She did not press him for further conversation. The Duke was always a bit slow and grumpy in the morning before he had an invigorating cup of coffee. He pulled at his beard as he waited for the footman to fill his cup to the brim and serve him a plate of kippers.
Helen thoughtfully watched him eat, wondering how best to break the news to him. He focused on his plate, to the exclusion of all else, until he was done with his breakfast. Then he leaned back and turned to face her. “What news, Aunt?”
She dropped her spoon, startled. “Hmm?”
“You have been sitting there staring, clearly dying to tell me something. So go ahead, tell me.”
Helen sat frozen, caught quite wrong-footed. “I...what makes you say that?”
Emmanuel snorted, stroking his long roan beard, a shade lighter than his copper-tinted chestnut mane. “I know you well, Aunt, and you have been plotting and scheming for days. Now put me out of my misery and tell me what dastardly plans you have made for me behind my back.”
Helen sputtered. “I have done no such thing.”
Emmanuel folded his arms and waited, his blue gaze fixed on the fresh faced, round cheeked, green-eyed innocent visage his aunt presented.
She sighed. “All right, then, I shall tell you.” She took a deep breath and favored him with her brightest smile. “I have found you a bride.”
Chapter 2
Taking Matters to Hand
Emmanuel closed his eyes. “I beg your pardon? I did not hear you clearly.”
Lady Edric sighed, “You did, indeed, hear me clearly, Nephew. I have found you a bride.”
“And how did you manage that without my knowledge or participation?” Emmanuel glared at her. His eyes might have shot actual arrows at her if, indeed, he was capable of such a thing.
“You have been evading this issue for years, my dear. I had to take matters into my own hands.”
“And who is this paragon you have found for me to marry? And why has she agreed to marry a man sight unseen?”
“Well…” Lady Edric looked away and Emmanuel tensed for her next words. “The truth is, she hasn't seen you…but her mother has.”
“Her moth—” Emmanuel stopped, his mind going back to the dinner party. The one his aunt had insisted he attend. With her friend, Lady...Emmanuel could not recall her name.
“Did her daughter know of these machinations?”
“What machinations, Emmanuel? You make us sound like a couple of villains.”
Emmanuel simply rolled his eyes. “Did you tell them of my infirmity?”
Lady Edric inhaled sharply. “How many times must I tell you, Emmanuel? It does not matter. But I informed Lady Gefferton of what happened to you.”
“And? Was she not scandalized that you expected her daughter to shackle herself to one such as I?”
“No, she was not. She met you and she saw that you are a good man who would make a great husband to her daughter.”
Emmanuel snorted, “You aver that she gave no thought to my appearance?”
Lady Edric deliberately misunderstood. “She thought your appearance was very pleasing to the eye.”
Emmanuel was very skeptical of his aunt’s plans but he was used to her taking the most outlandish liberties with his own and his Uncle Edric’s lives. However, even for her, this was going too far.
It was only his love for her, and his knowledge that everything she did, she thought was for his own good, that stopped him from becoming extremely angry.
I shall just let it all play itself out and when it ends in disaster, then Aunt Helen will have learned her lesson.
Emmanuel sat back with a sigh. “All right, then, we will bury our heads in the sand and then act surprised when this eminent bride runs away screaming as soon as she sees me.”
“I am quite confident that will not happen.”
* * *
“Does he like to read?”
Diana was not surprised that Isabella was still on the subject of her prospective husband. This had been going on for three days now, and nothing she said seemed to reassure the girl. “I’m quite sure he enjoys stories, my dear. Perhaps you can read to him.”
Isabella's eyes narrowed. “Why? Is he blind?”
Diana sighed tiredly, getting to her feet. “Do me one favor, darling child, and save your questions for your future husband. All right?”
“Am I not to be offered even the appearance of choice?”
Diana deflated, dropping back into her seat. She reached for Isabella’s hands. “Of course, darling. Of course, you get a choice. All I ask is that you give this man a fair chance.”
Isabella sniffed, wiping a lone tear off her cheek. “Fine, Mother. I shall give him a chance. When am I to meet this paragon of virtue?”
Diana smiled. “I shall write to his aunt and propose a date.”
Isabella nodded and then got to her feet, releasing her mother's hands. “I shall retire to my quarters now. The Count awaits me.”
Diana shook her head. “Darling, when we meet these people, try to speak in everyday conversation, would you? I do not want him to think you mad?”
Isabella laughed. “I promise nothing, Mother. If he cannot stand me just the way I am, then how are we to deal with each other?”
Diana groaned under her breath. “You shall be the death of me one day, Isabella.”
She pinched her mother's cheeks. “You’re ever so dramatic, Mother. And you wonder where I get it from.”
With that, she skipped out of the room, greeting the butler amiably as she passed him at the door. The butler bowed solemnly back, before turning to Lady Gefferton. “Will you be needing anything else, My Lady?”
Diana merely groaned again, getting to her feet as well. “Yes. Bring me a brandy. I shall be in the library if anyone needs me.”
“Yes, My Lady.”
* * *
“I understand you are getting married.” Emmanuel’s Uncle, Lord Edric Beckett, came into the library where he was reading and sat in the armchair opposite him.
“Wherever would you have heard that?” Emmanuel’s tone was droll and he did not look up from his book.
“Your aunt was asking me about a date, for when our two families can meet. Apparently, she has a letter from Lady Gefferton enquiring about the same.”
That made Emmanuel look up. “Is that so? And what did you tell her?”
“I told her that I am not the one whose availability she should be ascertaining.”
Emmanuel dropped his book on the side table, leaning forward with a sigh. “What am I to do about this, Uncle? This girl has agreed to marry me sight unseen. No doubt, she shall change her mind when she learns who her groom is fated to be. I feel that we shall subject ourselves to a huge amount of worry and pain for no reason.”
“Lady Edric says she has already apprised the family of the situation.”
Emmanuel loved his aunt and uncle, and he knew they loved him, but sometimes he wished that they would just face facts. He was a cripple. He did not have a situation or special circumstances—he was a one-legged duke—as his staff called him behind his back. He had accepted it, and he did not need to be coddled. He gave a deep sigh, picked up his book, and went back to reading it.
“I told her that this weekend would be a good time,” his uncle said.
Emmanuel looked up. “I shall be sure to avail myself.”
Lord Edric leaned forward, patting Emmanuel on the thigh. “It’s going to be all right, you shall see.”
Emmanuel stretched his lips in imitation of a smile and nodded. “I know that, Uncle. Do not worry about me. I shall be fine. I think I shall go up to the pond tomorrow and do some fishing. We could serve our guests fresh fish for dinner.” Emmanuel got to his feet before his uncle could say anything else, and walked out of the room.
* * *
“Mother, are we quite sure about this dinner? I don't have a thing to wear,” Isabella said.
Diana laughed. “I feel sure if you look inside of your armo
ire you will find several gowns that are suitable for a dinner with a prospective mate. I know this because I have had these gowns made for you, including a purple beauty that the dressmaker delivered not last week!”
“Oh. That. I had forgotten about that gown. It did fit me very well.”
“Indeed. And the purple brought out the ivory of your skin quite becomingly.” She brushed a stray auburn curl off her face as she blinked at her daughter, hazel eyes shining with tired amusement.
Isabella grinned with delight. “Why, thank you. How very nice of you to say.”
Diana snorted, raising her eyes heavenward. “Now if there are no more protests, please have your lady’s maid coiffure your hair so that we may attempt to be on time.”
* * *
Isabella had, of course, done her research on the Duke. First, she looked him up in Debrett’s Peerage, which wasn’t very helpful. Then she had asked her lady’s maid to tell her all the gossip that was said about him. So far, she was not impressed.
She could well anticipate the ton’s reaction should The Times publish a paragraph announcing the engagement of His Grace, the Duke of Helmsfield to The Honorable Isabella Caroline Addison. She imagined the opinions people up and down the country would quickly form. The thoughts they would feel compelled to share with one another.
“Did you hear about the strangest match yet? A cripple and an on-the-shelf bluestocking?”
“Is he deaf as well as a cripple? He will need to be to tolerate her endless opinions.”
“Well, I do not know which of them is the more desperate.”
Some would be vocal and others through the written word. Tongues would wag, letters would be written, and telegrams swiftly delivered. All because the notorious bluestocking had finally found a person to tolerate her strangeness in the form of an equal outcast. A man with a missing limb.
She had a substantial dowry, which would mean that some—mostly the unmarried men she had turned down—would grumble that the eccentric Duke had no business getting married.
With the nature of his injury, there was no way he could give his wife the full attention she needed, they would argue. Besides, who would represent all those flawed bachelors now? Who could they point to, to show the world that a man’s happiness did not depend on a coquettish woman hanging off his arm and spending his hard earned blunt on new bonnets?
Isabella smiled as she imagined the uproar. It was almost worth it to agree to this madness, just to see it.
However, the majority of the gossipers would undoubtedly be quite happy about the announcement. It would only be right and proper, they would say, that a Duke should take a wife and start a family.
The country needed titled gentlemen to father children. The future depended on it. It was their Duty. Not to marry and accept all its trappings would be the height of selfishness. Many would spare a thought for the many, many men that came back from the Napoleonic Wars missing legs, or arms, or eyes.
Of course, a sizeable number of women would despair over Isabella's well-being and sanity. They would see themselves in her, one way or another, depending on the fortune or lack thereof of their own marriages.
“His Grace does not know how to keep a wife,” they might moan.
“He does not behave like nobility!”
“He is known to be eccentric!”
“He does not mingle with the ton at all.”
He would drive a delicate, sheltered lady like Isabella insane even before their First Anniversary.
Poor girl!
Isabella could well sympathize with his imaginary detractors.
How would we even—?
Despite all her wide reading, Isabella did not even know how to complete the thought.
She could hear carriage wheels and horse hooves rumbling and clattering on the cobblestones. The fashionable hour was coming up and it would only get noisier as the evening drew on.
She had become quite accustomed to the din and by now, Isabella barely heard it unless she was specifically listening for it. This evening, however, in the midst of her restless impatience to have this evening over with, Isabella found it impossible not to hear every creak and clatter and clip-clop that rang out over the street.
She got to her feet, drawing an infuriated hiss from her lady’s maid, Samantha, who was still tending to her toilette.
“Miss?”
Isabella padded across the hardwood floor, pulled on her slippers, and wrapped her dressing gown tightly around herself. She crossed over to her dressing room to find the gown her mother had been talking about earlier.
Isabella considered herself fortunate to have such a room all to herself. She had once shared it with her three older sisters, but one by one, they had gotten married and left. Now she was alone, and content to be so for as long as possible. It was another point of gossip amongst the ton—she could not blame them—it was unusual not to have set one’s cap at someone by now.
And it’s not as if I wouldn’t like to set my cap at someone; it’s just that nobody has come along who interests me.
Simply and comfortably furnished, the dressing room had a wide wardrobe, full-length mirror, and dressing table. In the corner, behind a screen, were a washbasin and chamber pot.
Although improving her looks was not a matter she dwelt on, Isabella did have her ornate remedy box. In it were jars of face creams to improve the quality of her skin, pots of powders, flasks of perfumes and even exotic oils, and brushes to apply her powders. Whilst she favored the natural look worn by all the heroines in the books she read, she had no desire to appear at dinner with blemishes or spots on her face. Especially if she was wont to be judged by her sisters. She was very careful, too, to cover the freckles that blossomed on her nose every time she went in strong sun without an appropriate hat. She was so tired of hearing that lecture from her mother.
She shifted a few things around in the box until she found the red paper she had purchased from the local stationery shop. She carefully cut off a small square with her sewing scissors, then dipped it into the bowl of water, before pressing the square to her lips and cheeks.
The red dye transferred from the paper to her face, coloring her features slightly, but not blatantly so. Next, she used burnt cork to darken her eyebrows. She knew that her mother would know what she did, but she would never comment on it. She would pretend not to know about it, just as Isabella would not comment on her mother’s rouged cheeks. Some secrets were between a lady and her lady’s maid.
That all taken care of, it was time to get dressed.
Isabella went behind the screen, took off her dressing gown, and replaced it with a pair of split-drawers and a chemise. It was starting to get cold, away from the fire as she was. However, once they were in a warm drawing room, the easily washed chemise would be good for absorbing any perspiration at dinner, protecting her corset and silk gown.
“Would you like me to help you with anything, Miss?” her lady’s maid was hovering between her bedchamber and dressing room.
Isabella tended to dress herself daily and sometimes Samantha did not know whether to go or stay. Isabella waved vaguely at her—she would need her to adjust her stays. Samantha’s hands were usually sweaty, and Isabella had found that she just did not like to be touched all willy-nilly.
She came out from behind the screen and once again sat down in the chair to pull on a pair of white, woolen stockings, which came above her knees, followed by her black boots. She knew it was strange to be sitting there in her underclothes and boots, but she also knew it was the least cumbersome way to get dressed. Her mother had told her so, and she believed her.
She was proud of her boots. They had become wildly popular, even for daywear. This was the first time she dared wear them to dinner. This pair had been a present from her father. They were of good quality, reaching up to her calves, but fastened by a long row of lacing. Samantha did them up, bent over quite awkwardly. Her experience in the task meant that she did not, thankfully, take too long
.
After her lady’s maid was done, Isabella got to her feet. It was time to don her corset. She stood still while Samantha draped it on her and then deftly laced it as Isabella watched in the looking glass.
Samantha, behind her, tugged her corset laces one final time before Isabella secured them into a bow across her stomach. Samantha smoothly inserted the busk in its pocket, running down the front of the corset. Isabella paused to admire her figure in the glass.
She reached for her bustle pad, and tied it on so it was at her back. It was an older fashion but her mother insisted she use it with this gown. Her new gown had a narrower skirt than usual, with all the fullness at the back. The pad helped the skirt stand out from her body, elegantly flowing, rather than hanging like a rag.
A Sinful Duke She Can't Refuse (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 2