Why Dukes Say I Do

by Manda Collins

  Isabella could not help but be impressed. It took a great deal of self-possession to speak plainly about such delicate topics, but Miss Nightingale had managed to do so without insulting Trevor or her past employers. Isabella had little doubt that some of those past employers had been so foolish as to see the pretty young woman as a target for their lust. She hoped that Miss Nightingale had put them in their place. Isabella did not like the idea of the proud young woman before her being made to suffer the unwanted attentions of men who saw her as little more than a toy for their amusement. Sometime she despised men.

  “I thank you for your frankness,” Trevor said, his earlier pique replaced by something that looked like admiration. Isabella felt a pang somewhere in the vicinity of her heart. It was all well and good for her to appreciate Miss Nightingale’s strength, but she hadn’t counted on Trevor noticing the quality as well. “I can assure you that while you are in my employ you will suffer no untoward advances from me or my male servants.”

  “I believe my sister explained to you the terms under which the duke is willing to offer you the position?” Isabella asked, suddenly wishing, for reasons she was not ready to examine, for the interview to be at an end.

  If Miss Nightingale noticed anything untoward in Lady Isabella’s manner, however, she did not say anything about it. “Indeed, Lady Wharton, the duchess was quite clear about the terms and I am prepared to take them. I know that Miss Eleanor is to make her debut next year, so there is no doubt much to be done to prepare her. I presume both girls have had dance lessons?”

  Trevor frowned. “I really could not say, Miss Nightingale. I made sure that the other governesses saw to their academic instruction, but as to the social niceties, I have no idea.”

  Miss Nightingale gave a brisk nod. “I will see to it if they have not. We have a year to prepare for Miss Eleanor’s London debut, after all.”

  “But there is a local ball to which Eleanor will receive an invitation,” Isabella said. “Perhaps we could have some sort of instruction in the coming week to ensure that she will not embarrass herself.”

  Unfazed by the news, the governess simply said, “I believe that will be quite possible.” Her tone conveying just the right blend of authority and obedience, Miss Nightingale continued, “If there is nothing further, I would like to be shown to my room, and then meet the young ladies.”

  Exchanging a look with Trevor, who raised his brows in approbation, Isabella led Miss Nightingale from the room and up to the attics where her room would be.

  It was not until they were on the stairs that Isabella realized Trevor had deferred to her in the matter. As if she were the mistress of Nettlefield. It was an unsettling realization, not only because she was in fact an unwelcome houseguest but also because she was confused to realize just how right performing the duty felt. If she weren’t careful she’d find herself falling in love with the master of the house just like the previous governesses had done.

  And that, she knew, would be far more dangerous than anything her late husband had ever inflicted upon her.

  * * *

  “What the devil is the matter with you?” Blakemore demanded in lieu of greeting the next morning as Trevor rode toward him. “You look as if you wish to throttle someone. And I know it can’t be me, because my winning personality does not inspire men to murder.”

  Any other day, Trevor would have responded to his friend’s humor with a good-natured setdown. But the duke had spent the night before trying to forget Thistleback’s insidious words about Isabella and failing miserably. That the baronet had considered Trevor might not find his words offensive was disgusting enough, but that he had attempted to poison the duke against Isabella made his blood boil.

  He had never understood the sort of man who considered ladies fair game for his casual scorn. To Trevor’s mind a gentleman had an obligation to protect not just the ladies in his care but all women from harm of any kind. That Isabella had suffered both emotional and physical harm from her husband was infuriating. But Thistleback compounded the abuse by carrying the tales to whoever would listen. God knew how many other members of the ton the fop had told the story. And short of making the fellow leave the country, there was little Trevor could do to stop him from carrying his hateful tales to whomever he met.

  “Not in the mood for chatter today, Blakemore,” Trevor growled, knowing he was being an ass but doing it anyway. “Let’s just ride.”

  If Blakemore thought it odd that his normally good-natured friend was barely civil, he did not make mention of it. Instead he guided his horse after Trevor’s, and the two men set off on a cross-country gallop that made conversation impossible.

  Grateful for the other man’s acceptance, Trevor gave the stallion his head and lost himself in the concentration necessary to ensure neither he nor the horse was injured in the course of their ride. The terrain of the moors and the stark countryside had led more than one man to his death, and Trevor had no plans to become one of them. Even so, he rode harder than he normally did, relishing the way that his body became one with the horse as they tore across the countryside.

  Finally, sensing that Beowulf needed a bit of rest, Trevor let the horse slow down and come to a stop near the edge of a rocky hillock.

  “Want to tell me what that was about?” Blakemore panted as he brought his own mount to a stop near Trevor’s. “You only go full out like that when you are in a temper. And I don’t know that I’ve seen you this overset since you were first summoned to London by the dowager. Has she sent another emissary to lure you back?”

  Removing his hat to let the wind ruffle his hair, Trevor allowed his own breathing to return to normal before he spoke. “I took Lady Wharton and my sisters into York yesterday to go dress shopping.”

  Blakemore blanched. “Ye gods, no wonder you’re livid. A shopping trip could make any man go mad.”

  “It wasn’t the shopping trip, you simpleton,” Trevor said with the easy insult of long friendship. “We saw Mrs. Palmer and her houseguest, Sir Lionel Thistleback, there.”

  “Ah.” The other man nodded. “I was unlucky enough to meet the fellow at the tavern on the night he arrived. A more perfect example of ‘toadeater’ I don’t believe I’ll ever meet.” He shuddered at the memory. “I take it he made much of your title, then?”

  “Among other things,” Trevor said tersely. He did not like to speak of what Thistleback had said about Isabella. Trevor knew without having spoken to her of the matter that she would die rather than have anyone know what her husband had subjected her to. Even so, he needed for Blakemore to know just how dangerous the man was. Especially given the fact that Isabella’s carriage had been tampered with. “I am going to tell you something, Blakemore, but you must swear to me never to repeat it.”

  All traces of his earlier teasing gone, Blakemore nodded. “Of course.”

  Quickly Trevor told the other man what Thistleback had said yesterday in the dress shop. Trevor didn’t mention the other threats against Isabella. The fact that she was being tormented in his own home was something of which he was not proud, and he could not bring himself to admit as much to his friend.

  When Trevor was finished telling Blakemore about Thistleback’s insinuations, the other man uttered an oath. “I now do not wonder at your mood. I wonder that you were able to restrain yourself from running him through on the spot.”

  “Indeed.” It felt good to have his own response to Thistleback’s remarks confirmed. “I stopped myself only because I knew that Lady Wharton’s good name would be further tarnished by the blackguard’s death.”

  “I take it you haven’t spoken to the lady about the matter,” Blakemore said carefully.

  “How can I?” Trevor demanded. “‘Lady Wharton, I thank you for your attention to my sisters; would you mind terribly telling me if your husband beat you?’”

  Blakemore scratched a spot between his eyebrows. “No, I don’t suppose that would work. It isn’t as if you have the right to demand it of her. She
’s here to lure you back to London, not to have you interrogate her over her past. And it isn’t as if the news reflects upon her. Not that the ton would see it that way. To their way of thinking all blame falls to the lady, whether she is the one in the wrong or not.”

  “Exactly,” Trevor sighed, closing his eyes in frustration. “Whatever the reason, she is here now, and as such is under my protection. I will do what I can to ensure that the fellow does not spread his rumors, but short of packing him off on the next ship bound for America, I have little recourse.”

  “I will do what I can to see if the man has spoken to anyone else in the village about the matter,” Blakemore said. “I would think that a social climber like that would see his connection to Lady Wharton as something to be nurtured. He risks her good opinion, and therefore her social cachet, by spreading tales about her.”

  “I hope you are right,” Trevor said, grateful to have his friend’s ear on the matter. For all that he played at being the idle country gentleman, Blakemore was shrewd at navigating the social waters of the upper classes. More so than Trevor was, that was certain. Which reminded him of another matter. “I almost forgot to tell you. Lady Wharton has engaged a governess for my sisters.”

  Accepting the change in subject without protest, Blakemore shook his head at the news. “I hope you have found some way to make yourself unpalatable to the woman, Ormonde,” he said. “I grow weary of listening to governesses wax poetic over your kind eyes.”

  “I think this one will be able to remain immune to my charms,” Trevor said, turning his horse about for the journey back to Blakemore’s estate. “She has quite sensible thoughts on the matter of proper behavior—both for governesses and for their employers.”

  “What is this paragon of virtue named?” Blakemore asked, guiding his own horse with his knees to follow Beowulf.

  “Miss Nightingale, of all things,” Trevor said with a laugh.

  “Sounds like an alias to me,” Blakemore said thoughtfully. “Not nearly as retiring and drab as one normally expects from a governess’s name.”

  “Oh, she’s hardly that,” Trevor said emphatically. “She’s self-possessed, but hardly what I’d call drab.”

  “Interesting,” his friend said. “Perhaps this one will withstand your charms after all.”

  Trevor rolled his eyes at his friend’s jab. He was running out of patience. Which reminded him of another matter requiring patience.

  “I almost forgot to tell you what’s happened with Palmer!” he said, drawing Blakemore up short again.

  “If you tell me that he, too, has engaged a governess with a bird name, I will have to adopt a child so that I can hire one as well,” Trevor’s friend said glibly.

  “Worse,” Trevor said, telling the other man what had happened to young Mr. Jacob Carson.

  When Trevor had finished, Lord Blakemore whistled. “When it rains on your estate, it pours. And what a coil that Palmer should be involved in this affair as well as hosting that worm Thistleback.”

  “Men like Palmer will always be the sort to attract dirty dealings,” Trevor said with a scowl. “The only question now is whether I will be able to convince Moneypenny to bring Carson before me tomorrow rather than Hanging Harry.”

  “I should think the man would be willing to sell his sister if enough silver crossed his palm,” Blakemore said cynically. “It’s a nasty business, but you’d be doing it out of pure reasons.”

  “Aye,” Trevor agreed. “I suppose I’ll have to send someone out to find Moneypenny when I get back so that he can bring Carson before me. I’ve got the Joneses hiding him while Palmer’s men are looking for him.”

  “And I always thought you lived a dull existence,” Blakemore said with a shake of his head. “The past week at your house makes mine look like the pump room at Bath.”

  * * *

  To Isabella’s surprise, the magistrate’s court for the village of Nettledean took place not in the local tavern or public rooms but in the drawing room of Nettlefield House. She wasn’t quite sure she was comfortable with that.

  “It is at the discretion of the magistrate where these things are held,” the duke informed her as they made their way to the designated spot after breakfast. “And as my father always held them here, I decided to keep up the tradition.”

  “Do you not feel a bit…” Isabella struggled to find the words for what she was trying to say. “I mean … that is to say, is it not, uncomfortable to have accused men in and out of your home like this? What of your sisters?”

  She was in a particularly tetchy mood after yet another sleepless night worrying about the anonymous threats being made against her. And now she had the added burden of Thistleback’s presence in the neighborhood to inflate her worries. She knew she was being short with Ormonde, but she found she was unable to stop herself.

  She had chosen to wear her most demure day dress, an exquisitely cut wool gown in deep forest green, for the occasion. The neckline was more modest than most of her other gowns and she did not want to draw attention to herself. Even so, she had not missed Ormonde’s intense gaze quickly masked when she entered the breakfast room.

  Now, however, he gave her a sharp look and she feared the amity they’d shared the day before had been shattered by her ill temper. And who could blame him?

  “I would hardly allow the proceedings to be held here if I thought it were possible that my sisters would be endangered by them, Lady Wharton.” His lips were pursed with annoyance. “The men who come before me are hardly hardened criminals. The most we get are petty thefts and poachers. We are not London, after all.”

  “Of course not,” Isabella said, trying to keep a tight rein on her temper, “but even so, these are not the sort of men you would in the general scheme of things invite into your drawing room, are they? I much prefer the way these things are handled in town, with the courts meeting in their own rooms.”

  Good lord, she thought. She had turned into one of those insufferable ladies who did nothing but compare whatever vicinity they found themselves in unfavorably to London: “Oh la, London is ever so much more cosmopolitan than Manchester, Sir Thingummy.”

  Just as they stopped outside the drawing room, Ormonde turned to face her, his annoyance evident. “I asked you to come here today, my lady, so that you could see that I have responsibilities here at Nettlefield House that affect not only the people on my land, but the people of the surrounding community as well.” His face was stern and Isabella could not help but feel a bit like a schoolgirl being taken to task. Not that she didn’t deserve it. “I take my duties quite seriously, and I do not undertake them lightly or without a certain understanding that by doing so I am doing my part to keep this county safe. If you cannot attend these proceedings without constantly comparing them to the ones in London, which I venture to guess you know very little about as well, then I shall have to ask you to leave off and return to my grandmother with the news that you have failed in your mission.”

  Isabella flinched at his tone. Not only had she insulted him, but she’d also endangered the very reason she’d come to Yorkshire in the first place. She mentally cursed her sharp tongue and said, “I am sorry, Your Grace. You are quite right. I am afraid that I can only blame my worry over my own situation for my ill temper. Please do let me see how you conduct your duties as magistrate and I promise that I will keep my tongue firmly between my teeth.”

  Twin wrinkles appeared just between the duke’s brows. “You apologize?” he asked, almost as if he suspected her of some trick or other malfeasance.

  “I do indeed,” she said sincerely. “I hope that you will—”

  She left off speaking when she realized that while they were arguing Templeton, having decided that it was time to begin the proceedings, had instructed the footmen to open the double doors leading into the drawing room.

  “His Grace, the Duke of Ormonde, and Lady Wharton,” the butler intoned, for all the world as if he were announcing new arrivals at a ball.


  Feeling a flush burgeoning in her cheeks, Isabella took the duke’s arm, which he had offered almost as soon as his butler began to speak, and allowed him to lead her into the chamber.

  So much for keeping to the background, she thought wryly as she held her head high and walked toward the farthest corner chair in the room. Once she was settled there, she allowed herself to glance around the room at the people in attendance—only to realize that they were the only ones there.

  From his seat beside a low trestle table Ormonde said, “You may bring in the parties in the first matter, Templeton.”

  Wanting to comment but determined to keep quiet lest she further annoy the duke, Isabella watched as the doors were opened yet again to admit a dough-faced older gentleman attired in the lace and silks of the previous century, complete with a periwig. And beside him walked Sir Lionel Thistleback, his own attire more up-to-date but just as eye-catching with his brightly embroidered lavender waistcoat and ostentatious fobs and cravat pins.

  “Sir Lionel Thistleback and Mr. Humphrey Palmer,” said Templeton as the two men entered the chamber and stepped forward to stand before the duke.

  The two men greeted the duke, who inclined his head and showed no sign that he’d expected them this morning. Fortunately, to Isabella’s mind, Sir Lionel didn’t notice her perched in the rear of the chamber, and she meant to keep it that way. If she could have made herself disappear, she would have done so. Ormonde, she was pleased to notice, looked none too pleased to see the men before him. If she wasn’t mistaken he looked even angrier now than he had earlier when they’d argued.

  “Mr. Josiah Moneypenny, constable, and his prisoner, Mr. Jacob Carson,” Templeton announced as a man who was clearly some sort of merchant entered the room leading a very large, wild-eyed young man who topped his captor by several inches.

  This must be Mrs. Jones’s brother, Isabella thought. There was some resemblance between the prisoner and the housewife Isabella had met two days ago, though the prisoner was rather more unkempt than Mrs. Jones had been.