The Trouble With Being a Duke (24 page)

If Anthony thought it embarrassing, he hid it remarkably well, helping Isabella up instead and then offering her his arm. Saying something to the effect that they would be back shortly, he guided Isabella out of the room and away from the safety her parents and his mother had offered.

T
hey didn’t have far to go, though with each step they took, Anthony became keenly aware of the heat entering his body at the point where Isabella’s hand rested upon his arm. He’d enjoyed the discomfort that had emanated from every part of her body as he’d sat beside her on the sofa, for it meant that she was far from indifferent to him. He knew this already, of course, but the confirmation bolstered his confidence. He was grateful for that, considering the conversation he would have with Mr. Roberts later in the day.

Arriving at the library, Anthony opened the door and ushered her inside, only to recall their last encounter here. A similar thought must have struck Isabella, for her eyes immediately went to the shelves where his figures were displayed and blushed. But then her eyes caught something, and she moved forward as if drawn by one singular object of interest. “Is that me?” she asked as she came to stand before the tiny model he’d made of her using the fabric from her gown.

It was Anthony’s turn to feel embarrassed, and he masked it by heading for the side table and pouring himself a brandy. For some reason, her opinion mattered more than he ever would have imagined. It was a silly hobby of course, but it was his, and he’d put extra time and effort into perfecting her likeness. It was imperative to him that she approved. “Yes,” he muttered, offering her a glass of sherry, but she waved away his offer as she peered closely at the figure, as if imparting every detail of it to memory.

With bated breath he waited for her censure, until she finally leaned back, turned toward him with glowing eyes and said, “You put more care into this one, Anthony. It’s . . . I mean, the others are incredible too—I’ve said so before—but this one . . . it’s as if . . .” She hesitated and averted her gaze from his.

“As if what?” Anthony prodded.

She kept quiet a moment, as if taking courage. When she spoke again, her voice was but a shy whisper. “As if your whole heart was in it when you made it. I absolutely love it.”

But do you love me?

He could not ask such a bold question without sounding foolishly desperate, so he merely thanked her as relief flooded his body and he decided to address the topic that had floated in the air between them since her arrival, no matter how uncomfortable it might be. “You seem to be taking the news of your heritage rather well—far better than I would have thought, in fact. How do you feel, knowing that you are not simply Miss Chilcott, but the granddaughter of a marquess?”

Taking a deep breath, she walked across to the bookcases and started perusing their contents. “No different at all really,” she said as she ran her fingers along the spine of an atlas. With a quick glance over her shoulder at him, she gave him a crooked smile. “Perhaps I ought to be angry with my parents for lying to me all these years, except nothing good would come of that. They are still the same people who raised me, cared for me and loved me. I understand why they did what they did—they loved each other, and this was the only way in which they could be together. Yes, they deceived me, but they were only doing what they thought best; what they believed would protect me.”

Anthony stared at her as she stood there, dressed in a simple light green gown, her hair knotted neatly behind her head, though a few loose tendrils curled against her cheeks. “You’re a very forgiving woman, Isabella. Your parents are incredibly lucky.”

She gave a little shrug with one shoulder. “I think it would be unfair of me to judge them based on a decision they made in the face of a difficult situation so long ago. Everyone makes mistakes, Your Grace, and they are my parents. I won’t hold a grudge.”

“And what of your grandfather, the marquess?”

Isabella stilled. “He treated my parents most selfishly. My mother refuses to speak of him, so I don’t know much. I suspect that it was he and my grandmother who stopped me at the ball to ask about my gown? They recognized it, though I was certain at the time that they were mistaken.”

“They asked me to help them find you, hoping that you might be able to give them a clue to their daughter’s whereabouts.” He watched as her posture tensed. “I haven’t said a word to them yet, though I do believe that it would be the kind thing to do. They lost their daughter twenty years ago and have been worried sick ever since.”

Isabella nodded, her face still turned away as she faced the many books before her. “So it was because of them that you went looking for me,” she said. There was no disappointment to be found in her voice. She simply stated it as fact.

It wasn’t true though, and Anthony definitely didn’t want her to think that this was the only reason why he’d scoured Moxley for any sign of her. “No, Isabella, I went looking for you because you stirred to life a part of me that I’d long since forgotten existed—a
joie de vivre
I haven’t felt in many years, not since my father got sick. In your company, I felt the weight of all the responsibility I’ve been shouldering for so long lighten, allowing me the opportunity to have fun. But there was also something else—something powerful that drew me to you, and I felt as though I’d be giving up on the best opportunity life was likely to afford me if I didn’t do all in my power to at least further my acquaintance with you.”

She didn’t move, but he could tell that his words had moved her, judging from the slight quiver in her breath. Moving toward her, he reached out his hand and gently traced the line of her jaw with his thumb. Her breath hitched, and though she might have appeared as calm and collected as a stone statue, Anthony could see her pulse racing against her neck, and he knew that her emotions were raging beneath the surface.

If he tried to kiss her now, she would allow it, of that he was certain, but he’d taken advantage of her too many times already and had made his decision—it was time to treat her with the respect she deserved and for him to act the part of the gentleman he claimed to be. How many times had he said he’d reformed during the past weeks, only to have gone and acted on his rakish impulses? It had to stop. And so he stepped away from her and crossed the room to a safe distance. “I believe it was Mary Wollstonecraft’s
A Vindication of the Rights of Woman
that I promised you,” he said. She turned then, and he suspected from the surprise on her face that she had not expected him to have moved so far from her. She nodded. “It should be just over there to your right—one of those brown volumes on the lower shelf.”

He watched as she crouched down to retrieve it, but as she did, he remembered something. “Wait,” he said, starting forward, except she’d already noticed the book he’d hidden behind Wollstonecraft’s and was presently pulling it from the shelf as well. A wave of heat descended over Anthony as he swooped down in an attempt to snatch the book from her hands. It was too late though. She already had it firmly in her grasp, and he was forced to abandon his attempt, muttering an oath beneath his breath instead.

“It looks as though you’ve misplaced one of your books,” she said, smiling up at him.

“Quite right,” he said, hoping that she wouldn’t notice the sheen of perspiration gathering upon his brow. “If you’ll please hand it to me, I’ll make sure to put it back in the right place.”

She must have seen right through him, for her eyes narrowed and she frowned, looking from the book to Anthony, from Anthony to the book and back again. He held his breath as he waited for her to make her move, and then she opened it.

Oh dear God in heaven.

“
The Path to Passion,
” she read. “By Anonymous. Hmm . . . what a curious name for a book, and how rare for an author to seek anonymity rather than fame.”

Anthony felt himself cringe all the way down to the tips of his toes. He cleared his throat. “Er . . . yes. I suppose the author wasn’t particularly proud of this . . . ah . . . er . . . piece. Perhaps we should save him from the humiliation of reading any further?” He reached for the book as if it had been the dullest thing he’d ever set eyes on before, hoping she’d relinquish it.

Instead, she clutched it tighter and turned herself away from him. “Nonsense,” she said. “He or she is not even here, and besides, I’m rather curious now as to why it’s been hidden away like this. I’m beginning to suspect that it was on purpose.”

Christ!

Well, there was nothing for it now but to wait for the inevitable, so, without further ado, Anthony finished off the remains of his drink and returned his glass to the side table. He was just about to take a seat in his favorite armchair when a loud gasp stopped him in his tracks. It was impossible for him to stop the smile that sprang to his lips, for he knew precisely what it was that had evoked such a shocked response from Isabella, and he rather enjoyed knowing that he was no longer the only one feeling uncomfortable.

“Oh my,” she said in a breathy voice. “These are quite . . . ahem . . . provocative pictures.”

“Yes,” he said, seeing no sense in denying the obvious.

He expected her to close the book at that point as she blushed and fumbled for some sort of excuse to escape the library as well as his presence. What happened, however, was something entirely different, and it was Anthony who was left gaping as Isabella settled herself on the floor, appearing to study the images before her more closely as she angled the book first one way and then the other, tilting her head as she did so. “How on earth is this even possible?”

Anthony coughed—hell, he practically choked on his own breath in response to her question. “Isabella, I really don’t believe your parents would approve if they found you leafing through that particular book. I suggest you put it back where you found it immediately.” It had to be done for his own sanity if nothing else, for he knew by heart each erotic position the book portrayed, and watching her study them was doing very little for his tightly reined self-control.

Thankfully she agreed and did as he asked, but when she rose to her feet and turned to face him with the Wollstonecraft book in her hand, she tilted her head, studied him for a moment and eventually said, “I wasn’t aware such books existed, though I can certainly appreciate the educational benefit of them. Hopefully we’ll have the opportunity to study it together more closely at a later date.” And then, as if she hadn’t just fired his every desire, she added, “Shall we return to the others?” Upon which she headed for the door, leaving Anthony to deal with the uncomfortable state he was now in before he was once more presentable enough to enter back into polite society.

Chapter 23

“I
t appears you have a visitor,” Isabella said just as Anthony was preparing to hand her up into the carriage. He and Mr. Chilcott had agreed to escort the ladies home before heading over to Mr. Roberts’s. Turning his head, he followed Isabella’s line of vision until he was filled with tremendous irritation at the sight of Lady Harriett riding up the driveway.
What the devil does she want now?

He quickly ushered Isabella into the carriage and out of Lady Harriett’s assessing sight before stepping away from the landau just as Lady Harriett’s horse came trotting up to him. “Your Grace,” she said with a pretty smile that belied her true nature. “I came to call on you so we can discuss the upcoming Season.”

Surely she must be cracked in the head
.

“I thought I made it clear to you when last we met that I have no desire to keep your company.”

He watched her bristle, but she quickly recovered, though her smile did strain a little around the edges as she said, “My apologies, Your Grace. I was only hoping to make amends, but since you appear to be otherwise engaged, I shall bid you a good day.” She then swung her horse about and cantered off, allowing Anthony to breathe a sigh of relief. It was about time she realized that her backhanded efforts to win him would only incur his wrath. He could only hope she finally realized that she wouldn’t stand a chance against the woman presently ensconced in the privacy of his carriage.

Climbing inside, Anthony offered Isabella an apologetic smile as he settled down on the vacant seat across from her and next to her father. He could tell from the wary expression about her eyes that Lady Harriett had managed to unsettle her yet again but she was trying her best to appear unaffected.

“How’s your sister faring?” he asked, hoping to draw Isabella’s attention to a lighter topic than that of her nemesis.

She grinned openly at him. “As mischievous as usual, I suppose.”

“She switched the salt and the sugar on Sunday when Mr. Roberts came for tea,” Mr. Chilcott muttered at Anthony’s side. “I daresay he didn’t find the apple pie as tasty as usual.”

It was difficult for Anthony to hide his smile. Young Jamie was certainly doing her part to aid Anthony by trying to discourage Mr. Roberts’s suit.

Lady Margaret, however, did not look amused, and no matter how happy Anthony was that Mr. Roberts had suffered an ill-tasting piece of pie, he understood her sentiment all too well, for Jamie’s mischief reflected poorly upon her. “Needless to say, her actions have been punished with another day of confinement, as well as helping Marjorie in the kitchen.”

“I only wish I’d been there to see Mr. Roberts’s expression,” Isabella grinned, eyes twinkling with devilish delight.

“You were not?” Anthony asked, a wave of relief washing over him at this revelation. It had irked him to think of the two of them sitting down to tea together.

Isabella shifted a little uneasily in her seat and eventually glanced stubbornly out the window, apparently reluctant to answer.

“Isabella wasn’t feeling well that day and remained in her room for the duration of Mr. Roberts’s visit,” Lady Margaret explained, eyeing her daughter with a touch of suspicion.

Recalling the way in which Isabella had fled from him outside the bookshop, Anthony felt a surge of warmth course through him. Eyes fixed on Isabella, whose cheeks had colored more deeply now, he simply said, “How fortunate it is that she recovered so quickly.” He’d unsettled her that day—he was sure of it, for she’d had much the same effect on him—and there was immense happiness in knowing that she hadn’t simply gone home to entertain Mr. Roberts as if nothing had happened between her and Anthony.

With each word they spoke to each other and every touch, the connection between them strengthened. It was just as well that the Chilcotts had finally begun to warm to him, for he preferred not to entertain the thought of whisking their daughter off to Gretna Green—an idea that had crossed his mind on more than one occasion. No, it was simpler if everyone accepted his suit, and as far as he could tell, this was thankfully no longer an issue.

A
nthony awoke the following morning to a blue sky overhead and rays of sunshine beaming through his bedroom window. His conversation with Mr. Roberts the previous day had gone better than expected, leaving Anthony in an exceedingly good mood. In fact, he’d been pleasantly surprised by how willingly Mr. Roberts had relinquished his attachment to Isabella once Anthony had told him of his own interest in her. Given Mr. Roberts’s character, he likely wished to avoid the complication that fighting over a woman would be bound to entail. He’d actually been most hospitable and gracious toward both Anthony and Mr. Chilcott, going so far as to offer them his best cigars and cognac.

With the help of his valet Anthony dressed in a light brown jacket, beige breeches and dark brown Hessians with a waistcoat to match. Placing his fob watch in his pocket, he then headed downstairs, where he met his mother for breakfast.

“You’re looking very handsome today,” she said, abandoning her newspaper and taking a sip of her tea. “I’m certain Miss Chilcott will be very impressed.”

Her secretive smile made him smile in return. “I dearly hope so, Mama, for I’ve no idea what I’ll do if she refuses me now.”

“She won’t refuse you, my love,” his mother promised. “Why it’s obvious for all to see that she’s positively smitten with you.”

“Well, I will be sure to send you a letter straightaway as soon as I have my answer,” he said. “You’ll probably be halfway to London as I make my proposal.”

Once his mother departed with Goodard at ten, Anthony told Phelps to inform the grooms that he would be needing his favorite horse saddled and ready to leave within half an hour. He then finished his tea, met briefly with his secretary and finally departed for Moxley at a pleasant trot. Today he would not rush but take his time, consider the words he would say to her wisely and savor every moment so he’d always be able to recall it in exact detail.

So, as he rode into town envisioning his future with Isabella at his side and their children tumbling about all around them, Anthony failed to notice the quiet looks of disapproval that trailed after him as he went. Nor did he think overly much about the shopkeeper’s unwillingness to help him purchase the dark blue gloves Isabella had fawned over when Mr. Roberts had insisted upon the green, or the florist’s sour expression as he picked out a large bouquet of daffodils. If these women were determined to have a bad day, then that was their prerogative—his mood, however, would not be ruined by anyone.

But when half the town stood whispering behind him as he opened the garden gate at Isabella’s cottage and started up the path that would take him to the front door, an overwhelming sense of uneasiness settled upon his shoulders like a cloak. He tried to shrug it off, telling himself that news of his impending proposal had probably spread and that the inhabitants of Moxley were only eager to discover Miss Chilcott’s answer. He might even have succeeded in his attempt if it hadn’t been for the sudden shout that rose through the air. “Whore!” someone yelled, and another quickly repeated the insult until Anthony felt his blood boil in his veins. There could be only one explanation for this, and her name was Lady Harriett.

Instinct told him to turn back and face Isabella’s accusers, but rationality stopped him in his tracks. Nothing good would come of him beating them all to within an inch of their lives as he wished to do, except that he would feel vindicated. Isabella, on the other hand, would have to suffer further embarrassment. There had to be another way.

Knocking on the door, he waited only a moment before it was opened just enough by the maid to allow him entry. “Thank goodness you’re here, Your Grace,” she said, her voice shaking as she took his hat and gloves. “The Mister and Missus are in a right state, and poor Miss Chilcott has locked herself away in her room. She refuses to come out!”

“Hopefully I can help,” he said in the calmest tone he could muster. “If you’ll be so kind as to put these flowers in water, I’ll go on through to the parlor and have a word with the Chilcotts.”

Taking the large bouquet from Anthony’s outstretched hand, the maid nodded, bobbed a curtsy and scurried off. Once out of sight, Anthony took a deep breath, straightened his jacket and stepped toward the parlor door. After a quick rap, he was admitted entrance by Mr. Chilcott, whom he found nursing a large glass of brandy, while Lady Margaret was pacing frantically back and forth. Jamie sat on a chair in a corner, eyes averted and looking miserable.

When Anthony entered the room, Lady Margaret turned toward him, her whole body sagging with relief as she let out a heavy sigh. “Thank God! You’ve no idea how happy we are to see you, Your Grace. The situation is completely out of control, as you can see. Why, there is the most outrageous rumor circulating about Isabella—people claiming that she’s a . . . a harlot!”

Setting Isabella’s gift on a corner table, Anthony eyed Mr. Chilcott, who was presently taking another sip of his drink. Christ, this was bad. Rumors could break a person’s reputation forever, even if there was no basis for truth behind them. The fact that everyone chose to believe it would be enough for them to forever shake their heads at Isabella every time she stepped outside her front door. Something had to be done.

“Do you have any idea why they’re saying this? What has led them to make such a serious accusation?” he asked.

“Our maid, Marjorie, went into town a short while ago to purchase some items for me. She overheard a group of women talking, and from what she could make out, one of them was saying that Isabella had been seen cavorting with a man assumed to be one of your groomsmen or fieldworkers, since the tryst had reportedly taken place on Kingsborough land—in one of your barns to be exact.” Sniffling, Lady Margaret quickly dabbed at her eyes with a bunched-up handkerchief. “Everyone in town knows of her attachment to Mr. Roberts, so this is part of it, but what makes it all so much worse is the claim that Isabella accepted money from this man in exchange for whatever favors she allegedly provided. The insult to her name is beyond compare, not to mention the men we’ve had to turn away in the last hour, all hoping to strike a deal with her. It’s disgusting!”

Anthony could practically feel the steam coming out of his ears as the story poured from Lady Margaret’s mouth. He wanted to break something or hurt someone—preferably with his fists—but he forced himself to remain calm for the sake of Isabella, Jamie and their parents. A monumental task to say the least. “It’s the last Friday of the month today, is it not?” he asked, turning to Mr. Chilcott for confirmation.

Isabella’s father nodded grimly. “Yes,” he said, his features bleak with despair.

“Then there will be a town meeting tonight—at the assembly hall if I’m not mistaken?” He’d attended a few of these meetings before, since he thought it important to know if there were issues he ought to be aware of. Commerce was often discussed, so if he chose to stay away, he would have no idea of whether or not the people of Moxley were thriving.

Lady Margaret nodded. “Yes, yes of course there will—it’s the highlight of the month for most, and with all the baked goods that the wives provide it’s turned into something of a social event.”

“Right,” Anthony muttered, his mind whirling with options. There was only one he could think of that would save Isabella’s reputation, though he would in all likelihood find himself hunted down and killed by Mr. Chilcott. That thought alone was enough to stop him from voicing his idea. Instead he asked, “Would you be kind enough to pass a note to your daughter?”

I
sabella was furious. She had a good idea of how the rumor had come about, but there was no consolation to be found in that, for it was hardly enough to make it go away. Rumors had a tendency to spread like wildfire, and once they did, they were usually impossible to put to rest. Her thoughts went to Anthony, of what he had to be thinking, and she grew angrier still. Lord help her, how she loved him. She knew he was presently in the parlor with her parents and Jamie, for she had heard him arrive, but she would have to calm down before joining them, since she presently feared she might take out her frustration on the first person she came into contact with, and that would be unfair.

Hands on her hips, she took a steadying breath. The last time she’d seen Anthony, he’d looked at her with adoration in his eyes. She dared not think of how he might look at her now, not because she thought he might believe the slander—no, he was smarter than that—but because he couldn’t possibly marry her now without courting scandal of the worst possible kind; the Duke of Kingsborough marrying a common whore.

No, it was impossible, and to make matters worse, she could no longer count on Mr. Roberts either, for he had called on her earlier to free her of any obligation she might feel toward him since he was well aware that her affection lay elsewhere. At the time she’d been overjoyed—no more than an hour later, she’d been filled with concern for her family’s future. One thing was for certain in all of this—if vengeance was what Lady Harriett was seeking, she’d struck her target dead center.