The Trouble With Being a Duke (19 page)

“We both denied it at first—after all, love at first sight is a fantasy—but then we were introduced, and the more time we spent in each other’s company, the more impossible it became for us to ignore the way we felt about each other.” She paused, tilting her head a little as she regarded her son. “You love her, Anthony, and the sooner you admit that to yourself, the better.”

Anthony shook his head. “No, I . . . what I feel is the promise of love, Mama. I don’t actually . . . I mean I—”

“Is she constantly in your thoughts? Do you ache to be near her? Do you worry for her and what will become of her if she marries Mr. Roberts instead of you? Have you pondered what life will be like with her at your side? What your children will be like? Would you risk your life to save hers? Would you sacrifice your own happiness for hers? And what if something terrible were to happen to her, would you recover from it and go on with your life, or would it cripple you?”

Anthony couldn’t speak, so he just sat there staring back at his mother, who, in turn, offered him a knowing smile and nodded. “That’s what I thought,” she said.

He felt as if his chest was constricting—as if he couldn’t breathe. This feeling that suddenly swamped him was not in the least bit pleasant. In fact, it terrified him to death knowing that what his mother said was true, because this was far worse than the promise of love. He’d actually gone and quite unwittingly fallen in love with a woman who, he doubted, felt the same way about him. Hell, he knew she was drawn to him, but love? What the devil was he going to do now?
Damn!

B
y the time they arrived at his aunt and uncle’s estate, it was dark. Two footmen came to greet them, each carrying torches to light the way. Anthony helped his mother alight, and together they climbed the steps to the front door, where the butler waited. “Good evening, Your Graces,” he said, taking their hats and gloves and handing them to an awaiting maid. “The earl is in the library—right this way.”

As they followed the butler down a dimly lit corridor, Anthony couldn’t help but reflect upon the note of relief that had tinged the butler’s voice as he’d greeted them. He understood, however, the minute they entered the library. Sitting in a deep armchair was his uncle, the Earl of Chester, staring off at some faraway place, concern and fatigue apparent in the dark patches beneath his eyes. He looked as if he’d aged a dozen years since Anthony had seen him last, only four months earlier, and he recognized in that instant the severity of the situation.

“Gerald,” the duchess whispered as she stepped away from Anthony’s side and approached her brother-in-law with tentative steps.

The earl didn’t flinch—did not as much as acknowledge her presence as he spoke to the space beyond. “She fell . . . she just fell . . .”

“How did it happen, Gerald?” the duchess prodded, crouching next to his seat.

The earl turned to gaze at her then, the stricken look in his eyes so familiar to Anthony, for it was a look he’d seen in his mother’s eyes three times before—when her husband’s ailment had been announced, when he had given up the fight, and when he had drawn his final breath. It was a look of complete and utter hopelessness and loss of control.

“If you’ll excuse me, Mama,” Anthony said. “I shall just have a word with the butler.”

They exchanged a knowing glance, upon which she nodded and he left the room. Though he had yet to see the state his aunt was in, one thing was clear—his uncle needed help, and Anthony knew precisely what to do. He’d done it all before, after all.

“Marsham,” he addressed the butler who’d positioned himself close enough to the library door should they need him, yet far enough away to offer privacy. “A word if you will.”

Marsham nodded and Anthony followed him back to the foyer.

“Have my cousins been informed about their mother’s condition?” Anthony asked.

“Yes, Your Grace. Our first missives were addressed to them, but as you are probably aware, Lord Hillcrest and his sisters meant to continue on to London after attending your house party. It will take longer for them to arrive than it did you.”

“Quite right, and since they left my estate three days ago, they will have arrived in London already. I doubt they’ll make it all the way back until the day after tomorrow at the earliest.” He considered the butler’s stark expression. Marsham hid it well, but Anthony could tell that he was hoping for assistance. “Needless to say, my mother and I shall remain here until Lord Hillcrest arrives.”

Marsham gave a curt nod. “Thank you, Your Grace,” he said in his familiar, affected voice that betrayed not a single emotion.

“They are family,” Anthony added. “And nothing is more important than that. Now, I assume a physician has been to visit the countess.”

“Yes, Your Grace. He was here this morning and again this evening—he left shortly before your arrival.”

“Very good, Marsham. I’ll need to know exactly what he said, as well as what treatment he has prescribed.” He stopped to think. “Has my uncle eaten his evening meal?”

“No, Your Grace—he has not moved from that chair since yesterday.”

“Good God,” Anthony exclaimed. “And you didn’t think to serve him his food in the library? The man needs to eat, Marsham—he’ll never get through this otherwise.”

“We did try,” the butler said, sounding not the least bit moved by Anthony’s suggestion that he and his staff had shirked their duties.

Anthony raked his fingers through his hair as he paced the space. “Have Cook prepare something cold for all of us—some ham and some cheese with a few slices of bread. The duchess and I are hungry as well—perhaps if he sees us eat, he’ll find himself tempted.”

“A splendid idea, Your Grace.”

Anthony eyed him and frowned. “Only if it works, Marsham.”

“Of course, Your Grace. Will that be all?”

“Bring the food so we can eat, then you and I will discuss the doctor’s visit, and when that has been completed I should like to take the duchess to see her sister. Does that sound reasonable?”

Only the slightest twitch of his lips betrayed Marsham’s surprise at being asked rather than ordered, and by a duke no less. He nodded briefly, and with an “I believe so,” he took his leave of Anthony and headed for the kitchens.

Chapter 20

H
e hadn’t called on her—not today, not yesterday and not the day before that either. Isabella yanked a potato out of the ground and tossed it into a nearby basket. She’d pushed him too far with her stubbornness, and now he wanted nothing to do with her—and after he’d been so kind as to buy her that book. It was a good book too, with a definite flair for the dramatic.

No, he was probably showering Lady Harriett with attention instead. A fierce pang of jealousy sprang to life in Isabella’s chest, so painful that she actually winced. What right did she have to feel that way? She’d rejected him—repeatedly—and he’d decided to move on. It was for the best really, and it was what she wanted. Wasn’t it?

No,
her inner voice screamed. The thought of him marrying someone else—of him touching any other woman the way he’d touched her—Dear God, she couldn’t bear it.

Yanking another potato from the ground, she considered her options. Lady Harriett had told her that she and Anthony were betrothed, but something about her words and the way she’d spoken them had rung false. In fact, Isabella was willing to guess that Lady Harriett had taken an interest in Anthony and was trying to eliminate her competition, which would explain why she’d threatened her.

But before she hurried off to confront him about it, Isabella had to make a decision. Would she be the dutiful daughter everyone expected her to be, condemning herself to live unhappily ever after with Mr. Roberts? Or would she do what she knew would make her happy and marry the duke instead? If there was ever a time in her life when she ought to be selfish, then this was surely it. Her parents would undoubtedly be furious—might never speak to her again—and Mr. Roberts would be . . . well, he wouldn’t be happy, that was for sure. But she and the duke would be, though they would not avoid scandal.

Standing there in the vegetable patch with her hands all covered in dirt, she finally made her decision—she would go to him and ask him about Lady Harriett, and if he denied any connection to the woman, Isabella would accept his offer of marriage. She’d run away with him if that was what it took for them to be together.

A weight was lifted from her heart in that moment. Hopefully her parents would not be too cross with her—especially once they realized how much easier their lives would be with the duke’s protection. He would care for them, she was certain of that.

Finishing her task, she took her basket to the kitchen and gave it to Marjorie, after which she ran to her room, washing her hands and face at the washbasin and changing into a clean gown. Filled with excitement, she wrote a quick note to her mother explaining that she would be back later in the day, then left the cottage at a brisk pace.

It took her half an hour to arrive at the massive front door to Kingsborough Hall, and for a long while she just stood there, staring at it as she tried to calm herself. Taking a deep breath, she eventually stepped forward just as the door swung open, revealing none other than the odious Lady Harriett.

Isabella froze. What on earth was she doing here unless . . . No, it wasn’t possible. Whatever the case, Isabella would not be made to feel inferior by such a vile woman, so, squaring her shoulders, she stood her ground, offered Lady Harriett a curt nod in greeting and then looked beyond her, at the butler. “I’m here to see the duke,” she announced, trying very hard to ignore Lady Harriett’s glare.

The butler peered down his nose at her and said, “The servant’s entrance is at the back, miss, though I don’t believe we’re presently hiring.”

Lady Harriett snickered, and again Isabella ignored her, determined to make her case. “I am not here as a servant but as an acquaintance of the duke.”

The butler looked dubious but at least asked her name, which she gave him. He seemed to consider it for a moment before saying, “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard mention of you. Besides, His Grace is no longer in residency.”

Isabella’s jaw dropped. “What?”

“He has left town, Miss Chilcott, and I am not at liberty to say when he will return. Now, if you will please excuse me, I have a job to do.” And without further ado the door closed in Isabella’s face.

“I thought I had made myself clear,” Lady Harriett said. Isabella turned to look at her and was struck by the venom that shone in her eyes. Surely Anthony couldn’t mean to marry such a creature. “He no longer wants you, and with the Season about to begin, I suspect it will be an age before he returns, and once he does . . . well, it shall be with me on his arm. We are to announce our engagement, you see. That is why I was here—to ensure that all will be ready for my arrival as duchess.”

Isabella gaped at her. She glanced at the door, then back at Lady Harriett, who was looking far too pleased with herself. In that moment, Isabella lost hope. She’d pushed him away and he’d left without a single word of warning, to set up his residency in London, no doubt, where Lady Harriett would reconvene with him.

Isabella hadn’t wanted to believe it, but the butler’s concise dismissal of her made it difficult to deny what Lady Harriett had told her.

With a breaking heart, she straightened her back and addressed the woman before her. “I will stay away from him,” she promised in a low whisper. “You have my word on it.” And before Lady Harriett had a chance to see the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes, Isabella turned on her heel and strode away, hurt and angry. How could he? What kind of man chased after a woman, desperate to make her his wife, only to choose someone else without a moment’s notice? One who clearly didn’t feel for her what she felt for him. “I hate him,” she muttered as she walked the long and tedious road leading back to Moxley.

In the space of one week, he’d made her long for something more than what was her due, he’d made her believe he cared, had given her a taste of passion and had, with his charm, his touch, his words, made her fall desperately in love with him. And then he’d left her—gone to London to prepare for the Season and the arrival of his fiancée. She’d never hated anyone as much as she hated him in that moment. What a fool she’d been to think that a duke would actually want anything more from her than a few laughs, some stolen kisses and . . . thank God she’d managed to preserve her innocence, or she might have been left to bring a child into the world on her own.

It was no wonder that her mother hated his kind. They were arrogant people who toyed with people’s lives, as if doing so was a game to them.
She
had been a game to him. That much was clear now. She stopped for breath, her heart pounding in her chest as the tears flowed down her cheeks. She wiped them hastily away when she spotted a carriage rolling toward her. As it came closer it slowed, coming to an eventual stop as it drew up beside her. The door opened and Mr. Roberts peered out, tipping his hat in greeting. “Miss Chilcott, I’ve been hoping to speak to you. I trust you have fully recovered from your ailment?”

She nodded, recalling how she’d remained in her room when he’d called on her Sunday for tea. She’d been in no mood to entertain him—her meeting with Anthony in the bookshop earlier in the day had been too troubling to think of. “Yes, thank you,” she said, smiling up at him.

“I’m glad to hear it, though I’m not the least bit pleased to find you trudging about the countryside like this. It really won’t do. The future Mrs. Roberts must ride in a carriage.”

There were so many things wrong with that statement that Isabella didn’t know where to begin. For one thing, she’d received no proposal from him yet, nor had she accepted. Next, there was the fact that now he was prohibiting her from walking, which she might have been able to accept if, like Anthony’s, his reasoning had been based on some concern for her safety. However, it was perfectly clear that the only thing concerning Mr. Roberts was that he keep a high standard for appearance’s sake.

Nevertheless, it wouldn’t do to offend him by saying any of those things, since she would soon be accepting his offer. Or at least she hoped so, for if he too decided to cast her aside, it would leave her family in dire straits indeed. So when he offered her his hand, she obediently accepted it, allowing him to help her up into the landau, where she took the seat across from him. “To Moxley,” he then directed the driver. Turning to Isabella he said, “It’s time we find you something decent to wear.”

“I beg your pardon?” He’d said it as if she’d been a river rat that he’d just fished out of the Thames when in fact she’d worn her best gown, thinking she’d be seeing Anthony. She pushed all thought of him aside—as difficult as that was to do—and focused on Mr. Roberts instead.

“Well,” he said, peering at her. “You can’t expect me to make a proper proposal unless you look the part.”

“The part,” she reiterated, sounding daft to her own ears. Then again, the man whose company she was keeping had just claimed her unfit for a proposal given her present attire. It rankled her beyond imagining, but what choice did she have but to keep quiet?

“Of my future wife, Miss Chilcott.” Good God, could he possibly sound more patronizing? He leaned forward, narrowing his eyes on her as he tilted his head a little and asked, “Is there a problem?”

“No,” she muttered, fearful that if she said what she truly thought, he’d toss her out in the road and never speak to her again. She couldn’t afford that—not with Anthony gone, and with her parents and Jamie relying on her to make a sensible decision.

Mr. Roberts leaned back against his seat. “Good,” he said. “Because the only reason that I am prepared to marry you, Miss Chilcott, is because your father gave the impression that you are capable of being both discreet and compliant. Based on my own assessment of you for the past year, I’ve had no reason to disagree with him. However, if something has happened recently, and you no longer feel yourself capable of being the wife I seek, then by all means, do let me know so that I may place my interests elsewhere.”

Isabella trembled. He’d just given her a means of escape, but it was one she couldn’t possibly accept, least of all now. She had to reassure him somehow. “Please don’t misunderstand me, sir. I am exceedingly grateful for everything you’ve done for me and my family, and your offer to see me properly outfitted is very much appreciated.” She forced herself to smile. “Considering your own impeccable taste in clothes, I know that I shall be in good hands, and I assure you that once we marry, you can count on me to be as discreet and compliant as you require. I know how important privacy is to you.”

He didn’t answer immediately, and Isabella found herself holding her breath while she prayed that he wouldn’t see right through her. For the truth of the matter was that she had never in her life resented another person as much as she did this man. She needed him though, as unbearable as that was, and found herself relieved when he eventually said, “I believe I shall order a new jacket and trousers as well—to match your gown.”

And no matter how ridiculous Isabella thought they might look garbed in the same fabric, she kept quiet this time, unwilling to say anything that might cause him to change his mind.

A
nthony was in a state of panic. He’d been gone from Moxley for three days, and he’d forgotten to send a letter explaining his absence to Isabella. With a groan he stared out the window at the passing countryside. His mother had fallen asleep shortly after their departure from Chester House, which hadn’t surprised him in the least, since she’d hardly slept at all during their stay there.

Neither had he, for that matter. He’d had plenty to see to, with an aunt paralyzed on her entire right side, an uncle in shock, a mother who hadn’t stopped crying since seeing her sister in such a god-awful state, servants who’d gone adrift from lack of instruction, and a physician who’d seemed more interested in having his bills paid than in caring for his patient.

It had been a tremendous ordeal, and while he’d thought of Isabella a number of times, there had always been something to distract him from getting that letter written and mailed out. Thankfully, his cousins had arrived last evening and Anthony and his mother had been able to depart. They needed rest, if nothing else.

Closing his eyes, he saw Isabella’s smiling face before him. She must have been livid, for he’d told her four days ago that he would call on her the day after. One thing was certain—he’d have to make a good apology, though knowing how attentive she was toward her own aunt, he felt confident that she would understand once he explained the reason for his sudden departure. With that thought lifting his spirits, he leaned his head back against the plush upholstery that the seat offered and allowed the sway of the carriage to lull him to sleep.

“Anthony,” his mother’s voice whispered from somewhere far away. “You must wake up.”

He chose to ignore her, turning his head away from the direction of her voice as he attempted to hold on to his dream—one in which Isabella was walking toward him in a flowing white gown, her hair falling over her shoulders. It was a good dream—a happy dream—one that he wasn’t prepared to part with just yet.

“Anthony,” his mother’s voice was louder—more urgent. “Wake up right now, do you hear me?”