The Trouble With Being a Duke (2 page)

Isabella was about to question her mother about the most romantic thing her father had ever done, but just as she opened her mouth, her mother rose to her feet and said, “You’d better ready yourself in time for Mr. Roberts’s visit. You know he’s never late.”

It was true. Timothy Roberts was the most predictable man Isabella had ever known. Not that this was necessarily a bad thing—after all, Marjorie, their maid-of-all-work, always knew precisely when to put the pie in the oven so it would be ready in time for his visit. And he had been visiting a
lot
lately. Every Sunday afternoon at precisely three’ o clock, for an entire year.

There was very little doubt about his intentions at this point (though he had yet to propose), and Isabella’s parents were overjoyed. Her father, who’d arranged the whole thing, was quite proud of himself for securing such a fine match for his daughter. He should have been too, for while they were bordering on a state of impoverishment, Mr. Roberts was a wealthy man who’d struck up a business specializing in luxury carriages.

Isabella’s father had worked in his employ for the past five years, test-driving each vehicle before it was delivered to the client, and while Isabella wasn’t entirely sure of what her father might have told Mr. Roberts about her, the man had one day appeared for tea, and had continued to do so since.

With a sigh, Isabella gathered up her things, feeling not the least bit enthusiastic about Mr. Roberts’s impending visit. Not because she didn’t like him (it was difficult to form an opinion due to his reserve), and certainly not because he had done anything to offend or upset her. On the contrary, he was always the perfect gentleman, adhering to etiquette in the most stringent manner possible.

No, the problem was far simpler than that—she just did not love him, and what was worse, she had long since come to realize that she never would.

Chapter 2

“I
really must commend you on the pie, Mrs. Chilcott,” Mr. Roberts said as he picked up his napkin, folded it until it formed a perfect square and dabbed it across his lips with the utmost care and precision. “It is undoubtedly the best one yet—just the right amount of tart and sweet.” The slightest tug of his lips suggested a smile, but since he wasn’t a man prone to exaggeration, it never quite turned into one.

Isabella stared. Was she really doomed to live out the remainder of her days with such a dandy? Mr. Roberts was unquestionably the most meticulous gentleman she’d ever encountered, not to mention the most polite and the most eloquent. In addition, he never, ever, did anything that might have been considered rash or unexpected, and while there were probably many who would think these attributes highly commendable, Isabella couldn’t help but consider him the most mundane person of her acquaintance. She sighed. Was it really too much to ask that the gentleman who planned to make her his wife might look at her with just a hint of interest? Yet the only thing that Mr. Roberts had ever looked at with even the remotest bit of interest was the slice of apple pie upon his plate.

Isabella wasn’t sure which was more frustrating—that he lacked any sense of humor or that he valued pie more than he did her. The sense of humor was something she’d only just noticed recently. Unable to imagine that anyone might be lacking in such regard and taking his inscrutable demeanor into account, she had always assumed that he favored sarcasm. This, it turned out, was not the case. Mr. Roberts simply didn’t find anything funny, nor did he see a point in trying to make other people laugh. This was definitely something that Isabella found herself worrying about.

“You are too kind, Mr. Roberts,” her mother replied in response to his praise. “Perhaps you would care for another piece?”

Mr. Roberts’s eyes widened, but rather than accept the offer as he clearly wished to do, he said instead, “Thank you for your generosity, but one must never overindulge in such things, Mrs. Chilcott, especially not if one desires to keep a lean figure.”

Isabella squeaked.

“Are you quite all right, Miss Chilcott?” Mr. Roberts asked.

“Forgive me,” Isabella said. “It was the tea—I fear it didn’t agree with me.”

Mr. Roberts frowned. “Do be careful, Miss Chilcott—it could have resulted in a most indelicate cough, not to mention a rather unpleasant experience for the rest of us.”

Isabella allowed herself an inward groan. The truth of the matter was that she’d been forcing back a laugh. Really, what sort of man would admit to declining a piece of pie because he feared ruining his figure? It was absurd, and yet her mother had nodded as if nothing had ever made more sense to her. As for the threat of a cough . . . Isabella couldn’t help but wonder how Mr. Roberts would fare in regards to their future children. He’d likely barricade himself in his study for the duration of their illnesses—all that sneezing and casting up of accounts would probably give him hives otherwise.

Her father suddenly said, “Have you heard the news?”

“That would certainly depend on which news you’re referring to,” Mr. Roberts remarked as he raised his teacup, stared into it for a moment and then returned it to its saucer.

“More tea, Mr. Roberts?” Isabella’s mother asked, her hand already reaching for the teapot.

“Thank you—that would be most welcome.”

Isabella waited patiently while Mr. Roberts told her mother that he would be very much obliged if she would ensure that this time, the cup be filled precisely halfway up in order to allow for the exact amount of milk that he required. She allowed herself another inward groan. He’d just begun explaining why two teaspoons of sugar constituted just the right quantity when Isabella decided that she’d had enough. “What news, Papa?” she blurted out, earning a smile from her father, a look of horror from her mother and a frown of disapproval from Mr. Roberts. A transformation Isabella found strangely welcome.

“Apparently,” her father began, taking a careful sip of his tea while his wife served him another generous slice of apple pie, “the Duke of Kingsborough has decided to host the annual ball again.”

“Good heavens,” Isabella’s mother breathed as she sank back against her chair. “It’s been forever since they kept that tradition.”

“Five years, to be exact,” Isabella muttered. Everyone turned to stare at her with puzzled expressions. She decided not to explain but shrugged instead, then spooned a piece of pie into her mouth in order to avoid having to say anything further.

The truth of it was that the annual ball at Kingsborough Hall had always been an event she’d hoped one day to attend—ever since she was a little girl and had caught her first glimpse of the fireworks from her bedroom window. She hazarded a glance in Mr. Roberts’s direction, knowing full well that a life with him would include nothing as spectacular as the Kingsborough Ball. In fact, she’d be lucky if it would even include a dance at the local assembly room from time to time. Probably not, for although the life she would share with Mr. Roberts promised to be one of comfort, he had made it abundantly clear that he did not enjoy social functions or dancing in the least.

Perhaps this was one of the reasons why he’d decided to attach himself to
her
—an act that she’d always found most curious. Surely he must have realized by now that they had very little in common, and given his current station in life, he could have formed a favorable connection to a far more prosperous family. Of course he would probably have had to attend a Season in London in order to make the acquaintance of such families, and his reluctance to do so certainly explained why he was presently sitting down to tea in her parlor instead of sending flowers to a proper lady of breeding.

Isabella had on more than one occasion brought the issue regarding Mr. Roberts’s displeasure for socializing to her mother’s attention, complaining that her future would consist of few diversions if she were to marry him, but her mother had simply pointed out that the only reason young ladies attended such events was with the direct purpose of drawing the attention of the gentlemen present. Once married, there would be little reason for Isabella to do so and consequently no point in engaging in anything other than the occasional tea party. And as if this had not been enough, her mother had added a long list of reasons why Isabella should be thankful that a man as respectable and affluent as Mr. Roberts had bothered to show her any consideration at all. It had been rather demeaning.

“Well, it’s nice to see that they seem to be recovering from the death of the duke’s father,” Isabella heard her mother say.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Isabella’s father said. “It must have been very difficult for them, given the long duration of his illness and all.”

“Indeed,” Mr. Roberts muttered without the slightest alteration of his facial expression.

A moment of silence followed until Isabella’s mother finally broke it by saying, “Now then, Mr. Roberts, tell us about that horse you were planning to buy the last time we saw you.”

And that was the end of the conversation regarding the Kingsborough Ball—but it was far from the end of Isabella’s dreams of attending. In fact, she didn’t spare a single thought for anything else during the remainder of her tea, though she must have managed to nod and shake her head at all the right times, for nobody appeared to have noticed that her mind had exited the room.

“Was afternoon tea as delightful as always?” Jamie, Isabella’s younger sister, asked when they settled into bed that evening. At thirteen years of age, she was a complete hoyden and just as mischievous as any boy her age might have been, getting into every scrape imaginable. After deliberately sneaking a frog into Mr. Roberts’s jacket pocket three months earlier, she’d been barred from attending Sunday tea. Her punishment for the offense had included two weeks of confinement to her bedroom, as well as some choice words from Mr. Roberts himself. Needless to say, Jamie’s approval of the man had long since dwindled.

“It was better, considering I was hardly aware of Mr. Roberts’s presence at all.”

Jamie scrunched her nose. “Honestly, Izzie, I don’t know why you suffer the fellow. He has no sense of humor to speak of, is much too reserved to suit your vibrant character, not to mention that there’s something really queer about him in general. I don’t think you should marry him if he offers.”

Isabella attempted a smile as she settled herself into bed, scooting down beneath the covers until she was lying on her side, facing her sister. They each had their own bedroom, but with the nights still cold, Jamie often snuck into Isabella’s room so they could snuggle up together, talking about this and that until sleep eventually claimed them. “I have to think rationally about this, Jamie. Mama and Papa are struggling to keep food on the table, and there’s also you to consider. I want a better life for you than this, with more choices than I’ve been afforded.”

Jamie shook her head as well as she could, considering she was lying down. “I don’t want you to sacrifice yourself for me. I’ll never be able to forgive myself for being the cause of your unhappiness.”

There were tears in her young eyes now that made Isabella’s heart ache. Isabella loved her sister so dearly and knew that her sister loved her equally. “It’s not just you, Jamie, but Mama and Papa as well. Mr. Roberts will ensure that they want for nothing.”

“And in return, you will probably have to kiss him.” Jamie made a face.

Isabella’s hand flew up to whack her naughty sister playfully across the head. “What on earth do you know of such things?” Was there anything more appalling than talking with one’s kid sister about kissing?

“Enough to assure you that you might want to think twice before giving that particular right to a man like him.”

With a sigh, Isabella rolled back against her pillow and stared up at the ceiling. Jamie was right, of course, but what was Isabella to do? Her family’s future depended on her seeing this through to the end. Really, what choice did she have?

“So, what did you daydream about this time?” Jamie asked, changing the subject entirely.

“What do you mean?”

“You said before that you barely noticed Mr. Roberts’s presence during tea. I assume your thoughts must have been elsewhere.”

“Oh!” Isabella sat up, turning herself so she could meet her sister’s eyes. “The Kingsborough Ball. Papa says they’re hosting a new one. Oh, Jamie, isn’t it exciting!”

Jamie jumped up. “You have to attend.”

“What?” It was preposterous—absurd—the most wonderful idea ever. Isabella shook her head. She would not allow herself to entertain the notion. It would only lead to disappointment. “That’s impossible,” she said.

“Why?” The firm look in her sister’s eyes dared her to list her reasons.

“Very well,” Isabella said, humoring her. “I have not been invited, nor will I be.”

“We’ll sneak you in through the servant’s entrance. Cousin Simon can help with that, since he works there.”

Isabella rolled her eyes. Trust Jamie to have that problem already worked out. “I’m not an aristocrat—they will notice I don’t belong,” she countered.

Jamie shrugged. “From what you’ve told me, the Kingsborough Ball is always masked, is it not?”

“Well, yes, I suppose—”

“Then no one will notice.” Jamie waved her hand and smiled smugly. “Do go on.”

“I . . . I have no gown that I could possibly wear to such a function, and that is the deciding factor. No gown, no ball.”

“Ah, but you are wrong about that,” her sister said, meeting her gaze with such cheeky resolve that Isabella couldn’t help but feel a growing sense of apprehension. “There’s always the one in the attic to consider, and I’ll wager—”

“Absolutely not,” Isabella said. She knew exactly which gown her sister was referring to, for it was quite possibly the most exquisite thing Isabella had ever seen. It had also given rise to a string of questions that would probably never be answered, like how such a gown had found its way into the Chilcott home in the first place. Fearful of the answer and of the punishment they’d likely have received if their parents had discovered they’d been playing in a part of the house that had been off limits, they’d made a pact to keep their knowledge of the gown a secret.

“But Izzie—”

“Jamie, I know that you mean well, but it’s time I faced my responsibilities as an adult. The Kingsborough Ball is but a dream that will never amount to anything more.”

“A lifelong dream, Izzie,” her sister protested. Jamie took Isabella’s hand and held it in her own. “Wouldn’t you like to see what it’s like living it?”

It was tempting of course, but still, wearing a gown that had in all likelihood been acquired under dubious circumstances, as it was one her parents couldn’t possibly afford, would be harebrained. Wouldn’t it? After all, it had probably been hidden away for a reason. Her mother had never mentioned that it existed, which was also strange considering it would make an excellent wedding gown for Isabella when she married Mr. Roberts. No, there was something about that gown and its history. Isabella was certain of it, for the more she considered it, the more wary she grew of what she might discover if her questions were one day answered.