Once and Future Duchess Read online

  Amelia stared at the goodness in his eyes and wondered how long she would be able to hide the truth. He was not a martyr or a saint. He was practical and loving, and charming to a fault. He would not toss and turn at night wondering if he should not accept the Sussex duchy when there was no other Godwin to accept the title. And he would love to know that Candover was his brother. He would laugh for a month straight at the irony, slap Candover on the back and call him “brother” at every private opportunity. And Candover would pretend to hate it, but secretly want it, and happiness would replace the dullness in his heart. But gazing into Edward’s green, green eyes, she just could not bring herself to break a confidence. And she had no doubt Edward Godwin would figure it out in under a fortnight.

  “Edward,” she whispered.

  “Yes, my darling love?”

  “Where is this rack?”

  “Come closer, my little lamb, and I shall show you.” He locked the door behind them and proceeded to show her and tell her all about racks, and tongues, and ratcheting up tension, and biting on wood to not scream and alert the maids or footmen patrolling the halls of his bloody crumbling remnant from the Crusades. No one saw either of them for the rest of the day—­or knew where they were.

  Except for the bevy of grinning servants who knew everything about everybody, especially their master, and especially when it concerned good news in the offing.

  And Miss Primrose was very, very good news, considering the other demanding female guests they served during this House Party that Would Not End.

  Chapter 16

  Isabelle drifted in a haze of dreams, luxuriating in one of the favorite scents of her childhood. There was nothing like the sweet, pungent tang of freshly dried hay. She pushed against all thoughts of him even in her dreams. She knew how to protect her heart. She’d been doing it so long it was second nature. And so she dozed, allowing exhaustion to overtake her until the unmistakable human crush of human footsteps awakened her with a start.

  She opened her eyes to find Vere Sturbridge’s shadow falling across her.

  “Hello, sleeping beauty,” he murmured.

  “Hello,” she said simply, not moving.

  “How lovely to find you here,” he continued, “and not the escaped cow.”

  “I’ve never been mistaken for a cow,” she replied without any humor.

  He sat on his knees and picked a piece of hay from her forehead. “Would you prefer I leave you to your thoughts?”

  Suddenly, rays of sunlight burst through the myriad small openings above them. The clouds had dissipated.

  “No,” she said, and sat up

  “Would you like me to listen?”

  His quiet words were like a balm to her frayed nerves. And she suddenly realized that since the day she met him many months ago at her first ball in London, the Duke of Barry had always been very kind and calm. “I’m certain searching for your cow would be far more entertaining.”

  He laughed and settled beside her. “You don’t know this particular cow. She thinks she’s a bull. She would have been a good weapon against the French.”

  She felt a smile tug at her lips. “Tell me about the years you spent in uniform. What it was like to be a Rifleman.”

  And he did. He told her all about the excitement of joining a regiment, the boredom of training, the terror the night before the first battle, which only grows with the next battle.

  “It was as if one knew that each time you survived you were that much closer to having your luck run out,” he said gently. “But these are not things fit for your years.”

  “How old are you, Barry?”

  “Three and twenty. A very old man.”

  She laughed. “Very.” But she could see the lines about his eyes. He wore the telltale signs of the toll of war.

  He turned wistful. “But I feel twice that age. That, and very, very lucky.”

  “Some days I feel twice my age, too, and I do not have war to blame it on,” she admitted.

  “Why were you crying?” he asked gently. “Do you want to tell me?”

  There was something about him, such obvious compassion and empathy, that it invited a desire to confide and lay down one’s burdens. “I miss my father. And my mother,” she murmured.

  “Ah, understandable. I know that feeling well.”

  He pressed a stray lock of her hair away from her face. “I thought it was something different.”

  “What did you think?”

  “It had something to do with Candover. I hope I am not intruding,” he added gently.

  “No,” she said, “I know what everyone thinks. That there is something between us. That we will one day marry. But that is not the case. We will not suit.”

  “I see.”

  She knew he was giving her the chance to unburden her soul if she wanted to—­or not.

  “I suggested we marry earlier this summer,” she said, “but he did not think it a suitable match. And later, when he felt it his duty to offer for me, I finally understood that he was right. We will not suit. I turned him down.”

  Barry’s kind eyes, too old for his years, studied her.

  And then a breath hitched in her side. James’s words would forever haunt her if she did not ask another gentleman’s opinion. But she could never—­

  “Isabelle?”

  She met his steady gaze.

  “It’s all right. Whatever happened to put that look on your face could not be so terrible. I will confide that I’ve witnessed humanity at its worst. You did not harm anyone, did you?”

  His words struck her. She had only harmed herself. “No.”

  He waited.

  “I’ve done something irreversible. Something that would disgust any gentleman who knew.”

  He took her hand and squeezed it gently. “Men who would stand in judgment of something, I am embarrassed to say, they might have done as well—­are not really gentlemen, are they, Isabelle? And I daresay your intuition will guide you well. I assure you that you are every bit as wonderful as ever, in my eyes at least.”

  She did not trust herself to speak and so she nodded instead. She retrieved her hand from his, unable to keep the intimacy after such embarrassment.

  “But are you certain, Isabelle, that you really, truly do not want to marry him?”

  “If you are being diplomatic and asking me if I am letting pride get in the way, the answer is no. While a marriage of convenience is what I will someday seek, a marriage to Candover is impossible and would not bring happiness to either of us. Of that I am certain,” she rushed on before he could comment. “Now you must reveal a confidence to me.”

  “Of course,” he said. “It is only fair after you’ve been so candid and brave in your honesty. And it must be equally important. Let me see . . . All right. Since you’re a member of the entourage, I can place absolute faith in your loyalty.”

  “Of course,” she murmured. “And thank you, Barry, for allowing me to confide in you.”

  “I’m honored you placed your trust in me, Isabelle,” he replied. “Now do you remember how I woke up across from a dead stranger—­that night at Carleton House?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “There was an ancient jewel-­encrusted pistol I’ve never seen before in my hands—­while my own snub-­nosed weapon was still tucked in my vest. And . . . well . . .” His voice faded.

  “Go on,” she urged.

  “This is not a fit subject for a lady’s ears.”

  “Pretend I’m a man. I had all femininity drummed out of me by my father by the time I was ten, I assure you.”

  He looked at her, really looked at her, and smiled. “Not true. You are one of the most lovely and admirable ladies of my acquaintance.”

  “That’s what I get for fishing for compliments.”

  “I will be more specific.” His finger returned to the lock he had pushed behind her ear. “Your hair is like silk, your eyes are the color of finest Scottish whiskey, your complexion like parchment, and your
ears are like seashells . . .”

  A gurgle of laughter escaped from her throat. “Really?”

  “Hell . . . I’m no good at this. I do better describing weapons, I’m afraid.”

  She liked the Duke of Barry very much. She had always thought him overly quiet, but it was not that. He obviously did not talk very much while in company with many other ­people. But one on one? She smiled. “We’ve strayed off the subject. You were about to say something not fit for my . . . seashells.”

  When he smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkled, and eased the battlefield weariness from his face.

  “I was bleeding when I awoke in Carleton House. Nothing serious. A ball had nicked me.” He tapped his side, a few inches above his waist. “And yet . . . there was no other pistol in sight.”

  “Does the Prince Regent know these details?”

  “Of course. I saw him privately that same awful morning after he sent everyone away. It was hideous—­I could remember nothing of the night. And the prince was his usual self, blustering on and on when in fact he could remember nothing as well.”

  She raised her brows. “Yes, he does that very well. And?”

  “And we both concluded someone else pulled the trigger. And in fact, the ball lodged in the stranger probably nicked me first since there was no ball lodged in the wall behind me. The guilty party staged the scene and crept away.”

  A glimmer of an idea passed through her so quickly she could not grasp it. “But what of the man who died? I know Prinny has hushed it up, but—­”

  He brought his finger to his lips, the signal that he would tell her a secret. “I should not tell you this, Isabelle. I swore an oath to the Prince Regent. And I’m a military man. But I trust you. You have more honor and dignity and good character than most likely all of the royal entourage combined.”

  She bowed her head.

  “Good. Negating a compliment does neither party justice. So, the thing of it is this. The man was not dead after all. Although . . . well, it’s a tricky thing, you see. He’s dead now.”

  She shook her head. “So he was not dead, but he is dead?”

  “Precisely. You are very quick.”

  “Thank you,” she said, amused. “So, he died of the wound?”

  “Yes,” Barry said, “and no.”

  She waited for him to explain.

  “He died that same day, trying to escape from a Carleton House bedchamber window. As the Prince Regent explained it to me, the man was placed in a chamber to recover while he was still insensible. The ball had entered below the collarbone, near the shoulder, and he’d obviously lost a fair amount of blood. He must have woken, decided he didn’t want to be questioned, and attempted to leave via knotted bed linen. But he must have lost his grip because . . . are you certain you want to hear?”

  She rolled her eyes. “This is worse than a gothic mystery. Go on.”

  “He fell and broke his neck.”

  “But who was he?”

  “The all-­important question. Given the mood of the ­people in London, Prinny has hushed up the affair. But obviously I cannot rest easy until the entire sordid mess is sorted out. I’ve arranged for every newspaper in England to eventually be delivered to me. I’ve been scanning every single one, looking for reports of missing ­people, without any luck.” He paused. “So now you know everything.”

  A quarter of an hour later Isabelle took her leave of Barry, her heart lighter than it had been in months. She only hoped that one day she would return the favor. He was the kindest, most understanding gentleman of honor. He was solid, and of excellent character.

  She esteemed him greatly.

  James Fitzroy galloped his gray horse over a stile separating two fields. Where in bloody hell was she? He had privately searched Sussex’s freezing abbey for an hour before finally stooping to ask Calliope Little to help him. Three hours later and still she was missing. And now Calliope was worried.

  And hell hath no fury like Miss Little in a worry.

  He’d had to use promises of future outings to prod her back into the confines of the abbey’s library, where not one guest would ever dare to tread for fear of falling into a coma for all the books on sermons found on its vast shelves. Five hundred years of religion tended to leave their mark.

  Calliope was delighted. Her favorite topic was redemption these days, now that she had covered all matters of sin and penance.

  He had left her to her future and mounted his horse.

  God, what had he said to Isabelle? Oh, he knew what he had said, and what he’d done. He didn’t know what he could do or say to erase the cool, remoteness that was filling her, so like his own, but he knew one thing.

  He had to find her.

  And he would not stop until he did. He would do whatever she wanted. He was done trying to control destiny. He would not rest until he saw her happy—­the reserve gone from her beautiful golden eyes.

  He pulled back on his horse’s reins and sat back in the saddle to bring his mount to a halt at the crest of the grassy knoll. Barry’s estate was yonder, a patchwork of fields separated by thick hedgerows of yellow gorse and prickled native species of plants that provided cover to rabbits, birds, and all manner of small animals.

  It had been so long since he had allowed himself the pleasure of getting lost in the green avenues of nature. What he would give to turn back time and take a long walk with Isabelle, as they had so many times on her father’s estate. But then her father’s eyes, his hands, so thin due to the ravages of his long illness, gripped his, while he begged James to do his bidding concerning his only daughter, haunted his mind.

  A movement caught his eye. And he had found her. Walking across a field, sunshine radiated from her face as she turned her head toward the sun. She was oblivious to his presence. God, she was so beautiful, so vibrant and full of life.

  A moment later she looked in his direction and stopped in her tracks. And then plowed forward, obviously determined to ignore him, and quite possibly give him the cut direct as she passed him.

  He stayed rooted to the spot.

  She crossed his path but halted a dozen strides later. “You are wrong, you know.”

  “Good afternoon, Isabelle.”

  She turned again to face him. “I will be just fine. You can stop worrying about me. You can take off that hair shirt of guilt concerning what happened.”

  “I’ll do whatever you ask of me, Isabelle.”

  “Perfect,” she replied. “By the way, Barry asked me to tell you, if I saw you before he, that the Prince Regent sent him a letter asking about you. His Royal Highness would like you to write to him immediately about the progress of the house party—­and more importantly, your progress on the list of potential brides I gave you.”

  “Damn all lists to hell,” he ground out. “Enough with these idiotic lists, Isabelle.”

  “He asked, not I.” She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes.

  “I am glad you went to Barry,” he said softly. “He is one of the most honorable young gentlemen of my acquaintance.”

  “We are in complete agreement,” she replied.

  “For once I could never offer you what he can.”

  She walked back toward him until she was within arm’s length of him. “You’re absolutely right. But don’t hide from the truth of it. You choose to live on an island in the sea of humanity. I tossed you a life raft and you refused it.”

  He dismounted, his body so tense he found it difficult to get off his horse with any grace. “For Christsakes, Isabelle. Was it not earlier today that I insisted we marry? I still do. I told you I won’t allow another man to raise a possible child of mine.”

  “There won’t be a child, I’m certain,” she insisted.

  “How do you know?”

  Her face colored. “I know. I should know without any doubt very shortly.” She paused. “If history is any indication, tonight.”

  “Your stomach pains you?” He looked at her with concern.

 
“I am not going to talk about this,” she ground out.

  “Have you forgotten I have five sisters? I daresay I know all about it. There’s no cause for embarrassment. Soon your mind will be at ease.”

  “No, James,” she said evenly. “Don’t put words in my mouth. It is you who will be relieved. I want a child. Many children, in fact. Children who will fill up the empty halls of my childhood home, which is barren now except for me, surrounded by far too many servants quietly waiting to serve far more than one young woman. God willing, I want to be surrounded by family. And that will start with a husband who truly wants me, children and all the myriad complications and heartbreak, and infinite joy in a shared future. With a husband who will want me just as I am.”

  He stared down into her passionate expression, so certain, so determined, so courageously fearless . . .

  So like her father.

  He teetered on the cliff of duty, nearly fell into the thin air of recklessness—foregoing duty for truth. For letting down the walls so someone could see who he was and love him wholeheartedly, accepting all the complexities of his unique humanity.

  In his mind’s eye a thousand of the scenes of the life she wanted flew by—­her next to him, their children all around them. And he was kissing her, damn the impropriety of it all. The children were whooping and hollering. And yet, his hands did not reach for her. They were tethered by invisible past promises to the father of his heart—­her father.

  He closed his eyes against the promise of it.

  And when he reopened them she was gone.

  Chapter 17

  He had not appeared at supper the night before. But Isabelle would be damned if she would not hold up her head and attend every last gathering of this infernal house party the next day.

  She was leaving tomorrow.

  But tonight she was still on display, still gritting her teeth and having a delightfully good time.

  After a full day—­archery with Calliope, a walk to the small village with the other house guests—­she again found herself seated to the right of Sussex at the long polished dining table with all the rest of the nattering guests, who were finally showing the inevitable signs of boredom from having spent too much time in each other’s presence.