The Dream of a Duchess

by Linda Rae Sande

  “Zeus, of course,” Octavius stated. “Well, Zeus the Third, actually,” he corrected himself, remembering when his father had restarted the naming sequence his great-grandfather had started more than a century ago.

  “Oh, that makes sense,” Isabella remarked as she hurried over to the escritoire and took a seat. Octavius watched as she dipped a quill into the ink pot and carefully lettered in the missing information. “Perseus has the same coloring as Apollo. Same temperament, too,” she remarked with an arched brow as she got up and placed the sheet back from where she first picked it up.

  Octavius was already studying the charts beyond the one she had updated, his head shaking a bit as he seemed to chew on the edge of his thumb. “I didn’t realize Artemis had been bred,” he murmured. “And I don’t recognize this sire,” he said, a bit of alarm sounding in his voice. He picked up a sheet next to the one he held and studied it. “Or the grandsire. Nor the granddam.”

  Isabella swallowed. “That would be because Mr. Wiggins isn’t from your stables.”

  There were times Isabella knew she was in the presence of a duke. From the way Octavius’ posture seemed more erect than usual, from how he squared his shoulders, from the way his head canted slightly—as if he knew his pointed stare could be made more intimidating by the pose—Octavius had her realizing now was one of those times.

  The Duke of Huntington did his very best impression of a duke. “And from just whose stables would he be?”

  Isabella nearly flinched but did her best to appear nonplussed. “Miss Fitzwilliams’ at Fair Downs.”

  Although the words were delivered in a clear voice, Octavius was sure Isabella’s lips were trembling. He had paid notice to those lips of late, and his gaze was once again captured by them. There was once again the odd thought of what it might be like to kiss those lips again, to feel those lips kissing him. Kissing his chest. Kissing his...

  Her answer finally permeated his consciousness and he gave a start. “Constance Fitzwilliam?” he repeated. He suddenly wondered if the earl had already paid a call on his daughter. Rode in on a horse and...

  Isabella sighed. “We... we made a trade of sorts.” She didn’t add that she rather doubted Constance had told Norwick she was busy seeing to a generation of race horses for her own stables. How the poor woman managed without much help from the earldom was beyond her ken.

  The duke once again stiffened. “How so?”

  Isabella sighed as she nearly lost her resolve to stand up to the duke. “She brought her stable’s only stud for Artemis, and in return, I gave her a yearling. Hermès.” She was prepared for Octavius to erupt in anger, but instead he simply stared at her. “He was becoming... difficult,” she went on. “He and I never got along. He was picking fights in the pasture. Biting ears, and, well, Connie seemed to know how to work with him. How to make him behave.”

  “Does Miss Fitzwilliam have his pedigree information?”

  Not exactly what she was expecting to hear from the duke—Isabella expected a rather loud curse and a blistering scolding—she nodded. “She does. I made her copies of all that I could find for Hermés, and she provided me with those,” she added as she waved toward the line of sheets that continued for several generations back.

  Octavius turned his attention to the sheet he held. “Do you know anything else about this stud?”

  Isabella moved to stand next to him and pointed at the grandsire’s name. “He won the Epsom Derby back in ninety-eight. Miss Fitzwilliam said Norwick used the winnings to build his men’s club. And she...” Isabella moved her finger to the granddam on the other side of the line. “Won the Oaks in oh-two.”

  Stilling himself a moment, Octavius realized he had been in attendance at that horse race. The Oaks, made up entirely of fillies and run at Epsom Downs, was always a crowded affair with a huge purse. And, yes, The Elegant Courtesan had been built using the funds Norwick had won in that race.

  “But has Mr. Wiggins won any races?” the duke wondered. He hadn’t attended the races since Jane died, his enthusiasm for most idol pursuits having waned.

  His enthusiasm for almost anything, for that matter.

  “He hasn’t been entered,” she replied with a shake of her head. “In fact, Lord Norwick has only visited Fair Downs a few times since winning the Oaks, and Miss Fitzsimmons says he’s never very interested in reviewing the horses since they belong to her.”

  Frowning, Octavius was about to claim the earl was still an avid horse racer, but realized any of his current race horses were probably stabled at Norwick Park. “Why breed this particular stud with Artemis?”

  Isabella allowed a grin. “She’s not only fast, but she can last.”

  “You’re saying she has stamina?” he guessed.

  “Indeed,” Isabella replied.

  Octavius was about to ask how she would know such a thing, but remembered how she had that one time ridden a horse nearly fifty miles, mostly at night, and lived to tell the tale. The fact that her mount had survived the ordeal was a testament to the Craythorne stables as well as to her skill at knowing when to push hard and when to allow the horse time to recover.

  Suddenly interested in what she was trying to accomplish—breed a horse suitable for a longer race—Octavius returned the sheets to their place in the lineage. “You think her colt could win a race like St. Leger at Doncaster,” he accused.

  Allowing a one-shouldered shrug, Isabella finally nodded. “Except for one problem.”

  “Problem?” The duke turned to face her, another pedigree sheet in hand.

  “None of your current horses are eligible to race this season,” Isabella replied with a sigh.

  “Why ever not?” he asked in alarm.

  “They’re not in Weatherby’s stud book,” she replied, moving to where an open book rested on the settee. She lifted it in her arms, the pages displaying the lineages of two of his horses. “This is a few years old, though. Have you summited papers for Artemis, Ares, Enyo, Hermés, Andromeda...?”

  Octavius held up a hand as if to stop her questions. “It’s true, I haven’t been submitting the papers. Ever since...” He paused, stunned that he almost said his late wife’s name out loud. “Since about four years now,” he finally said.

  Obviously disappointed at the confirmation, Isabella merely nodded. “Well, with Mr. Reeve’s help, I’ve been able to trace most of your current stables back to the pedigrees I found, but there are some I’ve had to leave blank,” Isabella explained, as she made her way down a line of parchments.

  For the next hour, the two worked in tandem as Octavius provided names and Isabella penned them, making copies as she went.

  “You could be a clerk,” Octavius commented as he glanced over her shoulder. He dropped another sheet onto her escritoire. “But I think you may have made a mistake with this one.”

  Isabella stiffened when she realized which pedigree he questioned.

  The one for Enyo’s foal.

  Make that foals.

  She was positive the mare was pregnant with twins, and so she had drawn in two lines instead of one.

  “Mr. Reeves agrees with me. Enyo is carrying twins,” she claimed. She didn’t add that she was sure they would arrive in the next day or so. The mare had grown restless and was displaying the tell-tale signs of impending labor. “We have her in a foaling stall in the stables.”

  The duke waited until Isabella had finished filling in a name before he said, “That’s not the mistake I was referring to,” he stated.

  Isabella frowned. She picked up the parchment and reviewed the names, quite certain she had them all correct. “Then... what?”

  “The sire. I just remembered it cannot be Ares. I ordered he be gelded. Probably two years ago. Back when he was a yearling, in fact.”

  Daring a questioning glance up at the duke, Isabella had to keep from letting out a ‘huff’ of disbelief. “He has not been castrated, I assure you,” she countered with a shake of her head. “Besides, I wouldn’t have all
owed it. He’s too important...”

  “You countermanded my order?” The fury on Octavius’ face had Isabella nearly cowering in fear. “He was a dangerous horse!”

  “He is not!” she argued as she straightened in the chair. “He just needed training. And now that he’s broken, he’s an excellent ride.” Realizing her words hadn’t placated the duke in the least, she added, “I honestly wasn’t aware you wanted him gelded.”

  Octavius was about to argue when he remembered a bit of what she had said. “Wait. What did you mean when you said, ‘he’s too important’?”

  Her eyes darting to one side, Isabella lifted the sheet again and pointed to Ares’ granddam on his sire’s side. “She won the 2000 Guineas.” She lowered her finger to the grandsire on his dam’s side. “He won the Ascot.”

  Allowing a wan smile, the duke gave his head a quick shake. “The same year. I remember,” he murmured.

  She moved her finger to Enyo’s line and pointed to her dam’s name. “She won the St. Leger.”

  Octavius straightened, his eyes tracing back the two lines. There were a few names in common in both Enyo’s and Ares’ lines. “This is... this is in-breeding,” he whispered, a look of worry furrowing his brows.

  “It’s line breeding,” Isabella argued.

  “Only if it works,” he countered, his frown still firmly in place.

  Isabella had half a mind to press a fingertip in the space between his brows, just to see what he might do. “It will,” she insisted. She pointed to the blank lines where the foals’ names would be written in. “One of these is going to win races. Maybe both of them.”

  Octavius was about to ask if she would make it a bet, but thought better of it. It was bad enough she knew more about his stables than he did.

  It was worse that she was right about Ares.

  And she would probably take him for half his annual income if he did allow her to bet.

  Chapter 32

  Confession is Such Sweet Sorrow

  Meanwhile, at Norwick House in Mayfair

  Clarinda knew something was different the moment David entered her bedchamber. Although he wore the same robe he always did and even kissed her on the temple as she finished brushing out her hair, his manner seemed far more guarded than usual. “Did you have a good trip?” she asked as she pushed herself away from the vanity. “Southampton, wasn’t it?”

  The earl was quick to help with the chair, offering a hand as she stood up. “I did. I have some good news, in fact,” he said as he led her to the bed. “Although, someone had to die for it to become possible for me to tell you.” Her lady’s maid had turned down the bed linens, so rather than making his way to the other side of the bed, he saw to removing her dressing gown before scooping her into his arms and placing her in the middle of the bed.

  Clarinda allowed a gasp of surprise, covering her suddenly naked breasts with her arms. “Norwick,” she gently admonished him. “I haven’t yet put on my ni...” She swallowed the rest of her protest, though, curious as to what his good news might be. “Who had to die?” she wondered in alarm, just then realizing the rest of what he had said.

  David had his robe off before he made it around to the other side of the bed, the sight of his naked body eliciting another gasp of surprise from Clarinda. Slipping beneath the covers and settling her against his side before wrapping an arm behind her shoulders, he allowed a sigh. “Craythorne died. Day before yesterday.”

  Clarinda angled her head from where it rested in his shoulder. She stared at him a moment, remembering again he had been in Southampton. “Were you... were you with him?” She almost asked if he had been the one who had caused Craythorne’s death. It wouldn’t surprise her given the rumors that had her husband killing a thief sometime in his past. She knew he disliked Craythorne. Had long before they married. “Did you...?” she stopped before she dared put voice to the rest of the question.

  “I wanted to, Clare. I don’t mind admitting it. For the past two years, I have thought of killing that man on more occasions than you can imagine,” he claimed in a hoarse whisper, not adding that it had been more like twenty years.

  “I can imagine a good deal,” Clarinda countered in a matching whisper, her breaths coming faster and her heart beating a tattoo David could feel against his chest. “But, why?”

  “Because I was sure he killed Arabella.”

  About to put voice to her thoughts on the matter—she had told her father she had the very same suspicions!— Clarinda wondered what reason he had to believe her aunt’s death had been murder. “Did you kill him?” she asked, her breath held in anticipation of his confession.

  “I did not,” he said as he stroked a finger down her arm. “Craythorne described her last moments in great detail, though. Arabella died from a terrible accident—one in which he had a hand—but an accident none the less. He died... he died of a broken heart. Or consumption, if you believe the physician.”

  Clarinda stared at her husband for along time, wondering at the sorrow she heard in his voice. Maxwell Tolson was a despicable man, a bully, and a brute. How Arabella could abide marriage to the man had been a source of worry among the Brotherton women for years. Many had questioned Arabella’s father’s choice in a husband for his only daughter. He reminded the naysayers that his daughter would be a countess and mistress of her own castle.

  A castle in which she would eventually meet her death.

  “You said you had good news,” Clarinda remembered.

  “I do. My daughter will be marrying a duke,” David murmured before placing a kiss on her forehead. He tightened his hold on her shoulders in anticipation of her bolting from the bed.

  A fold of skin appeared between Clarinda’s brows as she considered his words. “I... I wasn’t aware you had a daughter,” she said, attempting to lift her head from his shoulder.

  “I love you, Clare. Please, please do not hate me for what I’m about to tell you,” he pleaded.

  Clarinda stiffened in his hold, her thoughts suddenly jumbled. “She’s either illegitimate, or you were married... are you a widower?” she asked in alarm, managing to roll over in his hold so she could regard him directly. He was certainly old enough to have been married before, but she had never heard he was. He was famous for having mistresses, though. Had one of them given him a child? A daughter? A long time ago?

  “No. Neither,” he replied with a shake of his head before he allowed a sigh. He pushed himself up on the pillows a bit, pulling her up with him. “I was once in love, Clare. I had an affaire. While I was in university. I thought back then I would never love another, and... I didn’t,” he claimed in a quiet voice. “Until I married you and realized it was possible to have more than one love in a lifetime.”

  Staring at him for a long time, Clarinda struggled with how to respond. “With... one of your mistresses?”

  “No, Clare,” he replied with a shake of his head. He took a breath and held it. “I was in love with Arabella Brotherton.”

  Clarinda blinked before she frowned again. “My aunt?” she questioned, as if she needed to remind him of their familial relationship. “Before... before she married Craythorne?” Her attention suddenly seemed to focus on something beyond his shoulder.

  “Of course,” David replied, a bit offended she would think him capable of adultery.

  “She was with child when she married Craythorne,” Clarinda murmured.

  “She was,” he agreed, rather surprised anyone else knew Arabella was enceinte at the time of her wedding.

  “My mother always thought Craythorne had ruined her. She hated that man.”

  “For good reason,” he interjected. “He could be cruel.”

  Clarinda stiffened in his hold. “If he didn’t kill Arabella, then did he kill Isabella?” she asked in alarm, struggling to break his hold on her. “Oh, my God—”

  “He did not,” David interrupted, steadying her body with his other arm. “I thought he killed Arabella because Isabella was sure he did.
” He paused, expecting she would put voice to a cry, but when she merely blinked, he went on. “Isabella did what she was told to do, you see. Arabella told her to find me should anything untoward happen.”

  “Find you? Where? When?”

  David struggled to hold her close, still afraid she might dart out of the bed. “Isabella found me the day after Arabella’s accident and claimed to have paid witness to her mother’s murder. She was sure she saw Craythorne do it, saw him yelling at Arabella as she lay on his bedchamber floor, and Isabella believed he had strangled her.”

  Clarinda’s eyes widened. “Isabella is alive?” she asked in awe. And then she furrowed her brows. “She’s your daughter.”

  “She is.”

  “But... but, how? Where have you been hiding her?”

  David sighed and pulled Clarinda into a tighter hold. “Huntinghurst. Since about a week after Arabella’s death.”

  Clarinda blinked again. “The Duke of Huntington’s hunting lodge?” she guessed, her expression indicating revulsion. “Poor girl.”

  “It’s a beautiful estate, Clare. A wondrous manor home with a stable of race horses and lands as far as the eye can see,” he countered, realizing Clarinda had never been invited to one of the duke’s house parties. “She’s been there for nearly two years acting as its mistress. Apparently vexing the butler and endearing herself to every horse on the property. Has a dog, too.”

  “Well, Izzy would certainly be at home in the stables,” Clarinda said with a wan grin.

  David allowed a grin of his own. “You know that about her?” he asked, amused at hearing his wife’s nickname for Isabella.

  Grinning, Clarinda used a fingertip to trace the contours of his chest. “She’s always been a bit obsessed with horses,” she said in a quiet voice. “As far as I know, she’s only attended the Ascot once, but she swore she would one day have a horse of her own competing. Can you imagine?”

  David pulled her head down to his, bestowing a gentle kiss on her lips that soon had her entire body settling onto the top of his. “I can,” he whispered when he finally relaxed into the pillows. “She’s my daughter, Clare. Which means she’s your stepdaughter. And I intend to see to it her dream comes true.” He closed his eyes a moment before he suddenly opened them “That is, if Hunt cannot.”