The Dream of a Duchess

by Linda Rae Sande

  “However, I am betwaddled to discover I am in love with Clarinda. What is it about Brotherton women, I wonder?

  I pray you will remain well and continue to vex Hunt to distraction. He needs the challenge. Until we meet again, I am yours in service.

  Norwick.”

  Isabella’s teary eyes widened at hearing the closing words of the letter. “Why ever does he believe I vex you?” she asked in dismay, turning to regard Octavius as if she thought him guilty of sharing his frustrations with the earl.

  The duke dipped his chin a bit, not about to accuse her of having done so since he agreed to act as her ward. “I am guilty of having mentioned that you vex Peters,” he finally admitted. “As for how challenging you can be... he does have a point. When you do not obey me—”

  “When have I ever disobeyed you?” she interrupted, suddenly indignant. Furiously wiping away the few tears that remained on her cheeks, she glared at him.

  Octavius sighed and dropped the letter to the table, a bit dismayed that Norwick hadn’t admitted he was Isabella’s real father. At least he had mentioned having loved Arabella. Perhaps Isabella would sort the rest for herself.

  The revelation of what had caused Arabella’s death—a simple accident—meant they had spent the past two years blaming a man who was essentially innocent, even if he was an unlikeable man. A disagreeable man. Octavius had spent the past two years harboring Isabella when it probably would have been safe for her to remain at Craythorne Castle.

  Unconsciously, he gripped the back of her hand a bit harder until he felt it flinch in his grasp. He stared down at his hand, wincing at seeing the lines of his bones in relief, at the signs of how much he had aged since Jane’s death.

  As for what she had just asked, Octavius suddenly winced. It was true she hadn’t ever truly disobeyed him. He had never thought it necessary to order her to take a groom along on a ride, or to stay out of the stables so that the grooms could do the jobs she had made her own. Other than Ares, he had never forbidden her to stay away from his horses, for that matter, and now he had a worthy herd for riding and racing.

  He had never forbidden her from helping the maids with their duties. He hadn’t thought it necessary. Now he had a country estate once again capable of hosting house parties and hunts.

  He was about to apologize when he realized she was staring at him, apparently waiting for him to answer her question.

  When have I ever disobeyed you?

  “Other than your dealings with Ares, you have not,” he whispered as he shook his head.

  Isabella finally allowed a nod. “He is not a bad horse,” she murmured. “A bit headstrong, but then, apparently so am I,” she whispered. She drained her glass of wine and finally turned her attention back to Octavius. “Oh, dear,” she murmured. “What’s to happen now?”

  Allowing a sigh, Octavius wondered how to respond. “Life goes on,” he said with a shrug. “As for where you’ll live...” The duke stopped and realized he hadn’t rehearsed this particular offer. Until yesterday—until his conversation with Norwick—he had always thought that if Craythorne died or she reached one-and-twenty, he would simply offer her transport to London and the Craythorne townhouse, thinking she could be mistress of that household until her brother took a wife.

  Although the arrangement seemed perfectly reasonable when he devised it, he found it unacceptable now. Especially now that he remembered what Reeves had to say about Isabella. Now that he realized Peters hadn’t sent a word of complaint about her in the past six months. Now that he realized Huntinghurst was better off with her as mistress of the house. Now that he realized he would be better off with her as his wife.

  The improved state of the interior as well as the revived gardens were because she had taken an interest. The condition of the horses in his stables—Christ, he might have a contender for next season’s races!—was even of more import.

  “I wondered if perhaps...” He paused again, giving a sigh of frustration. How do I ask her to stay on as my châtelaine?

  Permanently?

  Isabella stilled herself. Given how much time she spent in the stables and the satisfaction she felt while working on possible bloodlines for a future generation of race horses, she no longer considered where else she could live.

  What else she would do with her days.

  She would go stark raving mad if she couldn’t spend her days with horses. I’ll be a candidate for Bedlam within a month, she considered. “Perhaps?” she prompted, her brows furrowing as she imagined the worst—being sent to London to live with a brother who had no idea why she fled Craythorne Castle.

  “Would you be amenable to staying on here at Huntinghurst? Continuing to act as its châtelaine?” It wasn’t exactly what he wanted to ask, but he knew what her answer would be even before he put voice to the question.

  Isabella’s eyes widened before she allowed a brilliant smile. “Oh, of course I’m amenable!” she replied happily. She suddenly sobered. “You’re not... teasing me?”

  Octavius wondered at the sense of relief—nay, joy—he felt just then. Seeing how his proposal had her lighting up like a thousand candles had his chest contracting, much like Jane’s words had that day she confirmed she was with child. “I am not teasing,” he confirmed with a shake of his head.

  “What about the stables? May I continue to train the horses?”

  “If I said, ‘no’, would you stop?”

  Isabella blinked as she stared at the duke, stunned by the simple question. What options would be available to her if she didn’t continue to work in his stables? She could only think of Constance Fitzwilliam, wondering if perhaps the woman might allow her to live at Fair Downs. “Probably not,” she hedged.

  “You mean, most certainly not, I expect,” Octavius countered.

  “Probably,” she agreed, rather careful with her response.

  Octavius allowed a grin. “Then I suppose you’ll continue training the horses. However...” He held a finger in warning.

  Isabella held her breath a moment. Of course there would be a condition. There was always a condition.

  “I wish to see these pedigree charts you’ve apparently been keeping. Reeves tells me you plan to send copies to Newmarket in anticipation of registering the foals born since you arrived. My foals,” he added with an arched brow.

  Wincing at his comment, Isabella had to resist rolling her eyes. “I wasn’t going to send them in without your consent,” she claimed. “I cannot. They require your signature and your seal. Besides that, there are some names of grandsires and damsires missing from the records.”

  Octavius was about to argue that his records were complete when he realized he hadn’t given the paperwork much attention these past few years. Not since Jane had died. “Then we shall have to see to making them complete,” he stated. “After we’re done here, perhaps?”

  Resisting the urge to suggest a different time—the pedigree sheets were spread out on every available surface in the upstairs salon along with the notes of her research—she finally agreed. “All right,” she replied. “But after that I must see to some time with one of the mares.”

  Frowning, Octavius angled his head. “Is something amiss?”

  Isabella shook her head. “No. But Enyo is due to foal any day. It’s her first, and...”

  “There are pregnant mares?” Octavius asked in alarm. He had forgotten to ask Reeves if any studs had been turned out with the mares last spring.

  “Five of them, Your Grace.” At the duke’s look of alarm, she added, “I’ve been very careful as to their breeding...”

  “Have you?” he interrupted, his ire suddenly apparent. “Who gave you the right to...” He suddenly stilled himself as one of her hands moved to rest atop the one that had fisted on the table. He stared at it for a moment before he sighed.

  “No one, Your Grace,” Isabella whispered, as if she knew he could be calmed with soft words. Jane had learned that trick even before they were wed. “You’ve had othe
r, more important concerns, I’m sure.” She was about to tell him about the trade she had made with Constance—the one that was responsible for one of the future foals—but thought better of it. “If you were to have contenders in the races in eighteen-seventeen and beyond, there had to be some colts foaled this year.” She almost added, “And last,” but decided he would see the yearlings soon enough. Whenever he paid a visit to the pasture just beyond the stables.

  Or saw their pedigree charts in the salon upstairs.

  “I suppose I’ll need to be sure no one from Tattersall’s learns about you,” Octavius said under his breath.

  “Tattersall’s?” Isabella repeated.

  The duke allowed a sigh. “London’s auction house for horse flesh,” he murmured.

  “I’ve heard about Tattersall’s, of course,” she claimed. “I’ve always wanted to go there.”

  “And, no, I will not take you there,” he added with an arched eyebrow.

  “Well, I rather doubt they would have suitable Thoroughbreds for racing,” she countered, her chin thrust out in defiance.

  Octavius blinked. Truth be told, he hadn’t attended an auction at Tattersall’s in ages. He really didn’t know what they featured these days. Matched pairs for phaetons and curricles to be sure. Horses for town coaches and Broughams and landaus.

  But horses capable of winning the Ascot?

  “Only if someone found themselves in extreme debt and in need of immediate funds,” he agreed with a nod. He returned his attention to his food, rather surprised he had nearly cleared his plate.

  “Have you ever bought a horse there?”

  The duke blinked as he considered her question. “Once. I found my last mount there,” he replied. “Got him from a baron who didn’t know what he had. The man needed blunt, and I needed a horse suitable for London traffic.”

  Isabella’s eyes widened. “Are there many like that?”

  Octavius frowned. “Like what?”

  “Men who don’t know the value of their horseflesh?”

  Nearly laughing at her shocked expression, Octavius suddenly sobered. “Probably more than I know about,” he murmured. “You must remember that it is an auction house. Some horses go for far more blunt than they should, and others are a steal. It simply depends on the audience and the horses for sale.”

  Isabella concentrated on her meal for a time before finally asking, “Would you take me there if I promised not to bid on a horse?”

  Octavius gave her a quelling glance. “What did I say not five minutes ago?” he asked rhetorically.

  Sighing, Isabella displayed an expression of disappointment. “I was merely curious, is all,” she whispered.

  Almost feeling sorry for her, Octavius rolled his eyes. “When I take you to London to meet your brother, perhaps we can go. Just to observe, though,” he warned when he saw how her face lit up.

  God, was she beautiful when she lit up like that!

  “Thank you,” she responded. “I should like to know how horseflesh is valued by those in London,” she added.

  Furrowing his brows, Octavius wondered at her comment. “But, why?”

  Suddenly nervous, Isabella gave a shake of her head. “Merely curious, is all.” She dared not admit there might be one or two colts too many after foaling was complete this spring.

  Or tomorrow. She was sure Enyo would be delivering twins at any moment. If the foaling went well and both foals were delivered alive, then one of those colts might provide the duke with a bit of unexpected income in a year or two.

  “What aren’t you telling me?” Octavius suddenly asked as he straightened in his carver.

  Her shoulders slumping as if she thought she’d been caught in a lie, Isabella said, “One of the mares is carrying twins, I’m sure of it.”

  Octavius blinked. “Twins?”

  Isabella nodded.

  “Sired by...”

  Her eyes widening in fright, Isabella thought to claim she didn’t know, but the pedigree charts in the salon were already inked for both potential colts. “Ares,” she whispered.

  Leaning back in his carver, Octavius gave a brief glance at the ceiling in an attempt to control his immediate reaction. Ares was headstrong. Ornery. Dangerous. Not the traits one wanted in a race horse. Or any horse, for that matter.

  “He’s fast,” Isabella claimed. “And Enyo is agile. She has a good temperament and excellent lineage. Together, they can produce a racer, I’m sure of it,” she continued, arguing her point as she leaned in the duke’s direction.

  “But who will break them?” he countered in a rather loud voice.

  “I will.”

  The duke blinked as he regarded the young woman, realizing he shouldn’t be so stunned by her claim. Mr. Reeves had been rather generous with his praise about Isabella’s ability with the horses. “You’re sure?” he asked.

  “I broke Ares. I broke every yearling you had in your stables the first year I was here,” she added with a shake of her head. “And what I didn’t know, I learned from...” Here, she stopped, wondering if she should mention Constance Fitzsimmons.

  Octavius arched a brow. “From?”

  “Miss Fitzwilliam,” she replied with a sigh, her gaze dropping to her plate. The last of her luncheon lay untouched, and yet as hungry as she had been when they first entered the dining room, she now found her appetite had gone. “She’s been an excellent teacher. She knows so much about horses and horse breeding.”

  The duke stared at her for a few moments, not about to counter her claim. According to Norwick, Constance Fitzwilliam was an accomplished horsewoman. She owned all the horses at Fair Downs, and she had obviously taught Isabella the finer points. It was doubtful Isabella had learned so much on her own given her age.

  “I am glad you have a friend in Miss Fitzwilliam,” he said. “Have you met anyone new this past year? Had any visitors?”

  Isabella thought for a moment. “The mail coach driver is new,” she replied lightly. “Rather young, but he has a good command of the ribbons.”

  Octavius blinked. Are horses all she thinks about? “Young, as in...?”

  “Only two-and-twenty, Your Grace.”

  Wondering if the young man had propositioned her, an annoyed Octavius was about to ask when Isabella offered, “His wife lives in Milton and is expecting their first child later this year.”

  Octavius wondered at the sense of relief he felt just then. Was that jealousy that had him initially annoyed at learning there was a new mail coach driver stopping at Huntinghurst a few days a week? Or was he just annoyed at the thought that Isabella was impressed with the driver’s command of the ribbons?

  “He’s not the least bit handsome,” Isabella said then, a grin barely touching her lips.

  Frowning, Octavius gave his head a shake. “That you would put voice to such a claim has me wondering...” His eyes widened. “Did he...?”

  Grinning more broadly, Isabella shook her head. “You have nothing to be concerned about, Hunt,” she said. “I only noted his command of the ribbons.”

  Octavius furrowed a brow. “You were teasing me,” he stated.

  Angling her head to one side, she allowed a sigh. “There are times I truly wonder what might have your interest and what might have you perplexed.”

  “Have you sorted it?”

  Isabella shook her head. “I have not.”

  Feeling a bit too much relief at her simple response, Octavius finished his food and leaned back in the carver. “Then let us see these pedigree charts you have been constructing,” he replied.

  Keeping her expression as impassive as possible, Isabella nodded. “Would you care for a glass of port or another glass of wine before we go up?”

  Nearly grinning at her stall tactic, Octavius shook his head. “I shall wait until after dinner to have a glass of port,” he replied. “Shall we?”

  And with that, he pushed himself away from the table at the same time Isabella stood up, feeling ever so much like she was about to be
admonished. Again.

  Chapter 31

  Navigating the Charts

  A few minutes later in the salon at Huntinghurst

  “You needn’t look as if you’re heading to an inquisition,” Octavius said as they reached the partially open door to the upstairs salon.

  Isabella gave a start, her mind having drifted to Enyo and when she might foal. She couldn’t believe she had told the duke the mare was pregnant with twins. She was sure he was incensed enough when he learned she had bred Enyo to Ares.

  “Promise you won’t...” she started to respond before letting out a sigh of frustration.

  Octavius furrowed a brow, about to ask why she would need him to make a promise when his attention was suddenly drawn to the inside of the salon—and the sheets of parchment seemingly scattered over every available horizontal surface of the room, including the floor. “What the...?”

  “It’s not as bad as it looks,” Isabella interrupted, wincing a bit when she realized he was on the verge of cursing.

  And it really was quite messy if one didn’t know there was a reason the papers were arranged as they were.

  When his other brow arched up, as if to counter her claim, he exhaled what sounded like a grunt. “Enlighten me,” he ordered in a harsh whisper.

  Isabella gave a nod and glanced about, wondering which horse she should start with in her explanation. “Over here, then,” she said as she led him to a single sheet at the end of what appeared to be a flattened pyramid of similar papers, splayed out across the length of the room. Some of the sheets angled off from the edges of the array, starting another series of similar sheets. “This will be the pedigree chart for Andromeda’s foal,” she said as she bent down and lifted a sheet on which was a blank line next to a pedigree chart. Already inked in were the names of the dam, Andromeda, and the name of the sire, Perseus, and their dams’ and sires’ names, the even lettering easy to read. One of those lines was blank, though, the name of the sire’s sire missing. “Except I’m not sure of the grandsire. Mr. Reeves said he couldn’t remember, that he doesn’t have a good enough memory...”