Enchanting the Duke

by Patricia Grasso

  “I am always punctual,” Isabelle said. “I’ve been told that timeliness is out of fashion with London’s society ladies.”

  The perfection of the day was a rarity for early April. The sun shone radiantly against the sky’s clear blue backdrop, and from the west blew a gentle breeze.

  Isabelle paused when John held out his hand to assist her into his carriage. Shielding her eyes with one hand, she gazed at the blanket of blue above their heads.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Searching for those fluffy white clouds I ordered,” she answered, making him smile.

  John and Isabelle sat close together in his curricle drawn by matching, dapple-gray geldings. Taking the reins in hand, John drove the coach to Piccadilly. From there, they rode down Park Lane and entered Hyde Park.

  The park was glorious on that brilliant April morn and throngs of London’s elite crowded its lanes. Most waved or called greetings to the Duke of Avon and his fiancée. Isabelle was astonished by the number of people who seemed to respect her husband-to-be.

  “I did not realize those ladies knew who I was,” Isabelle said, after a coach with a small group of older women waved at her.

  “My mother’s cronies attended your come-out party.”

  “They accept me for your sake,” Isabelle remarked without thinking.

  “You must bolster your confidence,” John said, turning to look at her. “You aren’t afraid of them, are you?”

  Isabelle shrugged.

  “Trust me, darling,” John said. “Those ladies are more concerned with the possibility that you might find them unacceptable.”

  Discouraging further comment, Isabelle inhaled deeply of spring’s delicate fragrance. “What a wonderful day you’ve conjured for me.”

  “God answered my prayers.”

  “Do you pray, Your Grace?”

  “In my own fashion,” John answered with a smile that warmed her insides. “By the way, how is your guardian angel?”

  “As a matter of fact, she’s irritated because you refuse to accept her existence.”

  “I’m a skeptic to the end.”

  Isabelle didn’t respond to his teasing. Instead, her gaze fixed on the couple on horseback who were riding in their direction. She felt a strange sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach when she recognized William Grimsby. Riding with him was a raven-haired beauty.

  Had the Earl of Ripon heard about her engagement to the Duke of Avon? How foolish of her to think he hadn’t. All of London knew of their betrothal. It had been announced in The Times.

  “Is something wrong?” John asked.

  “William Grimsby is riding toward us,” Isabelle told him, placing her hand on his forearm. “I do hope the two of you won’t have words.”

  John turned his head and saw the couple who were nearly upon them. His placid expression darkened into a forbidding frown. Surprisingly, he was staring at the beautiful dark-haired woman instead of the earl.

  William Grimsby nodded as he and his lady friend came abreast of their curricle. The raven-haired beauty reined her horse to a stop beside them.

  “Good morning, Your Grace,” the woman said, her smile feline.

  “Lisette, how are you?” John said, yet his expression remained forbidding and screamed his displeasure.

  “I am fantastic,” Lisette answered. “You already knew that, Your Grace.” She slid her gaze to Isabelle, who squirmed mentally beneath the thorough inspection the woman gave her.

  “Is this your fiancée?” Lisette asked.

  John nodded. “Isabelle, I would like to make Lisette Dupre known to you.”

  Isabelle could have managed a smile for the woman, but William Grimsby’s chuckle distracted her. Something was going on here, and she was the only one ignorant of what it was. The tension in the air was as tangible as the curricle in which she rode.

  “You have just committed a shocking breach of etiquette,” Grimsby said, his tone sardonic.

  Isabelle decided that she’d been wrong about the Earl of Ripon. He was not a nice man at all. The meaning of his words was lost on her, and that was something she disliked.

  “Seeing you with Grimsby is quite a surprise,” John was saying to the woman.

  “Even bigger surprises await you, Your Grace.” Lisette Dupre yanked on her horse’s reins and rode away with the earl.

  Wondering what had just transpired, Isabelle flicked a glance around and noticed that gentlemen and ladies in several carriages were watching. When her gaze touched them, they turned their heads away and pretended an interest elsewhere.

  “What was that about?”

  “Nothing.”

  Isabelle knew he was lying. Nothing was making the muscle in his cheek twitch.

  “I’ve had enough of Hyde Park for one day,” John said, steering the curricle toward the park’s exit. They rode in silence back to Montgomery House. John left immediately after escorting her inside, leaving Isabelle to wonder about their chance meeting in Hyde Park.

  For days Isabelle pondered the reason for John’s swift change in mood at the sight of William Grimsby and Lisette Dupre. Was it the Earl of Ripon who disturbed him? Or was it Lisette Dupre? More importantly, was it the sight of Grimsby with the raven-haired beauty that had troubled him? Had John loved Lisette Dupre? Was it jealousy that had consumed him? Why hadn’t she met the woman at any of the social gatherings?

  Other puzzling questions about that morning occurred to her. What had Grimsby meant when he’d accused John of a breach in etiquette? What other surprises did Lisette have for John?

  Isabelle knew she could ask someone about these things but feared the answers. Even Giselle remained strangely silent on the subject.

  As the days passed one into another, Isabelle became caught up in the excitement of her Saint George’s Day betrothal party. During the quiet moments, she gazed at her violets-in-the-snow betrothal ring and gained strength from it.

  Giselle had told her that John was the dark prince of prophecy. No matter how distant he’d seemed since that day in Hyde Park, the duke was her destiny. They were meant for each other. Only together could either of them find a true and lasting happiness.

  Her one regret was her brother’s absence. If only Miles could attend her wedding and walk her down the aisle. Instead, she would walk down the aisle as she had walked through her first eighteen years—alone.

  On the evening of her betrothal party, Isabelle hurried down the third-floor corridor toward the grand staircase. Excitement coursed through her and colored her cheeks with a high blush.

  An ice-blue silk gown with its deep V front draped her body, molding tightly to her figure. She wore satin slippers suitable for dancing.

  With her Wellington mantle hanging over one arm, Isabelle struggled to slip on her white kid gloves without dropping the circular fan she carried. The upstairs corridor was unusually quiet, her stepfamily having already left for the dowager’s mansion.

  Isabelle paused to regain her composure before starting down the stairs. She hoped John wouldn’t be too angry with her tardiness. A girl didn’t become engaged every day.

  Slowly, Isabelle descended the grand staircase to the main foyer on the ground level. John was pacing back and forth across the foyer while Pebbles watched him. He whirled around when he heard her approach. She saw his expression of mild irritation transform into admiration mingled with a gleam of possession.

  “The wait was worthwhile.” John dropped a courtly kiss on her gloved hand. “You are exquisitely lovely.”

  Isabelle inspected his formal attire, which made him even more devilishly appealing than he already was. “You look very nice too. How embarrassing to be late for one’s own betrothal party. I’m certain Delphinia will have some unpleasant words for me.”

  “Mother’s residence isn’t far.”

  Hand in hand, John and Isabelle stepped outside into the moonless and foggy night. He helped her into his barouche and shouted instructions to Gallagher.

 
A scant fifteen minutes later, John and Isabelle stood poised on the balcony overlooking the dowager’s ballroom. Two hundred people milled below them. An orchestra consisting of a cornet, a piano, a cello and two violins stood at the far end of the ballroom.

  “No flutes, Your Grace?” Isabelle said, feigning disappointment.

  John smiled at her. “How remiss of Mother to forget our favorite musical instrument.”

  “We are the last to arrive,” Isabelle said, frowning.

  “Be careful, or your face will freeze like that,” John said, making her smile. “Count your blessings, darling. We’ve missed the reception line.”

  The majordomo announced in a loud voice, “His Grace, the Duke of Avon, and Lady Isabelle Montgomery.”

  Two hundred people—a small gathering by most standards—turned toward the balcony and looked at them. Isabelle felt like swooning at the sight of all those watching people.

  “Don’t move,” John said. “Here comes my brother.”

  Smiling, Ross Saint-Germain bounded up the stairs to greet them. He shook his brother’s hand and then kissed Isabelle’s. “Mother got the obligatory quadrille out of the way, but held back on the waltzes.” Ross turned to their audience and said in a loud voice, “I wish to officially announce the Duke of Avon’s engagement to Lady Isabelle Montgomery.”

  Everyone clapped.

  “Let’s go.” John escorted her down the stairs as the orchestra began its first waltz. Instead of greeting their guests, John led Isabelle onto the dance floor. Soon other couples joined them.

  “You dance divinely,” John said, and winked at her.

  “My guardian angel and I have been practicing most diligently.”

  “Darling, I do hope you make a better wife than a ward,” John said, “and I pray you can control our future children better than I’ve been able to control you.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” Isabelle said, her smile jaunty.

  “I pray our daughter is as lovely as her mother and our son inherits my patience.”

  “You mean Sloth Saint-Germain?”

  John threw back his head and laughed. Their apparent happiness drew approving smiles from everyone who watched.

  “Lobelia and Spewing are spending a good deal of time together,” Isabelle remarked when her gaze fell on her stepsister. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he offers for her.”

  “Is that so? I hadn’t noticed.”

  A moment later, Isabelle spied Charles Hancock dancing with one of the pretty young ladies in attendance. She scanned the hall along the wall for her stepsister until she saw Rue standing with Delphinia.

  “What’s wrong?” John asked.

  Isabelle tipped her head toward the wall where her stepsister stood. “I feel sorry for Rue. She’s developed a crush on Hancock.”

  “No one can predict the future,” John said. “You seem remarkably relaxed tonight. I haven’t seen you reach for your locket once.”

  “I have you to thank for that.” Isabelle lowered her voice as if divulging a secret. “While we were standing on the balcony, I pictured everyone in their underdrawers.”

  John burst out laughing. “What a naughty chit you are.”

  Isabelle nodded in agreement. “I have a wonderful teacher.”

  “Thank you for the compliment, darling.”

  Three waltzes later, John and Isabelle left the dance floor. While he went to the refreshment room to fetch her a glass of champagne, she walked over to her stepsister.

  “Why so sad, Rue?” Isabelle asked, drawing her aside.

  “Charles hasn’t invited me to dance this evening,” Rue complained, close to tears. “Spewing hasn’t left Lobelia’s side once.”

  “No one can predict the future,” Isabelle repeated John’s words to her. “This evening could have a happy ending for you.”

  “That’s easy for you to say,” Rue said. “You’ll be married to a duke in two months.”

  “Now that I think of it,” Isabelle said, ignoring her sister’s mean-spiritedness, “there is a way to predict the future.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you remember how superstitious old Cook was?”

  Rue nodded.

  “Today is the twenty-third of April, which means tomorrow is Saint Mark’s Eve,” Isabelle said. “Tomorrow evening you must fast beginning at sunset. During the night, bake a cake containing an eggshellful of salt, wheatmeal, and barley meal. Then open the door of the kitchen. Your future lover will come inside and turn the cake.”

  “I think I’ll try it,” Rue said, brightening.

  “It couldn’t hurt.”

  “What if no one comes inside?” Rue asked, her face paling at the thought.

  “Don’t be a goose,” Isabelle said. “Everyone has a future lover. Though, you may not like who you see.”

  “I’m certain someone wonderful will walk in,” Rue said, happy again.

  Several hours later, after supper had been eaten and the final ten waltzes danced, the party dwindled into quiet conversation. Isabelle struggled against a yawn and lost.

  John gave her an indulgent smile. “I’m taking you home.”

  “Several of our guests still linger.”

  “They’ll leave when we leave.”

  Donning her Wellington mantle, Isabelle allowed John to lead her away from the others. His mother’s majordomo opened the front door for them, and they started down the front stairs.

  Gallagher had parked on the opposite side of the street. Seeing them emerge from the dowager’s house, he lifted the reins in order to turn the coach around, but John gestured for him to remain where he was. They stepped into the street, but stopped when a woman shouted to them.

  “Isabelle.”

  John and Isabelle whirled around and took three steps toward Lobelia and Spewing, who stood poised on the dowager’s front stairs.

  “Stephen has asked me to marry him,” Lobelia cried. “Come back, and we’ll—”

  A gunshot rang out.

  John grabbed Isabelle and shoved her down on the sidewalk, shielding her with his body. Another shot sounded, and a lone horseman rode at a breakneck speed down the street and vanished into the fog.

  “Are you injured?” John asked, helping her up.

  Isabelle shook her head. “Are you?”

  “No.” The angry twitch in his cheek muscle appeared.

  Lobelia stood on the front stairs and screamed as if she were being murdered, while Spewing appeared torn between quieting her and dashing over to them to make certain they hadn’t been hit. Gallagher was at their side in three seconds. Ross Saint-Germain and the remaining guests streamed out of the mansion to discover what the commotion was about.

  “What happened?” Ross asked.

  “Someone took a shot at us.” John turned to his man and ordered, “Gallagher, fetch the Bow Street Runners here.

  “You’ll spend the night here,” John said, ushering Isabelle up the stairs of his mother’s mansion. “Tomorrow you’ll return to Montgomery House and pack all of your belongings. I want you out of London as soon as possible.”

  Inside the foyer, John turned to his mother. “I want her safely ensconced at Avon Park from tomorrow until the wedding.”

  “I understand,” the dowager said.

  “Never fear,” Aunt Hester added. “We will protect her with our lives.”

  Isabelle didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She couldn’t imagine how two old ladies could possibly protect her. Besides, she didn’t need protecting. Whoever had fired that gun hadn’t been aiming for her. She’d stake her life on it. Isabelle opened her mouth to protest leaving him in London when he needed her.

  John flicked a glance at her and told his mother, “If she gives you an argument, lock her in her chamber.”

  Isabelle clamped her mouth shut.

  “Take her upstairs and put her to bed.”

  “You are in danger,” Isabelle cried, unable to hold her silence. “I cannot leave you in
your hour of need.”

  “Thank you for worrying,” John said, “but the villain won’t try to harm me again tonight.” He planted a kiss on her lips. “I’ll be with my brother here in my mother’s study trying to figure this thing out.”

  “But tomorrow—”

  “Tomorrow you must go to Avon Park,” he told her. “I cannot protect myself if I am distracted with worry about your safety.”

  “I don’t like it,” Isabelle said, “but I will go. Promise me you’ll be careful.”

  Putting his arm around her, John escorted her to the grand staircase. He leaned close and whispered in her ear. “If anything happens, you won’t have to marry me. Two weeks ago you would have relished the idea.”

  “I wish no harm to befall anyone.” Isabelle leaned close and whispered in his ear, “If anything happens to you, I’ll be forced into marriage with Nicholas deJewell. Please take care of yourself.”

  Chapter 11

  Isabelle worried for eight long weeks.

  Would John be safe in London? Who had tried to assassinate him? Nicholas deJewell popped into her mind and then popped out just as quickly. Nicholas was a coward who hadn’t the intelligence of a rat.

  William Grimsby seemed a more likely candidate. He blamed John for his sister’s untimely death. That Lenore Grimsby died miscarrying her child was no fault of the babe’s father.

  Isabelle longed to be with John in London, but knew he was correct about her being a distraction to his safety. Never would she wish to compromise his welfare.

  She loved him.

  Absence did make the heart grow fonder. No other man had ever attracted her like the Duke of Avon. Of course, she hadn’t a great deal of experience with men. In fact, she’d never had a gentleman caller. Except Nicholas deJewell, but her stepmother’s nephew hardly qualified as a man.

  The puzzling aspect of this betrothal was the duke’s feelings for her. Why would a wealthy nobleman, who could have any woman in Europe, stoop to marry a penniless country girl who talked to herself?

  Those eight weeks passed excruciatingly slowly. Isabelle counted the passage of time by Mother Nature’s changing expression.

  April’s end saw brilliant daffodils and forsythia fading into purple violets. And then May arrived with its infinite variety of colors and shapes in the woodland outside the giant oaks that bordered Avon Park. Lilac bushes became laden with perfumed purple blossoms.