To Dance with the Dangerous Duke: Clean Regency Romance (The Nettlefold Chronicles Book 2)

by Arietta Richmond

  He discovered that he had clenched his teeth, and forced himself to relax. The lady was entitled to her secrets, and he was sure that she had good reason for them – he could not imagine her putting herself in such a situation without good cause. He would watch Scarpdale closely, and guard Lady Isabelle as much as he could, without appearing entirely inappropriate. It might not be his place to do so, yet he could not stand by and watch a young woman suffer, for what might have been a single youthful folly.

  ~~~~~

  The day had dawned clear and crisp, with the winter sun gently melting the ice from the trees and paths. Isabelle looked out her window, and wished that she was in a better state of mind to appreciate the day. She asked Betsy to bring her breakfast to her room, and did not venture downstairs until Eugenia came knocking at her door, all excited, yet again.

  “Isabelle, you simply must come! It has been decided that we should take a picnic in the carriages, out to the old Abbey ruins. The view will be particularly good today, and it will be delightful to be away from the house in good company.”

  Isabelle considered a moment – she really had no reason to give, to not go with them – it would look most strange if she did not. Yet the ice-cold fear of Lord Scarpdale made her want to hide away from the world. She took a deep breath. She would not be a coward. After all – what could Scarpdale do, amongst a crowd of people and servants?

  “That sounds lovely, Eugenia – just give me a moment to dress appropriately, and I will join you downstairs.”

  “Good! Don’t take too long.”

  Isabelle dressed in her warmest gown, and gathered up gloves and pelisse, as well as a winter bonnet, then ventured down the stairs. As she entered the parlour, the first person she saw was Lord Scarpdale, and her resolve faltered for a moment. Then she drew herself up, and walked in. Scarpdale was, fortunately, looking away from the door, and did not immediately see her.

  Dangerfield, however, did. He stepped forward from where he had been standing, observing the room, and came to her.

  “Good morning, Lady Isabelle. I hope that you are well? You seemed somewhat distressed when you left the ballroom last night.”

  He was far too observant. Isabelle considered her words carefully – she felt a strong urge to be honest with this man – which was foolhardy in the extreme, given her situation. She chose a half truth.

  “I am well, thank you. Last night I was… disturbed by something, and felt quite out of sorts, but rest has improved things.”

  He looked at her, those deep brown eyes penetrating, and she felt as if he could see straight through her words to the heart of her. She turned her eyes away.

  “I am glad to hear it. Perhaps the excursion in the fresh clean air will also help.”

  “I hope that it will.”

  At that moment, Warton opened the door, and announced that the carriages were ready. Everyone turned, and began to move out of the room. Scarpdale’s eyes lit with seeming pleasure upon seeing Isabelle, and she turned away, unable to meet his gaze. In the jostle of people moving out of the building, Isabelle found herself separated from Dangerfield, and felt a small surge of disappointment. Chiding herself for foolishness, she stepped up into the first carriage, and settled onto the seat. Moments later, Lord Scarpdale appeared, and took the seat beside her. She flinched away from him, and he laughed softly, then unfolded one of the carriage blankets, and spread it across both his knees and hers.

  Two other guests entered the carriage, and took the opposite seats. Isabelle felt utterly trapped. She could do nothing without appearing unreasonable, yet her skin crawled at Lord Scarpdale’s proximity.

  Soon, the carriage began to move, and Isabelle stared fixedly out of the window, watching the well-known fields pass by, then the streets and town square of Upper Nettlefold. As they drove over the bridge, where the ice covered the surface of the Nettlerush river, Isabelle almost jumped from her seat. Beneath the carriage blanket, Lord Scarpdale’s hand had moved, until it rested on her leg. She turned to him, her expression angry, and he laughed again. What could she do? She could certainly not make a scene, especially in front of other guests – if she did, Scarpdale might just be mad enough to accuse her of wantonness immediately. So she edged further from him, and, by pretending to tuck the carriage blanket down more firmly around her, pushed his hand away. He made a ‘tutting’ noise, worthy of a disapproving old maid, but did nothing more.

  The remaining distance to the ruins passed in strained silence, and by the time that she stepped down from the carriage Isabelle felt ill, and shaky. She went straight to where her mother was directing the servants to lay out blankets on top of oilcloth sheets, and then lay out the picnic food. Surely, Scarpdale would not accost her when she was with her mother! Her mother looked at her curiously, but said nothing, beyond asking her to assist with directing the footmen. An hour passed, in which Isabelle threw herself into the organisation, then settled with her family to eat. Once that was done, many of the guests wandered about the ruins, and up to the highest point, where the view across the valley down to the Bath road was spectacular.

  The land looked like a decorated cake, sparkling as the sun melted ice and snow, and reflected from the snowdrifts.

  Isabelle looked around cautiously, and located Lord Scarpdale, standing talking to some other gentlemen, quite some distance away near the carriages. Relieved, she decided to walk up to the ruins – she loved looking across the countryside from here, and it would be a pity not to do so, just because of Scarpdale. If he was going to destroy her life, she wanted to enjoy what she could before that happened.

  Once she had walked past the end of the old Abbey wall, the brisk wind hit her, and lifted the wisps of her hair where it had escaped from its pins. She tipped her head back, and closed her eyes, wishing that the wind could blow away her foolishness, blow away the truth, and leave her free of everything that she had brought upon herself.

  “How kind of you to walk to somewhere away from the others, so that we might converse privately.”

  Her eyes snapped open, and she spun in place. Lord Scarpdale stood not three feet away, with an amused look on his face.

  “What do you want?”

  Isabelle had no patience left for pretending. She would not give him the pleasure of letting him see how much he disturbed her.

  “My. My. So impolite and abrupt. I will expect you to mend your manners, my Lady.”

  “You may expect all you like, but you have no right to ask anything of me.”

  “Not yet, perhaps, but soon, I will have absolute authority over you. For soon, we will be wed.”

  Isabelle, despite her determination to be strong, flinched back.

  “No! You are certainly not the kind of man I wish to marry!”

  “But marry me you will, my Lady, and I will have your dowry, and your body in my bed. A pleasing thought – I’m sure that you understand that – after all, you surely warmed Banfield’s bed a time of two. No respectable woman goes to a place like Owlfege Manor, and stays that way – no matter what you pretend.”

  Isabelle’s mind was racing. Surely the man was mad, to expect her to agree?

  “As I said, Lord Scarpdale, I have no interest in marrying you, and I do not appreciate the aspersions you cast upon my moral character.”

  He laughed again, a mocking, nasty sound.

  “Whether you wish it or no, it is your only choice. If you do not, I will go to your brother, and threaten to reveal your scandalous presence in that den of iniquity. I am sure that he will see the sense in my solution – that, or he will buy my silence with a substantial sum. After all, if I reveal it to the ton, you will be ruined, as will your sister, by association.”

  Isabelle swayed on her feet.

  She could not… but what choice did she have? He was right – Isabelle’s folly being revealed would ruin Eugenia too, for the ton would believe her to be of equally weak moral fibre. Isabelle did not think that Garrett would allow himself to be coerced by such black
mail.

  She would not wish him to give Scarpdale what he wanted, but… if he did not, then Scarpdale would ruin her. There had to be another option…

  “Lord Scarpdale, this is rather a lot to take in. Whilst you say that I have no choice, I find that I must still consider this. I must decide whether marriage to you would be more acceptable to me than ruination.”

  “Foolish girl! No sane woman would choose ruination over marriage and a title. But have it your way. I give you until the end of the Christmas Ball to come to your senses. I will be watching you, reminding you that you have no choice, all the time. Do enjoy the rest of the picnic.”

  He sketched her a barely respectable bow, turned, and walked away. Isabelle stood, white faced and shaking. The thought of what he had said, about wanting her in his bed, made her wish to retch. Controlling that impulse, she turned back to the wind and the sparkling landscape below, and stared unseeing until she felt that she might manage to return to the others without collapsing into tears. No one could know of her distress.

  ~~~~~

  As everyone had left Kilmerstan castle, Lyon had been pulled aside by an acquaintance, who only then had realised that he was there. By the time that he had escaped the man, Lady Isabelle had disappeared into a carriage. His lips twisted in a sardonic, self-mocking smile. Here he was again, trailing after the woman like a love-sick boy, despite all of his resolve never to become involved with a woman again.

  He made his way to a carriage where space was still available, and passed the short journey to the Abbey ruins in bland conversation with the other occupants.

  As he ate and socialised, he could not help but watch Lady Isabelle. At first, she had seemed a little unsure in some way, but after a time, she relaxed, and he thought that, perhaps, she was actually enjoying herself. When she walked off towards the ruins, as so many others had, he was tempted to follow her. He told himself that he should not, but still, he found himself drifting in that direction.

  He moved in among the tumbled stones of the old Abbey, finding shelter from the wind, and exploring a little. Every so often, the empty frame of a window gave him an unexpected view out across the crest and into the distance. Through one, he saw Lady Isabelle, standing, her face raised to the sun and wind, her hair blowing around her face in wisps. His fingers itched to touch that hair, to brush it softly from her face. He shook his head at his own foolishness, and moved further through the ruins.

  When he came to the next open archway in the wall, he looked out, and froze in place, suddenly breathing hard. For Lady Isabelle now faced towards him, and before her stood Scarpdale. He could not hear what was said, but by the look on Lady Isabelle’s face, he could tell that what Scarpdale had said both shocked and horrified her. They spoke for a short while, then Scarpdale bowed, and walked away.

  She stood a moment, and he thought that she was shaking. He felt an almost irresistible urge to rush to her, to fold her in his arms, and protect her from whatever that cad had said, to affect her so. He resisted. He did not have the right to do so.

  She turned back to the scenic vista before her. Lyon stayed where he was, watching her, until she eventually straightened her shoulders, and turned to walk back to the others. He slipped out of the ruins, and made sure that he was fairly close to her. Soon, the picnic had been packed up, and the call was made for everyone to return to the carriages. As soon as Lady Isabelle moved in that direction, he stepped up beside her.

  “Lady Isabelle. Might I travel with you, as we return to Kilmerstan Castle?” Her blue-violet eyes met his, and a whirl of emotions passed across her face in seconds – fear, uncertainty, relief, nervousness, and more. He did not understand the cause of any of it.

  “Yes, Your Grace, that would be most pleasant.”

  Her voice was softer than usual, almost shaky. As they stepped up into a carriage, he spoke softly, before others should arrive to disturb their privacy.

  “Lady Isabelle, is all well with you? I noted that Lord Scarpdale spoke to you, and that, afterwards, you seemed somewhat… discomposed.”

  Her eyes flew to his, wide and afraid.

  “Your Grace, all is… as well as it can be… for now.”

  “I see. If I can assist, please call upon me.”

  She nodded, and they ceased speaking as others entered the carriage.

  Chapter Seven

  The rest of the day passed in somewhat of a blur for Isabelle, as Scarpdale’s demands repeated endlessly in her mind. Thankfully, he left her alone – but he watched her – if she looked in his direction, almost always, she would find his eyes on her. It made her feel sullied – far more so than actually being at Owlfege Manor had – for there, Banfield had protected her from most of what went on. At that thought, a bubble of near hysterical laughter tried to rise into her throat. She swallowed it down, and went back to conversation – a conversation in which she had no interest whatsoever.

  She could not concentrate on fashion, or who was courting who – not when her whole life hung in the balance, and she had no idea what to do. She found herself, over and over again, casting her eyes about the room, as if she might see something that would provide a miraculous answer, a way for her to save herself. No miracles presented themselves. But her eyes came to rest on Dangerfield. He drew her, even though she knew that he was an unsuitable man, and dangerous to her. Yet, compared to Scarpdale, he seemed almost exemplary.

  She discovered that the Duke of Dangerfield made a habit of standing in shadowed corners, and not engaging in much conversation. He certainly did not pursue young women, as his reputation might have led her to expect. The more she saw of him, the more she spoke to him, the more intrigued she became. And then there was that short conversation as they had entered the carriage this afternoon, when returning from the old Abbey ruins. That he had noticed both her conversation with Scarpdale, and her resulting distress, had surprised her, but his offer of assistance had startled her even more. She could not call on him for that assistance, of course, for to do so would require explanation. But just the fact that he had offered helped, a little, to warm the chill that constant fear had set in her bones.

  At dinner, blessedly, she was seated away from both Scarpdale and Dangerfield. As a result, she actually managed to eat a little, but the food sat heavily in her stomach, and as soon as dinner was finished, she begged off any further activity for the evening, claiming a megrim, and retired to her room. In truth, her head did hurt – but more so from thinking of Scarpdale’s terrible proposal, than from any more ordinary cause.

  Once in her night rail, she curled in her bed and stared at the dim light of the fire. Soon, she saw the flames through a blur of tears – the tears that she had held in check from the moment that Scarpdale had spoken to her on the windy crest of the Abbey hill. They were tears that must be cried alone – for she could not tell anyone of their cause. But in that moment, she longed for someone to hold her, for a strong shoulder to cry on, and the reassurance that someone cared.

  As she finally drifted into sleep, her rebellious mind provided her with the memory of the moment in the gardens, when she had collided with the Duke of Dangerfield, and he had held her. In her dream, he did not hesitate, as he had in reality – in her dream, he brought his lips down upon hers, and kissed her until the ice of fear melted completely, and she was lost in the pleasure of it.

  ~~~~~

  Lyon had watched Lady Isabelle, after their return from the ruins, unable to help himself, no matter how much he told himself that she was none of his business. Her beauty was not diminished by her apparent anguish about whatever Scarpdale had said to her, but had taken on a more subdued, almost ethereal look. It worried him – when he had first seen her, she had been so vibrant, and now…

  At least, for the rest of the day, Scarpdale made no attempt to speak to her – but the man followed her with his eyes, in a way that wore at Lyon’s patience. Lady Isabelle seemed distracted, disconnected from the people around her, always scanning the room. Often,
his eyes met hers for a moment – then she would look away. He discovered that he did not want her to look away. At that thought, he chose to leave the parlour, and retreat to the library for a time. He needed to think, to remind himself of his reasons for being here, and of his resolve to never again expose himself to the sort of pain which Josephine had provided. To remind himself that Lady Isabelle’s problems, whatever they might be, were none of his concern. He found himself unconvincing.

  Somehow, since that first moment in the gardens, Lady Isabelle had become the focus of his days. The more he saw of her, the more he realised just how completely superficial her resemblance to Josephine was. In character, they could not have been more different. To begin with, she did not pursue him, seeking a title, as so many women did. Nor did she simper and flutter – if she flirted, it was her clever mind and words that she used, not simply her beauty. Until he had met her, he had not known just how attractive and intriguing such an attitude to life could be.

  When he had been seated well away from her at dinner, he had been disappointed, and then annoyed with himself for being so. When she had declared herself megrim-ridden and retired early, he had worried. She was becoming an obsession.

  That night he had dreamed of her – as she had been, standing in the wind on the Abbey hilltop, her beauty limned by the sun, and as she had felt, close in his arms in the gardens, when they had collided on the path. The dream twisted and changed, as dreams do, and he awoke filled with a sense of longing and an odd sadness. By the time that he had broken his fast, the feeling had dissipated, and he approached the day with interest.

  More guests had arrived, with the Christmas Ball only a few days away, and the Castle was full of conversation and Christmas cheer, as servants added yet more Christmas greenery and decoration throughout. He found himself in an odd conversation in the parlour, with men he barely knew, discussing politics and the changes that had come to England, now that the wars with Napoleon had finally ended. He had not indulged in such conversation for many months.