take her mind off her own marriage. This ball would be their actual coming-out party; him as the legitimate duke, and her as his rightful duchess. It was crucial that this first event go perfectly. Even though she was coming to realize—happily—that she was not perfect herself.

  The gown had arrived the afternoon before, and it hung in her closet, all the pink perfection of it, waiting for Isabella to put it on and don her social persona. It was pretty, she had to admit, even if she did not care for the intensity of the color. It had a wide skirt and a low neckline that would have been too daring for an unmarried lady, but was perfectly respectable for a married one. There were a few ruffles toward the bottom of the skirt, and its sleeves were overlaid with lace, but it was just as simple as most of her other nonpink gowns, which she appreciated. She didn’t want to be decorated with fussiness, just as she didn’t want to be more than what she actually was.

  She leaned over to her bedside table and rang the bell for Robinson. The day and the night needed to be conquered, and she could not waste time thinking about herself.

  Now all that was left was for the ball to actually begin. The day had passed by in a blur, filled with decisions and last-minute changes, and she’d barely had time to breathe, let alone eat. Robinson had cornered her at four o’clock and insisted she take tea and a biscuit, and then at dinner she’d been too anxious to eat much. He, she’d noticed grumpily, had no such problem.

  And now she was ready. She frowned as she stared at herself in the glass. She looked perfect. Not imperfect, not even a little. And because of the glass, she was able to see when he entered her room, able to school her features into the look of a perfect duchess.

  His perfect duchess.

  He nodded in approval as he approached her, and she turned to regard him. “You look lovely, Isabella.” Thank goodness he hadn’t said perfect.

  Nicholas himself was remarkably, ridiculously handsome in his evening wear, his face freshly shaved, his hair even managing not to swing into his face.

  “Thank you, Nicholas.” She spoke in a reserved tone of voice. “You look handsome as well.” She saw his jaw tighten and first got confused at what she could have said to set him off and then got angry—if he’d just ask her what was wrong, perhaps then she could find the words to tell him. But if he didn’t ask, she couldn’t, and wouldn’t, just tell him what was bothering her. In which case perhaps they were doomed to be forever asking each other the wrong questions.

  “Thank you.” He glanced at the clock behind her. “Our ball begins at ten o’clock? So we have a few minutes.”

  Was he going to ask her what was wrong now, fifteen minutes or so before the biggest social event of her life? When all she’d had to eat was tea and a biscuit? When she was wearing the pinkest gown ever?

  She wanted him to, of course, just not now. Not now when more than half of her mind was on whether the musicians would gauge the room to ensure the guests were kept entertained, and whether Renning had his staff prepared adequately, and whether Cook had figured out how to rescue the dinner rolls that had gotten burned in the frenzy of cooking.

  “I wanted to give you these,” Nicholas said. “I was hoping you would wear them this evening.” He drew a box from behind his back and flipped the lid open, revealing the most ostentatious and gaudy display of diamonds she’d ever seen.

  A necklace with rows upon rows of diamonds, so large that it would cover nearly all of her exposed chest, with a matching set of earrings that looked remarkably like the chandeliers she’d just been overseeing the dusting of.

  And the bracelet, which more resembled an armband, with the same loops and rows of diamonds.

  “My goodness,” she breathed, taking in the splendor. Because, ostentatious and gaudy though the set most definitely was, she also had to admit, in her heart of hearts, that she loved it. She’d never been allowed to wear anything close to this outrageous before. Her beauty, she and her mother both recognized, was best set off by simple gowns and demure decoration, one of the reasons she’d insisted on few decorations on her very pink gown. But this—this was entirely different.

  “This belongs to the Duchess of Gage. Griff got it from the bank this afternoon; thankfully the former duke hadn’t gotten his hands on it yet.” He drew the necklace out. “May I put it on you?”

  “Please,” Isabella said, turning her back to him and bowing her head. His fingers were warm on her skin as he placed the necklace on her, and after he fastened the clasp he kissed her on the back of her neck, making her shiver.

  “Thank you, Nicholas,” she said in a soft voice, placing her hand on his where it rested on her shoulder.

  “You look perfect,” he replied, kissing her again, this time on her neck just under her ear.

  She froze at his words. Damn it. Of course she looked perfect. But that didn’t mean she was perfect. She wished they weren’t having this ball, that it wasn’t so important that they show themselves to Society, that they could just continue to get to know each other. Perhaps then she would be able to share some of her doubts and concerns instead of freezing up into her own perfect persona.

  But that was impossible. The invites to all the best members of Society had been delivered, the ballroom floors had been polished and waxed, and right now Cook was preparing approximately six hundred tiny perfect sandwiches.

  “We should go downstairs to prepare for our guests,” Isabella said, instead of saying all the things she wished she could say. All of that would have to wait until after the ball.

  Isabella looked as beautiful as he’d ever seen her—well, in clothing at least. She stood beside him at the entry to the ballroom, greeting their guests perfectly, putting each one at ease with a few words, ensuring that everyone had enough to eat and drink. She’d even managed to secure dance partners for two fiercely blushing debutantes in between all that, and Nicholas saw the two ladies whirling on the floor, their faces alight with happiness.

  “The Earl and Countess of Grosston. Lady Margaret Sawford,” Renning said. Nicholas turned from his viewing of the dance floor to see his in-laws at the door, Isabella’s parents’ faces both with the same frozen, icily polite expression currently on his wife’s face.

  Margaret was just grinning as she looked at her sister.

  “Isabella,” her father said, walking forward to kiss her on the cheek. Nicholas noticed how she stiffened up even more. He would have to find a way to talk to her about her parents at some point. Of course, he would have to find a way to talk to her in general, since it seemed as though he’d done something wrong, although he’d be damned if he knew what it was.

  He’d thought about asking her when he’d given her the jewelry, but didn’t think it would be fair to either one of them to embark on that kind of conversation when their party was about to begin. He wanted to point that out to her, but that would have defeated the whole purpose of not asking in the first place.

  Marriage was very difficult. It was becoming one of his most frequent thoughts.

  “Father, Mother,” she murmured. “Nicholas and I are so glad you were able to attend.”

  He heard his sister-in-law utter some kind of snort, which she quickly smothered into her hand.

  “Margaret, you look lovely this evening.” And she did—he hadn’t really noticed before, since next to Isabella any woman paled, but Margaret was lovely in her own
way, her chestnut-brown hair pulled up off her neck with a few errant curls spilling down. Her eyes sparkled, as though she were in on a joke nobody else was, and her gown was a deep, rich blue, very different from the whites he vaguely recalled most single young ladies wearing to such events.

  “Thank you, Nicholas. And thank you, Isabella,” she added with a meaningful glance at his wife.

  “You are very welcome, Margie,” Isabella replied.

  “We do not use diminutives of names, Isabella,” her mother said in a sharp tone.

  Isabella looked as though she were going to apologize, then she straightened her shoulders and regarded her mother with a cool gaze—for once, Nicholas didn’t begrudge her hauteur.

  “If Margaret objects, of course I won’t.” She tilted her head to look at her sister. “Do you mind, Margie?” she asked, a hint of a smile on her lips.

  Margaret shook her head vehemently, dislodging a fat curl that rested on her shoulder. “Not at all, Izzy,” she said, that mischievous grin back on her face.

  Nicholas bowed. “Margaret, would you do me the honor of a dance?” He glanced at Isabella. “Unless you wish me to stay?”

  Isabella shook her head. “No, it appears most of our guests have arrived.”

  Margaret turned that grin to him. “Since Izzy says it’s all right, Your Grace, I would be delighted to dance with you.”

  “Excellent. My lady?” Nicholas held his arm out for Margaret.

  “Thank you for asking me to dance, Your Grace,” Margaret said as they walked onto the dance floor. “Because otherwise I would have to stand there with the earl and the countess, and that is never pleasant.” Her tone left him in no doubt as to how she felt about her parents.

  “You’re welcome,” he replied with a laugh. He wished that Margaret’s sister was able to be as blunt as Margaret. Although perhaps not, because then she might have told him just how she felt about being forced into marriage with him, and then shared her genuine fear about what would happen between them in the marriage.

  When Margaret smiled, it was as though her whole face was alight. “This event is marvelous, there are so many people here, and some of them are actually pleasant.”

  Pleasant. That word again. Perhaps that was the word that was drilled into the young Sawfords in the schoolroom? Dear Lord, he hoped Isabella wouldn’t say their sexual relations were pleasant. If they even got to have them, that is.

  “You’re supposed to say something, Your Grace.” His sister-in-law’s voice was mocking, and Nicholas found himself grinning in response.

  “Do you think your sister is happy?” And where had that come from?

  She snapped her head up to look him straight in the eye. As straight as a woman who was more than a foot shorter could, that is.

  “If she wasn’t, you would have me to answer to.” Her tone was fierce, not at all the humorous voice she’d had a few moments ago.

  “I promise to do everything in my power to make her so,” Nicholas replied, surprised to find that it was true. He wanted her to be happy, just as happy as he thought he might, eventually, be himself.

  If he ever got to sleep with his wife, that is.

  He was beginning to bore himself with how much he was thinking about it, but the alternative to that was to actually do it, and he couldn’t—or rather, wouldn’t—do that until she wanted it, too.

  She squeezed his hand as they danced. “I do believe you will, Your Grace.”

  Isabella watched her husband and her sister walk off, pleased that the two people she lov—that is, the two people for whom she cared the most were getting along.

  Of course that meant she was now alone with her parents.

  “You have done well, my girl,” her father said with a falsely hearty tone in his voice. “Not that we didn’t expect it of you, but this party could not have been easy to plan within only a few weeks.”

  “It is what she has been trained for,” Isabella’s mother replied in a reproving tone. “I would expect nothing less than perfection.”

  And that, Isabella thought, was the problem.

  But it wouldn’t do any good to discuss it with her parents.

  She gestured to a passing footman. “Father, would you care for a glass of champagne?”

  Her father plucked the glass from the tray, handed it to her mother, then took another for himself.

  Her mother noticed Isabella’s look of surprise. “No, I normally do not indulge, but we have something to tell you.”

  A feeling of dread passed over her, like a shadow. “What is it?” She took her own glass of champagne from the tray. She hadn’t yet figured out if she liked wine, much less champagne, but tonight seemed as good an evening to find out as any. She drew the glass to her mouth.

  “Your sister is to be married,” her mother said, a smug expression on her face.

  And then put it down again on another nearby servant’s tray. Tonight was not the night for wine deciding after all. “Married?” Isabella couldn’t disguise her astonishment. Margaret hadn’t said a word to her about it, so that meant— “Does Margaret know?”

  Her mother’s expression grew even more condescending, if such a thing was possible. “No, of course not.” She raised her own glass and took a sip as Isabella waited, wishing she could shake the information from her mother. “We just finalized the details this afternoon. And this match will benefit you and your husband also.”

  “How?” Isabella took a look over her shoulder at the dance floor. Nicholas and Margaret were still out there, apparently engaged in some sort of animated discussion. At least they looked happy. Unlike the expression that must be on her— No, of course not, she probably looked the same as she always did. Perfect.

  Her mother nodded to Margaret and Nicholas. “We have affianced Margaret to the man who held your husband’s title formerly. In exchange, he will stop pressing forward with his case in Parliament, leaving you and the duke free from any kind of concern.”

  Nicholas hadn’t told her that there was any kind of case in Parliament. Was this something he didn’t want to bother her with, or thought she couldn’t help with? Even to listen? It wasn’t the most important thing to concentrate on at the moment, but for a few seconds, Isabella had the urge to stride out on the dance floor and demand to know just what he was thinking, not to share something so significant with her.

  Although if she had known, she would have known how much more important this ball was, and this—despite her own desires for imperfection—had to be perfect, to settle them in the eyes of Society.

  “Why would the man who was—” She gave up, knowing they’d know who she was talking about. “Why would he do such a thing?”

  Her mother smiled. And not in a nice way. Never in a nice way, actually. “Because Margaret is a poor exchange for the chance of being a duke? Precisely, but he knows the case could drag on for years, and he doesn’t have the funds to pursue it, and the case is not all that strong in the first place.”

  “So why would you do such a thing?” Bartering their daughter for the chance of a ducal title, certainly, but this was far less of a prize.

  Her mother shrugged. “It is not as though men are clamoring for your sister’s hand, and this way, we solve two problems—she is married off, and we ensure the duke’s title is safe. The former duke balked, at first, but he is a businessman at heart.” She nodded. “He knows a good bargain when he sees it.”

  Her mother’s words made Isabella’s body freeze. He didn’t even want to marry Margaret? What kind of hellish bargain had her parents made? How could they have done it?

  Although if there was something to be gained it didn’t matter that they were losing their daughter. Their less appealing daughter, according to them.

  “The dukedom was in rough shape before we lent him the money,” her father added. “Now it is solvent, and even if he’s not the true duke, he knows his way around money matters. That can only serve us in the long run.”

  Isabella really, really
wished Nicholas had begun to teach her how to box at this moment. Not just for the reasons she’d gotten upset about before, but because now she would like to hit both of her parents. Starting with her mother, who was undoubtedly the instigator.

  Instead, she focused on not screaming. “When do you plan on telling Margaret?”

  “Later on this evening. I wouldn’t expect you to keep a secret from her, but I wanted you to know precisely why we were doing this, and convey the news to your husband. He can thank us later.” Her mother spoke as though this was something the duke would be thrilled by. Isabella knew her husband well enough to know he would be appalled, and wished he were here to hear the news.

  Although he did know how to box, and it would not put them into Society’s good graces if he punched his in-laws. Especially at his own ball.

  Meanwhile, she had to pretend as though this wasn’t the worst news she’d received—worse than being told she’d have to marry Nicholas. Because the former duke had always made her uncomfortable, and the thought of her sister having to endure his attentions for the rest of her life made her ill. But there would be no remonstrating with her parents, she knew that, so her only option was to behave as though she was fine with it as she discussed what to do with Margaret.

  And Nicholas, the thought popped into her head. He might have some ideas, especially since it pertained to his title. Although he hadn’t seen fit to tell her any of what was happening, so perhaps she shouldn’t be looking for his advice, given how it seemed he might view hers.

  She would speak first to Margaret, and then consider telling Nicholas, if she and her sister couldn’t resolve it between themselves.

  “Excuse me, Mother, Father.” She pretended to gesture to someone over their shoulders. “I am required elsewhere.”

  She left without waiting for a reply, her whole body shaking, her mind racing with the injustice of it all.

  A few people tried to engage her in conversation, but she just nodded, continuing to walk. Renning, however, she could not ignore.