Once and Future Duchess Read online

  And in the next moment, he spied in her face what he had been certain had died the night he was solely responsible for ruining her innocence. He glimpsed love in her eyes.

  “Isabelle,” he murmured, “there is no one I wish more happy than you.” He rushed the words he should not say for they bordered on violating a confidence. “You father would be so happy, too. This was his last wish, that I see you happy with someone like Barry. He said he would never consent to a marriage with someone like me. Did you hear me, Isabelle? He expressly forbade me to marry you. He bade me to promise to see you married to a young gentleman full of vigor and of excellent character and standing.”

  Her eyes clouded with anger. “He also told me on his deathbed that I was to defer to my future husband’s every decision after I marry. And do you think that will happen?”

  “Did you agree to it?”

  “Of course I didn’t!”

  “Too bad for Barry,” he whispered.

  “Stop it! Tell me once and for all. Do you love me or not?”

  And as a ball of fury rose up within Candover to attack and conquer all that stood between them, Vere Sturbridge, the bloody, sodding Duke of Barry rode up on his white warhorse. The only thing missing was a rose clenched in his jaws.

  “There is my ravishing bride,” Barry said with his usual good cheer. “You’re not trying to steal her from me, are you, Candover?”

  Thank God Barry was occupied dismounting and tugging the ribbons over his beast’s head and did not take notice of Isabelle’s face.

  “Where is the carriage?” Barry asked as he pulled up his stirrups. “And Miss Little? We should take our leave within the next quarter hour if we expect to make London by nightfall. Mary Haverty is joining us too, no?”

  “Of—­Of course,” Isabelle stuttered. Her eyes begged him to say something. Something to stop this.

  James was afraid that he would be forever haunted by the expression of dashed dreams on her face just before the imitation of happiness. He forced his legs, which felt like they were stuck in a bog, to walk over to Barry. “I shall see to the carriage.”

  “Kind of you, Candover,” Barry replied, taking up Isabelle’s hand and pressing a lingering kiss there. He focused his gaze on Isabelle’s down-­turned face. “Come, shall we not take a last turn in the garden, my dear? And you must give me a few hints on how I am to coax a smile to the face of your cousin. I’ve brought sweets for her, but I fear it’s going to be a long journey in that carriage for the four of us if she frowns and insists on reading aloud that tract on how we can live hell on earth in our minds if we are not careful.” He grinned ruefully. “Why doesn’t she like me? I swear she stuck out her tongue at me yesterday when she thought I wasn’t looking. Funny, I’ve never had a problem with children in the past.”

  “She’s not a child,” James said softly.

  Already Isabelle’s eyes had grown remote. This would be how they’d always be in the future.

  Barry grinned and shook his hand as they took their leave of him. James heard Barry’s next words directed toward Isabelle and something got stuck in the back of his throat—­and it wasn’t an icicle.

  “You did say she will stay with us for a few more months, didn’t you, my love?”

  Chapter 20

  From the gilded throne of your favorite future monarch

  Isabelle shook her head. She would miss these little notes from the Prince Regent.

  My dearest, loveliest Isabelle,

  So you’ve fixed on Barry, have you? Yes, I always advise to choose beauty before age—­unless, of course, you can have your cake and eat it, too. Oh, extra points for me . . . two misused clichés in one! Now then . . . are you certain, my child? You are my favorite of the entourage and I will not have you unhappy. Again . . . are you certain? I ask for I am your humble servant, or perhaps your benevolent dictator is a tad more honest, and I am very willing (and somewhat determined as long as it will not interfere with my dinner) to have it out with Sobersides and command that he . . . Well, you understand the idea. Unless, of course, you decide to take Matters into Your Own Hands. Duchesses do that from time to time, you know. It’s a very annoying thing for a gentleman, but secretly we know that if you are not happy, no one will be happy.

  And so, to repeat. . .

  It’s. Not. Too. Late.

  See you at the church—­or not.

  Hmmmm . . . how many clichés is that? Might be a record.

  Your devoted, demanding, manipulative, controlling (but all in a good way) sovereign,

  G.

  Isabelle took one long last look at the royal missive that had been delivered to her a month ago upon her arrival in London. She tapped it between her fingers, walked to the marble mantel in her chambers in March House and dropped the letter into the glowing embers of the fire that had been set to chase away the chill of autumn.

  She had dismissed her maid and had but a few more minutes before she would give herself over to the events of the day. She smoothed the delicate pale blue silk and tulle of her new gown, careful to push aside the small train before she moved to the looking glass to make certain she was ready. Tiny white rosebuds threaded her light brown locks piled high into a soft arrangement. The posies she would carry as she walked into St. George’s lay on a nearby table. She leaned into her reflection and pinched her cheeks to bring color to her face.

  She had made her choice. She and Barry would do very well together. She had done the outrageous and taken matters into her own hands at the start of the Little Season, as the Prince Regent suggested, and all had not gone according to plan. But she was determined to accept and embrace all the goodness she might share with Barry, beginning today. This very morning.

  A soft knock on her chamber door roused her from her thoughts and she called out her invitation to enter.

  Calliope’s little head peeked around the door, and her expression filled with wonder. She entered, followed by Mary Haverty and Amelia Primrose, now officially Her Grace, the Duchess of Sussex.

  “Oh, Isabelle,” Calliope said, “how beautiful you are.”

  “This is entirely unfair.” Amelia chuckled. “It will take at least an hour to admire you, and your carriage is waiting. Oh, you look like an angel. Like a fairy come to life. A—­”

  “Princess,” Mary interrupted quietly. “Isabelle, you are perfection. Then again, you always have been—­inside and out.”

  “Oh yes, I’m perfect, all right—­a perfect mass of pudding inside,” she said as she crossed her arms and brushed the flesh above her long gloves. “I’m chilled. I should ask the footman to add a bit of coal to—­”

  “We haven’t time,” Amelia insisted with a small smile. “I daresay my husband will be pounding on this door in less than a minute. If I had known he could be such a demanding brute, I’m not sure I would have taken him on. Are you ready, Isabelle?”

  “I think we still have a little more time,” Calliope insisted. “We should call for some tea. And more coal. And my head aches. Please, I need someone to extract half the pins from my head that are”—­she glanced at Mary—­“stuck into my scalp.”

  “I’m so sorry, Calliope,” Mary replied softly. “I had no idea.”

  “Mary,” Amelia said, shaking her head, “what has come over you? Calliope should be thanking you for arranging her hair. If I have the right of it from the housekeeper—­no one could satisfy Miss Calliope Little today. Do I need to return here to bring some sense into you, Calliope?”

  “Yes,” said Calliope a bit miserably. “Oh, forget it. I know how to leave off of a lost cause. Even I would not leave Sussex if I had him in a leg shackle.”

  Isabelle had watched the exchange without a word. She missed Amelia terribly. There had been something so right about shouldering the education of Calliope with someone who knew how to do battle with her young cousin, and win her over to correct form without damaging her spirit. Ever since Isabelle had left Sussex’s house party with Calliope and Barry, somethi
ng had been missing.

  Someone pounded on the door.

  “You can’t say I didn’t warn you,” Amelia said, biting her lip.

  “Let’s send him down for tea and biscuits,” Calliope begged. “There’s plenty of time still.”

  Mary admitted Sussex into the chamber. He looked around the circle of ladies. “You are all of you ravishing. But we are late. Come along, then.”

  “Is that it?” Calliope inserted. “Where is that silver tongue of yours when it is most called for, Your Grace? Surely someone is going to say something. And you are the gentleman here. You could at least—­”

  “Calliope,” Isabelle said. She tugged at the hem of her gown and moved closer to her cousin. “I’m not certain what is the matter with you, but you will apologize. Now.” Calliope was beyond petulant, beyond reason. Even Amelia was aghast.

  “No, it’s my fault,” Mary said, “I should have been more careful with the pins.”

  An awkward silence hung in the sun-­filled chamber, at odds with the mood of the occupants.

  “I am sorry,” Calliope began quietly, “truly I am, but—­”

  “It’s a quarter past ten,” Sussex interrupted, “we really should—­”

  “But I’m hungry,” wailed Calliope. “Really and truly. No one thought to bring me breakfast.”

  Isabelle examined her shrewdly. What would he say? “Did you ring for a tray?”

  “No,” she replied, “but—­”

  Edward Godwin, the Duke of Sussex, resplendent in Weston’s finest threads made expressly for mornings like these, bent forward and hauled Miss Calliope Little over his shoulder. “Enough, brat. We’re leaving.”

  James Fitzroy was glad he had been given a formal duty this morning. He was simply not at all amused that it involved transporting the Archbishop of Canterbury to St. George’s Church in Mayfair. And yet, he was unable to refuse since the Prince Regent had followed up with his own royal command to do the old man’s bidding.

  It smelled of collusion.

  Reeked of it, in fact.

  Oh, he was no fool. He knew what was afoot.

  Twice during the last month he’d had to entertain His High and Mighty with an appearance at court. Twice the prince had insisted on a private audience. And twice he had endured his sovereign’s lectures on the importance of marriage, of heirs, of spares, and most ironically, of love and other nonsense. And then he had been handed a list. The same long list of females Isabelle had forced on him a long time ago.

  Every lady on the list was more impossible than the last.

  And now he was forced to listen to more of the same in his own landau on the way to St. George’s.

  “We are given life on this earth to procreate,” His Grace, the archbishop, pronounced in his most sonorous voice. “And when we procreate, we honor—­”

  “And this procreating business,” James interrupted, “this is something you’ve done?”

  The archbishop sat up very straight across from him, which was very straight indeed, considering the iron-­like gold collar and stiff fabrics of the clergy he wore. “I know my job, Sobersides, do you?”

  Good God, would he have to endure this stupid moniker for eternity? Apparently.

  The old man switched tactics. “Always liked St. George’s Church. Named after St. George, don’t you know?”

  He would go mad if this continued.

  “A martyr, he was. Dead. And now just a martyr and a saint. You know about him, do you?”

  It was all James could do not to roll his eyes. Instead he stilled his foot, which had been doing a most irritating thing: tapping.

  “This venerated saint slayed a dragon to rescue a king’s daughter from a fate worse than death. Do you know what it was?”

  “Yes. A dragon eating her alive.”

  “Not really.”

  “Then what was it?” He actually wanted to hear the archbishop’s sure-­to-­be-­ridiculous reply.

  “Unhappiness,” he insisted. “He rescued her from a lifetime of unhappiness.”

  “Of what? Perhaps one minute of pain before death by dragon?”

  “You willfully refuse to see reason, Candover.”

  Enough. James grasped his walking stick and tapped it twice on the ceiling of his carriage. He glared at the archbishop. “I see reason to descend right here, I do.”

  “But I have not given you leave to—­”

  “We’ve arrived, damn it.”

  A quarter of an hour later, James managed to work his way through the crowd at the west front portico and edge past the six Corinthian columns to make his way near the canopy over the pulpit. Amelia, Mary Haverty, and Calliope waited for him in the first box pew in the church.

  James wasn’t entirely certain if the roaring in his head was from the crowds of ­people overfilling the famous church—­where anyone who was anyone, and anyone who wished to be someone and could manage it, were married in Mayfair—­or if it was imagined.

  And why were his feet numb and his hands cold? The three longest minutes of his life ensued as he nodded to a few guests, and then entered his high-­walled box, where Calliope, Mary Haverty, and Amelia all waited for him. Handel’s organ spewed forth the same mournful music that preceded three-­quarters of the weddings in this church.

  Before he could think of another thing to dislike, the archbishop appeared from behind a panel and seemed to almost float in his heavy robes to the center of the arched center aisle. Vere Sturbridge, the Duke of Barry, followed him. Moments later Isabelle appeared a few steps away, supported by the Duke of Sussex, whose smile, for the first time James had ever seen, was missing.

  She looked like an angel.

  Or a king’s daughter.

  James just wasn’t quite sure if he was St. George or the dragon.

  Before the last notes faded, the archbishop opened his Bible to a section, looked over the top of his spectacles, and cleared his throat. “Yes, let’s see,” he said under his breath. “A bit rusty. All right. Let us begin. The institution of marriage is not to be entered into lightly, or . . .”

  James lost track of the words. He had entered into another realm as he stared at Isabelle’s profile. So lovely, and intelligent, and dignified. Across from her, Barry wore a look of somber dignity, which was her mirror.

  “Who gives this lady’s hand in marriage?” the archbishop droned onward.

  “I do,” Sussex responded evenly.

  James could not focus on the answers and more questions. Moments later Sussex bowed, and stepped back to enter James’ box. He settled next to James with a loud sigh.

  James wrenched his gaze from his worst nightmare and attempted to focus on one of the carved wooden square panels in the box. A little voice, very faint, itched his consciousness and he glanced to his side. “Stop this,” Calliope said, her face full of pain and misery.

  He closed his eyes briefly and slightly shook his head.

  A small cold hand slipped between his tightly clasped hands. “Please,” she whispered.

  Amelia made an almost inaudible sound of disapproval.

  “I know something,” Calliope murmured.

  He glanced at her without moving a muscle and then returned his attention to the altar.

  Miss Calliope Little threw almost all caution to the wind and tugged James down to her level, cupped her hands about his ear and whimpered, “He likes someone else better.”

  That got his attention. “Who?”

  “You know who.” She nodded toward Barry. The most wonderful fourteen-­year-­old girl in the world then gave a speaking glance toward Mary Haverty, whose face was as white as a February day in Derbyshire as she sat ramrod straight, unaware of the conversation.

  “Give me your word,” he rasped out.

  Calliope’s eyes grew round and she made an X over her heart while she shook her head.

  Bloody hell . . . and heaven on earth.

  He swiveled his head toward Edward Godwin, the Duke of Sussex, who murmured for hi
s ears only, “I’d trust her, brother, if only because she’ll just make everyone miserable for the rest of our lives if you don’t.”

  James did not hear Sussex’s appellation. Calliope’s words rang in his mind, and all thoughts of duty flew away as instinct flooded the walls of his soul, demanding he protect and profess to the woman he loved. James stood up, unaware of his actions, and unaware of the archbishop’s words, or even if it was past the point of no return.

  He rapped his ebony walking stick against the marble floor and exited the box to stand before the threesome. Utter stillness gave way to waves of whispers until he cleared his throat loudly.

  “Isabelle Delphine Sophie Marie Solange Charlotte Jacqueline Clothilde de Peyster Tremont, Duchess of March? Will you do me the very great honor of condescending to make me the happiest of men in all of Christendom and indeed all corners of this earth, and above? I realize I am asking . . . no, begging, really . . . for you to consider this late request, but you see the thing of it is that . . . well, I love you. And even if you very well do not love me in return, still I must ask.”

  Isabelle stared at James, darted a measured glance at Barry, followed by the archbishop, whose mouth gaped—­most likely for the first time in his life.

  “Could you say that again?” Her voice was low.

  “Of course, my darling,” James said. “Isabelle Delphine Sophie Marie Solange Charlotte—­”

  “Do you really have quite so many names?” Barry whispered.

  “Shhh,” Isabelle said. “Yes, I do.”

  Barry leaned closer to her, and James wanted to reach out and grab her. It was visceral, this need to take that which was always meant to be his love. He didn’t want Isabelle anywhere near Barry. He clenched his fists, which were now hot.