Once and Future Duchess Page 11

  At least her days were filled with the mountain of tasks and responsibilities to ensure the March duchy continued to not only prosper, but also to grow. She would not allow any hint of a question on her ability to govern the properties entailed to her and the welfare of ­people who depended on her.

  But her nights? When all her tasks were accomplished and societal obligations fulfilled, she had naught but her memories of that night in the garden. With a man whose words were muddy and gray, but whose embrace was every color imaginable.

  This entire summer had been disastrous. He had showed hints of something beyond his words to her. She’d hoped his kiss was something more than just a momentary distraction. It had to be.

  She was sure.

  She was as sure as the ancient lords were of overtaking the young riders barreling helter-­skelter all about her. She was so far in the dark concerning James that she could have been wearing blinders.

  Twice, Isabelle and Mary rode down the allée—­each lost in their thoughts, each happy to have the other for company.

  “Had enough?” Mary laughed as she caught up with her toward the end of the second run.

  “Never,” Isabelle replied with a smile. But she veered far left of the wide track to cool her horse at a more sedate pace.

  “Agreed.” Mary’s eyes sparkled with good humor and vitality. Two gentlemen slowed their horses and craned their necks to get a better look at the beauty, who appeared to sparkle as the sun began its march from east to west. Vanity had to be reined in when one was with Lady Mary Haverty.

  “So are you ever going to tell me what happened last evening?” Mary looked at her expectantly. “Or am I to pretend I am something I am not—­a proper friend who allows you the privacy of your own thoughts?”

  “The latter,” she replied.

  “Not very likely,” Mary said under her breath.

  “I heard that.”

  “Yes, I know,” Mary replied, her face glowing. “But I fear it’s impossible. You know, perhaps I might offer a different perspective. I’ve known James forever. I spent part of every summer at his family’s seat in Derbyshire after his elder sisters and I became great friends during our disastrous first season in Town.”

  Isabelle diplomatically ignored the reference to Mary’s family’s straitened circumstances. “James has a very high regard for you. He has always considered you a model of everything good and proper.”

  Mary’s smile was blinding. “Well, two can play at this game. He told me just last month at Kress’s that he knew of no other lady in England who could manage a duchy by herself.”

  “Oh, I manage it all right,” Isabelle said a bit grimly. “By the skin of my teeth since I dismissed my father’s advisors the day I came of age earlier this year.” Only the sounds of the horses—­their hooves hitting the dirt and their breathing—­could be heard for several long moments.

  “Isabelle?”

  “Yes?”

  “I know we’ve not been the closest of confidantes, but I hope that can change. I hope you never believed any of those ridiculous falsehoods circulating about on occasion.” Mary’s constant cheer was suddenly replaced with seriousness.

  “Of course I didn’t,” Isabelle said, rushing to fill the gap. “I know you and James have nothing more than a deep friendship based on years of acquaintance. And I’ve always admired your candor.”

  “That’s a nice way to say audaciousness.” Mary’s radiant smile reappeared.

  Isabelle bit back a grin. “Indeed I cannot forget when I first saw you after years of hearing about you from James. You were purposefully stepping on the feet of some poor fellow whilst waltzing. James’s sisters told me it was to punish him for never ever dancing with them.”

  “I didn’t have many requests to dance the rest of the summer. But it was worth it.” Mary’s laugh floated in the warm summer breeze.

  A silence intruded, and only Isabelle’s mare nickering and pawing the ground broke it.

  “I was surprised you wrote to me,” Mary began. “Surprised but so very pleased. I hope you will not take this wrong, but will you not tell me the real reason you asked me to visit?”

  Isabelle exhaled. “Because . . . well, because of your good sense. And your knowledge of the ways of the ton and courtship. And of possible suitors. I must marry, as you know. And I hoped you might help guide me.”

  “And what of James?” Mary finally dared to ask softly.

  She kept her gaze straight ahead.

  “But you love him.” Mary said what no one else would dare.

  “I’m afraid so.” What was the use in lying? Mary and all of James’s sisters knew of her unrequited sentiments. And now even James knew. “But my sentiments are not returned. Never have been and never will be. He made it perfectly clear that he has no interest in marrying me.”

  “You actually brought up the topic of marriage with him, then?”

  She studied her horse’s ears straight ahead. “Oh, yes. To my perfect mortification. He would not consider for a moment an arranged marriage with me despite the prince’s commands.”

  They walked in silence, each of them occupying their hands with their mount’s reins as they moved over a small rise.

  She finally continued. “I refuse to go on like this, mooning over him. Even if it were not for the royal command that all of us marry, I would find a husband. I have a list of candidates and . . . well, I hoped you would help me.”

  “Oh, Isabelle, of course I will,” Mary breathed, “You cannot imagine how fond I am of you. But I always thought you had little regard for me.”

  “No,” she replied, “that’s not true. I am just like every other lady with eyes in her head—­impossibly envious. In fact I am wondering if you would consider wearing padding around your middle and hideous, matronly turbans if we have to stand next to each other at entertainments.”

  Mary shouted quite inelegantly with laughter. She mopped her eyes. “I like you. Very much. And yes, because I am so delighted we are to be friends, I shall let you choose whatever you would like me to wear!”

  Isabelle finally smiled. “Mary, I can never thank you enough,” she said with great earnestness.

  “Well, I think you’ve hit upon an excellent idea. I adore lists. And they work remarkably well. Verity and I employed a list of questions for suitors not two months ago—­and you see, she is blissfully happy with the Duke of Abshire now.”

  James’s middle sister, Verity, was indeed, married to Abshire, James’s former archenemy in Derbyshire.

  They had come to a halt beside a stand of trees. Isabelle could not stop the question she had never dared to ask anyone familiar with the past. “Was James violently in love with Catharine Talmadge?”

  Mary’s green eyes studied her. “I don’t believe he has ever been ‘violently’ in love with anyone. It’s not in his nature. But, yes, when he was engaged over a decade ago it was considered a love match. Although . . . while I do not like to speak ill of the dead, I must tell you that Catharine had no female friends apart from her younger sister. There was falseness to her character that was evident to ladies but not to gentlemen, who were all blinded by her appeal.”

  “But James’s sisters hinted he had changed when she died, no? Is that why he is so reserved?”

  Mary tilted her head and gazed into the distance, thinking. “They were both fairly young when they were betrothed. He was more lighthearted then. He was always a devoted son and brother. Loved nothing more than rambling and exploring nature with his like-­minded mother and sisters. But as the years passed, he gained a seriousness and remoteness to him. I can’t tell you the why and how of it. But yes, certainly there was a part of him affected that summer. And when his mother died, too. She was the light of Boxwood.” Sunlight filtered through the leaves on the branches above them and cast lovely shadows on Mary’s face. “But, I’ve always wondered . . .”

  “Yes?” Isabelle encouraged.

  “I’ve wondered if he has silent burdens
like so many of us.” A faraway look clouded her deep green eyes.

  Isabelle regarded Mary. “Well, I shall find out. I don’t like unanswered questions.”

  “Are you certain that is the best course, Isabelle? Privacy is everything to James.” Mary glanced at her sideways.

  “Of course. James gave my father so much—­such peace in the end. I owe him even if he has pricked away at my pride,” Isabelle said.

  Mary regarded her slyly. “You are a better woman than I.”

  “Why do you say that?” Isabelle leaned forward and patted her mare’s shoulder.

  “Because when Lord—­” Mary paused, her voice caught for a moment. “—­Hadrien threw me over last year I had not an inch of compassion.”

  While Mary was endowed with great beauty, she had not been lucky in love. The great love of her life, Lord Hadrien, had without a word shockingly disappeared, to cast his lot with an aging countess who possessed ten thousand a year.

  “Rightly so,” Isabelle said quietly. “But that was a bit different. Would you like me to shoot him for you?”

  “What a lovely idea.” Mary forced a laugh and patted her horse’s shoulder with her gloved hand. “James always said you were an excellent shot. But I like to think Hadrien is suffering more—­living under someone’s thumb with nothing more exciting than fetching shawls, playing bridge, and wishing he was in Town. He loathed the country. Oh, I sound like a wretch.”

  “Well, my lovely Queen Anne pistol is at the ready. Doesn’t require much powder, very little recoil, and best of all . . . lethal.”

  Mary’s expression softened a little, just as Isabelle had hoped. She pressed forward.

  “Then again I could use a Brown Bess. Excellent for hunting accidents. I can prime, load, and fire almost as fast as James.”

  “Thank you, Isabelle.” Mary’s expression eased and she truly laughed. “And truly I am beginning to think you will need very little guidance from me in the mating rituals. Your instincts and your heart are in the right place.”

  Isabelle knew she had to say the rest, even if it was difficult. For if they were to be friends, they must be open. “I cannot tell you how sorry I was to hear about the MacGregor. I don’t know how you managed on the heels of the other.” Mary’s hastily arranged betrothal to a Scottish laird after Hadrien disappeared had also ended disastrously when the MacGregor died of a lung fever before Mary even had the chance to meet him in person.

  Mary would not meet her eyes. “I understand he was the best of men. I grieve for his family.” She finally looked at her. “Indeed, Isabelle, I fear you are at grave risk befriending me. My bad luck is legendary. Let us hope it is not infectious.”

  “Luck is an illusion,” Isabelle said. “I’m very glad you are spending the Little Season with me.”

  Mary sighed. “Then we are of like mind. And I, like you, cannot dally any longer. I’m giving the marriage mart one last chance. If I have not secured the affections of a worthy gentleman this year, I’m retiring to live with James’s sisters, as they’re determined to leave the Derbyshire and retire to a lesser estate.”

  “How ridiculous.” Isabelle would not say more.

  “No, it’s not ridiculous at all. It is what one does when one has no fortune, and one’s prospects are limited,” Mary said quietly.

  “Oh, pish,” Isabelle replied. “The day your prospects are limited . . . If you do not have ten gentlemen vying for your favors at all hours of the day, it will be the end of time.”

  “Is this when we have to waste time complimenting each other, and not planning what must be done? Do you have the list on you? The one with—­”

  “Lady Mary Haverty! And Isabelle,” the Duke of Sussex exclaimed, riding his magnificent beast of a stallion to a halt in front of them. A smile was ever fixed on his handsome face as he jumped from the saddle and pressed a quick kiss to each lady’s hand. “Delighted to see you both. And so convenient. But why aren’t you both still abed? Don’t you know it’s not at all the thing for ladies to be up at this hour?”

  “And what would you have us do?” Isabelle adored Edward. He was always so open and kind, and charming. And never afraid of being made a fool.

  “Languish in bed with lace caps while having someone peel grapes for you,” he said, his green eyes twinkling.

  “I might be willing to do that if it could be apples instead of grapes,” Isabelle said, wrinkling her nose.

  All amusement fled Edward’s face. “There are no apples in this scenario.”

  “But I like apples,” Isabelle insisted. “Peeled grapes are slimy. Sort of like overripe bananas. Apples are the perfect fruit—­sometimes tart, sometimes sweet, and they last forever.”

  “There are no apples in this scenario,” Edward ground out again. “Peeled grapes or perhaps bacon. Yes, bacon.”

  Mary chuckled, unwilling to participate. “So why is our meeting here so convenient to you when Isabelle and I should still be abed and consuming something other than chocolate, which everyone knows is the only thing palatable in the morning?”

  Edward smiled at her. “I have taken a decision this morning.”

  “Sounds ominous,” Isabelle inserted.

  “Actually, it’s the opposite,” he replied. “I find I cannot spend another night under Candover’s roof. Impossible, I tell you. Impossible. The man has no idea how to treat guests.”

  “Really?” Mary arched a brow.

  “I’m for Richmond,” he continued, put out.

  “Your estate just beyond London?” Mary continued, “I’ve heard it’s one of the loveliest places.”

  “You must both come, too. That is why it’s so convenient, you see. I’m decided on a house party. You must come.”

  “How delightful,” Mary said, looking toward Isabelle. “What say you?”

  He did not wait for her answer. “Isabelle, I insist you bring Calliope Little.”

  For a moment she thought she spied something in Edward’s regard that was a little too serious. “You are very kind to think of my little cousin. Indeed, I didn’t think you even knew of her existence.”

  “She is not meant for Town,” he continued. “She needs air and nature.”

  Why on earth was Edward focused on Calliope’s needs?

  “And I suppose her abigail must come too,” he said casually.

  “Miss Primrose?” Mary queried.

  His face became a mask of disdain.

  “I haven’t even given you my answer, Edward,” Isabelle said, holding her excitement in check. She longed to leave Town. But she could not.

  “No matter,” he insisted. “I will not take no for an answer, so you should save your breath.”

  “Well . . .” She was acquiescing far too quickly. She had her plans in place for the Little Season and they did not include dallying in nature. “But . . .”

  “But what?” He fidgeted in the saddle.

  “I fear I cannot unless . . . Oh, this is far too embarrassing.”

  “Anything, Isabelle. As long as you all come. A week from today. What is it you require?”

  “You know the Prince Regent’s demands. I fear I cannot go unless . . . well, unless certain eligible gentlemen are there as well. I have a list.”

  “Ah,” he said, a smile breaking through. “A lady without pretense. Very good. I shall promise you a house full of gentlemen since you are providing a house full of ladies.”

  “Is James to be one of the party?” Mary asked slyly.

  “No,” Edward immediately replied. “I refuse to include a man who provides houseguests with fare only interesting to horses.”

  “This explains your aversion to apples,” Isabelle said with a smile.

  Mary chuckled and then looked at Edward with her most alluring expression. “Well, I for one will not go unless James is there as well.”

  Edward’s eyes widened. “Will wonders ever cease? Do you have a tendre for him, Mary? Lucky, lucky fellow.”

  She glanced at Isabelle and laughed
. “Actually, I have my own list.”

  Sussex looked at Isabelle and scratched the back of his head. “I see. Anything more I should know?”

  “James has a list, too,” Isabelle said as casually as she could.

  A grin overspread his face. “Ah, this I would not miss for the world. I suppose I could invite him. But there is one condition.”

  They looked at him expectantly.

  “I have an aversion. It is so deep that I get hives if I am within ten feet of it.”

  Mary giggled. “Yes, we know. Apples.”

  “No. Lists,” he said innocently. “Don’t like ’em. Don’t need ’em.”

  Isabelle cocked her head. “Maybe not for the moment. But have you forgotten that sooner or later His Royal Highness will look in your direction? Wouldn’t you rather pick your poison instead of having it thrust down your throat?”

  “Perfect analogy, my dear. Not that I don’t adore and admire all ladies. But any female attempting to marry me against my will . . . well, arsenic would be preferable.”

  Isabelle seized the moment. “Why do you look at Amelia Primrose with scorn?”

  He started, but recovered nicely. “It’s not scorn, Isabelle. That is something altogether different. Amelia Primrose might look like an angel, but I assure you that no one should trust her. She is the Devil’s handmaiden.”

  Angelus Abbey, the prime seat of the Duke of Sussex, dominated a picturesque, sleepy village in Richmond, just a few hours west of London. A massive gatehouse fronted the mile-long entrance to the circular drive bordered by low-­lying black-­painted chain links and posts. Few flowers or shrubberies decorated the wooded landscape. But that merely drew attention to the stark beauty of the structure built soon after William the Bastard conquered England. One corner of the towering edifice showed signs of ruin, proving man’s handiwork could not withstand the havoc wrought by seven hundred years.

  James studied the structure through the rain-­splattered window of his carriage as his equipage made its way down the long drive.

  It was the last place he wanted to be.