Enchanting the Duke

by Patricia Grasso

  Isabelle sent both of them a grateful smile and then looked down the table at Rue. “If you had grown up with a pair of spiteful sisters, then you would talk to yourself too.”

  John burst out laughing.

  “Isabelle Montgomery, that is quite enough,” Delphinia scolded.

  Rue whined, “She is mad, why—”

  “I heard she inherited her mother’s insanity,” Lobelia interrupted her sister.

  Isabelle rose from her chair. ”Never say anything disparaging about my mother, or I’ll—” Unable to think of something suitably horrible, Isabelle turned on her heels and marched out of the dining room. She heard the duke calling her name but ignored him. Reaching the foyer, she walked out the front door instead of returning to her chamber upstairs.

  Isabelle clutched her shawl around her shoulders and breathed deeply of the crisp night air. She stood there a long moment and tried to calm her rioting nerves. Looking up at the night sky, Isabelle saw thousands of stars winking at her from their black velvet bed, but the serene sight did nothing to ease her strained patience.

  How dare her stepsister speak so insultingly about her mother, a woman whom none of them had ever known. Her stepsister wasn’t fit to wipe mud off her mother’s slippers.

  Isabelle felt something warm being wrapped around her shoulders. She looked down and saw a man’s voluminous cloak. Glancing to the right, she saw the duke standing beside her. His kindness combined with the pleasing sight of his chiseled profile proved a balm to her nerves.

  “If I were a man,” Isabelle said, “I’d challenge each of them to a duel.”

  “Dueling is against the law,” John told her. “You will need to say a good act of contrition for your anger, one of the seven deadly sins. If you don’t repent, you will regret the error of your ways.”

  His warning made her smile. “I apologize for ruining your dinner.”

  “You haven’t ruined anything,” he assured her. “I could horsewhip Miles for leaving you in their company all these years.”

  “It isn’t his fault,” she defended her brother. “Life was different before my father died.”

  John nodded. “Are you cold?”

  Isabelle shook her head.

  “Let’s take a stroll in the garden.”

  John led her around the side of the mansion, and they slipped through a line of clipped yew trees to enter the garden. Though she was unable to see very much in the dark, Isabelle knew the garden was as lovely as the mansion itself.

  “I knew this would never work.” They walked along the path that meandered through the garden. “If you value your reputation, Your Grace, allow me to return to the seclusion of Arden Hall.”

  “Call me John. Remember?”

  Isabelle glanced sidelong at him. She gave him a shy smile and nodded.

  “Why do you believe your coming-out will never work?”

  “I don’t know how to go about,” she admitted, dropping her gaze. “I feel so conspicuous.”

  John stopped walking and gently forced her to face him. With one finger, he tilted her chin up and waited until she lifted her violet gaze to his.

  “Mingling successfully in society means adopting an attitude,” he told her. “Whenever you feel conspicuous, imagine everyone in the room wearing only their underdrawers.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that,” Isabelle said, shaking her head.

  “Then imagine everyone with purple hair or a big wart on the tips of their noses,” John said. “You can do that, can’t you?”

  Isabelle laughed. “I suppose I could try.”

  John gave her a devastating smile. “That’s my brave girl.”

  “Lobelia and Rue will try to make things difficult for me,” Isabelle said. “You saw how they behaved at the dinner table.”

  “We’ll worry about your stepsisters later.” John winked at her. “Did you know that in the language of flowers Lobelia means malevolence and Rue means disdain?”

  His remark brought a smile to her lips. Apparently, her stepsisters held no attraction for him, and that fact made Isabelle feel better.

  “You must be cold,” John said, drawing her close against the side of his body. Before she could protest his familiarity, he pointed toward the sky’s southern horizon. “What’s that reddish light?”

  “Betelgeuse,” she answered.

  “And over there?”

  “Sirius, the brightest star in the heavens.”

  “You’ve listened well,” he praised her. “What’s that over there?”

  “Polaris,” Isabelle answered. “The ever constant North Star.”

  John leaned close, so close the warmth of his breath sent delicious shivers dancing down her spine. “I can be as constant as the North Star,” he whispered.

  His words, his nearness, and his masculine scent flustered her. Isabelle didn’t know what to do or to say. No man had ever spoken so boldly to her.

  “I would like to retire now.”

  “Your merest wish is my command, Belle.”

  Isabelle refused to steal a peek at him. When he didn’t press his suit, she felt relieved but strangely let down. He offered her his arm, and together they returned to the mansion.

  At the base of the marble staircase, John kissed her hand. “Pleasant dreams, Mistress Montgomery.” Without another word, he turned to walk away.

  “Your Grace?” Isabelle called. “I thank you for your kindness.”

  “No thank-yous are necessary,” John said, giving her a devastating smile. “Comforting a beautiful damsel in distress is its own reward.”

  “Your Grace, I will pray for you.”

  “Thank you.” He winked at her. “I dislike overly warm weather.”

  Gaining her chamber, Isabelle looked around, but Giselle was absent. She changed into her nightgown, brushed her hair, and climbed into the enormous bed. Closing her eyes in a semblance of sleep, she knew that a peaceful rest would elude her that night. Her nerves were rioting from her strange surroundings and her time in the garden with the duke.

  A weight settled on the edge of the bed. Isabelle opened her eyes and saw Giselle.

  “The duke harbors a fondness for you,” the old woman said.

  “His Grace has experience in charming reluctant women.”

  “He sounded sincere to me.”

  “Have you been eavesdropping?”

  “I need to fulfill my task of guarding you,” the old woman said. “Now close your eyes and sleep will come.”

  Isabelle closed her eyes. A moment later she opened them again, but the old woman had vanished. Isabelle closed her eyes and fell into a dreamless sleep.

  * * *

  Wishing the London dressmakers would hurry so that she needn’t wear her old gowns, Isabelle brushed her blond hair back and tied it with a ribbon. After inspecting herself in the looking glass, she left her chamber and walked down the corridor to the marble staircase.

  How should she behave when she saw the duke? He’d been solicitous of her the previous evening, and she didn’t know if she should pretend forgetfulness or acknowledge his interest. John was the handsomest man she’d ever seen and chivalrous in spite of his reputation. Could he possibly be the dark prince destined to rescue her?

  As she walked down the staircase, Isabelle noted the flurry of activity in the main foyer below. She wondered at the commotion. As if her thoughts had conjured the man, she saw the duke. Dressed for traveling, he was reaching for his cloak.

  “Good morning, Your Grace.”

  John turned around at the sound of her voice. No smile of greeting lit his expression. “Mistress Montgomery, the dressmakers have arrived a few days early.”

  Isabelle nodded, acknowledging his words. She dropped her gaze to his cloak.

  “I am going to London,” John told her, his gaze following hers to his cloak. “I have no fondness for all of this female activity.”

  “You’re leaving before New Year’s?”

  John nodded.

  Isabelle
felt her spirits plummet like a nightingale from the sky. “You won’t be here to see those stars of yours return to their stables at midnight on New Year’s Eve.”

  “Wherever I am on New Year’s Eve,” John said, his dark gaze softening on her, “I will look up at the sky and think of you.”

  “How kind of you to voice such a thought,” Isabelle said, blushing.

  “I’ve given my mother orders that you must be in residence at your brother’s town house no later than March,” John told her. “Do not fail me.”

  Isabelle remained silent.

  “Do you understand, Belle?”

  “Perfectly.”

  Without bidding her farewell, John turned and walked out of the foyer. Isabelle walked to the door and stood beside Dobbs. She watched the duke climb into his coach, and begin his journey to London.

  “The man is trying to escape his feelings for you.”

  “I find that exceedingly difficult to believe,” Isabelle said.

  “What is it you find difficult to believe?” Dobbs asked, looking at her.

  “Nothing, Mister Dobbs, I was thinking out loud.”

  “I understand, my lady.” The majordomo turned and began walking away.

  “I’m sorry.” Giselle wore an unrepentant smile. “I forgot that others cannot see or hear me.”

  “I forgive you,” Isabelle said. “Please don’t do it again.”

  “Did you say something?” Dobbs asked, turning around.

  Feeling the blood rush to her face, Isabelle shook her head. She raced up the staircase to her own chamber until she could compose herself. Isabelle hoped the majordomo didn’t tell anyone that he’d caught her talking to herself.

  Chapter 6

  . . . as constant as the North Star.

  Watching the passing scenery from her seat inside her brother’s coach, Isabelle recalled the words the Duke of Avon had used to describe himself. She hadn’t seen him since his departure from Avon Park, nor had he written to her. Had he gazed at the stars on New Year’s Eve and thought of her? Was Giselle correct that he’d left Avon Park because he was trying to escape his feelings for her?

  Though she had missed him, the days had passed quickly. The dowager and her sister had sent Delphinia back to Arden Hall until they were ready to travel to London. Isabelle didn’t think the duke’s mother liked her stepmother. She knew they were protecting her.

  The two older ladies had given her peace of mind by keeping her stepsisters at bay. She’d had dress fittings in the morning and dance lessons in the afternoon. Her stepsisters followed a reverse schedule. Only at meals did she see them.

  Isabelle had grown fond of the duke’s mother and aunt. They praised her dancing skills and flute playing and treated her like a daughter or favored niece.

  Sometimes Isabelle felt scrutinized. More than a few times, she had caught them studying her and exchanging smiling glances.

  Traveling to London on that very first day of March was against her better judgment. Society would never accept a young woman who talked to herself, and she could never snub the only friend she’d ever had for the sake of their acceptance.

  “I thank you for your loyalty, child,” Giselle said, from the opposite seat.

  Isabelle shifted her gaze to the old woman. Leaning forward, she touched the gnarled hand. “And I thank you for your loyalty.”

  “How thoughtful of the duke to send us his own coach,” Giselle remarked.

  “His gesture was very kind,” Isabelle agreed. “Too bad my stepfamily commandeered it for themselves.”

  “I’m content to ride without their company,” the old woman said. “Eight hours in a coach with them would have proven unendurable.”

  “I thought you’d meet me in London,” Isabelle said.

  “Traveling together is more pleasant. Want to play our flutes?”

  “Later perhaps.” Isabelle gazed out the window.

  The March sky was a clear blue, and the days were growing noticeably longer. In the woodland, patches of moss would be growing into a thick, lush green, and flocks of migrating robins would be grazing on the brown grass in the open meadows. All of nature seemed poised for spring.

  “Mark my words, child.”

  Isabelle slid her gaze to her guardian angel.

  “Saint-Germain harbors a fondness for you, else he would never have sent his coach.”

  Isabelle shifted her violet gaze to the window again. The hint of a smile flirted with the corners of her lips as she realized what an amazing picture their entourage presented to the world. They could almost have qualified as a parade. The outriders came first and were followed by the dowager’s coach. Behind the coach Isabelle rode in, came the ducal coach in which her stepfamily rode. Several coaches and carts filled with their servants and baggage brought up the rear and were followed by more outriders. The only missing person was Pebbles, who had left for London three weeks earlier in order to supervise preparations for their arrival at Montgomery House.

  Soon Isabelle noted the density of the villages and the population as they neared the outskirts of London. In spite of her insecurities, Isabelle felt excited by the sights that greeted her. She had never seen so many people in such a hurry.

  The afternoon sun was casting long shadows as their entourage traveled down Edgware Road, which brought them to Park Lane along the border of Hyde Park. The dowager’s coach left them at Park Lane and went on to her residence in Grosvenor Square. At Hyde Park Corner their coaches turned onto Piccadilly and ended their journey at Berkeley Square in Mayfair.

  Wearing a welcoming smile, Pebbles opened the front door and stood at the top of the steps as a small army of servants began unloading their baggage. Isabelle alighted from her brother’s coach and followed her stepfamily up the stairs to Montgomery House. Her attention was distracted by a shabbily-dressed, smudged-faced young girl who walked down the street carrying a basket full of flowers, calling out to people to buy them. Isabelle had never imagined that such poverty existed. Rich and poor alike, people in the countryside took care of each other.

  “Has Nicholas stopped by yet?” Isabelle heard her stepmother ask the majordomo.

  “No, my lady.”

  Isabelle followed one of the housemaids up the grand staircase to her bedchamber, located on the third floor. The last room in the rear, her chamber overlooked the sorriest excuse for a garden that she’d ever seen. Naturally, Lobelia and Rue had taken the choicer bedchambers with a view of Berkeley Square. The one good thing about her chamber was its proximity to the servants’ stairs in the rear of the town house, in the event she wanted to escape unseen without using the grand staircase.

  Their arrival created chaos within Montgomery House. Maids and footmen scurried about delivering baggage to the proper bedchambers and laying fires in the hearths in order to chase away March’s chill. In spite of the day’s mildness, true spring warmth was more than a month away.

  When the third floor quieted, Isabelle wandered across the room to the window and stared at the garden and the street beyond the walled area. London appeared far different from her beloved Stratford.

  The delighted squeals of her stepsisters wafted down the corridor from their chambers to hers. Apparently, Lobelia and Rue were inspecting their new wardrobes, gifts from the Duke of Avon.

  “I hate this city,” Isabelle said to the empty chamber.

  “You’ll adjust to life here,” Giselle said, appearing beside her. “You may even grow to like it once the dark prince arrives.”

  Isabelle rounded on the old woman. “The prince is in London?”

  “He’s been awaiting the right moment to rescue you.”

  “I don’t need rescuing.” Isabelle would have questioned the old woman more, but her stepsisters’ squeals once again reached her ears. “I believe I’ll fetch a cup of tea and sit outside. Care to join me?”

  “I’ll meet you there.”

  Isabelle left her bedchamber and walked the length of the corridor to the grand stairc
ase. She descended to the second floor, where the drawing room, gallery, and library were located. Passing the closed library door, she paused when she heard her stepmother’s voice and then Nicholas deJewell’s voice in answer.

  “You’ll need to court her,” Delphinia was saying. “Make her fall in love with you. You can do that, can’t you?”

  “The chit despises the very air I breathe,” Nicholas said.

  “The duke is her guardian,” Delphinia said, “and I have no legal power over her. Nicky, there is no good reason you can’t win her over.”

  Isabelle had no doubt they were speaking about her. In an effort to avoid deJewell, she hurried down the corridor to the servants’ stairs and then raced down the two flights to the kitchen located in the basement.

  Startling the servants, Isabelle burst into the kitchen and scanned its occupants for Pebbles. “May I have a cup of tea?”

  “Lady Isabelle, you needn’t have come down here,” Pebbles said, rushing forward. “I would have served you in the drawing room.”

  “I’d prefer to drink my tea outside and . . .” Isabelle hesitated.

  “. . . avoid the witch’s nephew?” Pebbles finished for her.

  “Precisely.”

  The majordomo pulled a chair out from the table. “Sit here while I prepare it.” He turned to the other servants. “Continue with your duties. I shall take care of my lady.”

  Though the kitchen staff returned to work, Isabelle knew that her presence made them uncomfortable. In an effort to ease them, she glanced down and saw the London Times lying on the table near her arm. She began turning the pages until the society page caught her attention.

  A whole column of gossip concerned her guardian. The Duke of Avon had been spotted at the opera with a raven-haired beauty. The very next evening he’d been seen at the theatre with an exquisite redhead. Both widows were not only beautiful but possessed perfect pedigrees. Was England’s premier duke finally considering remarriage?

  Isabelle felt the color draining from her face. How incredibly naïve she’d been to believe that the duke harbored a fondness for her just because he’d sent his coach to Stratford. The rake probably owned a dozen coaches.