The Trouble With Being a Duke (6 page)

As for Miss Smith . . . Anthony removed his hand from her thigh and hazarded a glance at her, expecting a reprimanding frown. Instead, he found her looking down at the exact spot where his hand had just been. Even in the dim light of the carriage he could see that her cheeks were flushed. She lifted her gaze to meet his, her eyes wide with wonder and her lips slightly parted as if she wished to say something but failed to find the right words. It was a moment that Anthony would never forget, for as he looked into her eyes, he knew that she had been just as affected as he.

“Your portrait, Your Grace.”

Anthony blinked, turned away from Miss Smith and accepted the piece of paper that the artist was holding out to him. With the spell broken, he voiced his thanks and alighted from the carriage before offering Miss Smith his hand. She quickly accepted and was on the ground beside him a moment later.

“There you are!” Anthony recognized the voice immediately as that of his mother. Looking over his shoulder, he found her walking toward him with Casper at her side. “I’ve been searching everywhere for you—the food is about to be brought out, so I thought it might be an appropriate time for you to make a toast.”

For the briefest of moments, Anthony considered asking his mother to do it instead, but he knew that would never do. He was the duke, and the making of toasts was his responsibility no matter how much he disliked the prospect of speaking to a room full of people. Being on public display like that made him uncomfortable—it always had—and was the reason why he’d delayed taking that dreaded seat of his in Parliament. But, in light of the fact that this was the first ball hosted at Kingsborough Hall since his father’s death, he couldn’t help but agree with his mother: saying something was the right thing to do. “Of course,” he said, managing a smile that he hoped would mask his nervousness.

“Thank you, my dear,” his mother said. She cast a quick glance in Miss Smith’s direction before returning her gaze to him. “And if you wouldn’t mind mingling a little with the rest of your guests for a while after, I think it would help reassure everyone that you’re taking your new role as duke seriously.”

The implication could not have been clearer if she’d spelled it out for him word by word. His mother knew, just as well as he did, that the woman whose company he’d been enjoying for the past hour was not only an imposter but also, perhaps, even unsuitable for him to associate himself with. It annoyed him—mostly because he knew she was right. He couldn’t remain absent from the ballroom too long without the guests wondering where their host had disappeared to, and since his mother would be the one to suffer most from any potential rumors, he had no choice but to do as she asked.

“Don’t worry,” Casper said with an impish smile. “I’ll be more than happy to keep Miss Smith entertained while you see to your ducal duties.”

Anthony had no doubt that he would, but knowing his friend’s devilish ways, he didn’t feel the least bit reassured by his willingness to help. Not when it came to Miss Smith. He was trying to think of an excuse to prevent Casper from spending any time with her when the lady herself said, “How kind of you, Mr. Goodard.”

“It’s settled then,” his mother declared as she took Miss Smith by the arm and started leading her back inside.

Anthony waited until they were out of earshot before he turned to Casper and said, “If you so much as look at her in an inappropriate fashion, I’ll call you out.”

Placing a hand upon his heart Casper said, “I promise I’ll be on my best behavior.”

Anthony frowned.

“Your lack of confidence wounds me,” Casper said with exaggerated sadness.

Anthony’s frown deepened.

“Look,” Casper said with a sigh. “Miss Smith is clearly more interested in you than she ever was in me—though I cannot begin to imagine why. Regardless of my reputation, I have never once risked ruining our friendship for the sake of a woman, have I?”

Forced to concede the point, Anthony shook his head.

“And I’ve no desire to do so now. If she’s so important to you, then I won’t ruin it for you—you have my word on that.”

“Thank you,” Anthony said with a nod as he started after his mother and Miss Smith. “I realize how strange it must seem to you, given everything we’ve been through together, but there’s something special about her, and I . . . well, I suppose I’d just like to keep her to myself for the remainder of the evening—find out if there’s a chance for anything more.” Considering what he knew of her, he somehow doubted that she would agree, and yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that their paths had crossed for a reason.

Keeping pace with him, Casper raised an eyebrow. “More? You’re not thinking of reverting to your sinful ways with Miss Smith, are you?”

“God no,” Anthony said. He realized a moment later that Casper had stopped walking, and he stopped as well so he could turn to look at him.

“Surely you’re not contemplating marriage!” Casper was staring at Anthony as if his head had just fallen off his shoulders. “You barely know her!”

“Casper,” Anthony warned. “I have no intention of marrying anyone . . . yet. So if you don’t mind, I’d greatly appreciate it if you’d refrain from hollering about it for the entire world to hear.”

“My apologies,” Casper whispered. “I can’t imagine
what
came over me.”

Anthony rolled his eyes before adding, “I happen to like Miss Smith.”
Her soon to be fiancé aside
. “And since I
am
entertaining thoughts of marrying in the not so distant future, I’ve decided to start looking at all potential candidates.”

Casper gaped at him. “Are you serious?”

“Quite. In fact, I’ve never been more serious about anything else in my life, and while you may be correct in that I don’t know Miss Smith well enough yet to propose to her, I do know that she’s very forgiving and has a splendid sense of humor.” And before he was tempted to tell his friend more about the time he’d spent in Miss Smith’s company, he hurried up the steps and strode inside the ballroom.

Chapter 6

“H
ave you met my daughter, the Countess of Huntley?” the dowager duchess asked as she guided Isabella along the periphery of the room.

“No, I have not yet had the pleasure,” Isabella said, eyeing the duchess. She felt as though she ought to address the topic that was hanging over them like a storm cloud waiting to burst. Apologizing for her unauthorized attendance would be the proper thing to do—especially since her host and hostess had not yet tossed her out. That in itself was a miracle to be marveled at. Determined to do the right thing, Isabella placed a staying hand upon the duchess’s arm. The older woman slowed, stopped and turned to look at her expectantly. “I hope you will forgive my intruding on your festivities this evening. Should you wish for me to leave, I will do so immediately.”

The duchess watched her silently for a moment before saying, “After all the trouble you went to? I don’t know who you are or how you managed to get in without detection, but I should hate to be the one to ruin your evening if being here is so important to you.” She waved her hand to indicate Isabella’s attire. “Besides, you’re not lowborn or you wouldn’t have been able to afford such a gown. At the very least, you are gentry, perhaps you are even nobility, though I have to admit that if that is the case, then I am even more curious about your desire for anonymity.” She leaned closer to Isabella and lowered her voice to a whisper. “You wouldn’t happen to be one of Lord Jouve’s illegitimate children, would you? It is my understanding that he has several. Perhaps—”

With no desire to lie again, Isabella shook her head. “No,” she said. “It’s nothing like that. If you’ll forgive me, I simply have my own personal reasons for not wanting to disclose my identity.” Giving her a sympathetic smile, the duchess nodded. “Your secret is safe with me,
Miss Smith
.” She chuckled and shook her head bemusedly. “Come, I’ll introduce you to my daughter. We can watch the duke’s toast together.”

A few minutes later, Isabella found herself standing across from a lovely brunette, her hazel-colored eyes visible from behind her green mask.

“Louise, I’d like to present to you Miss Smith,” the duchess said. She turned toward Isabella with a smile. “Miss Smith, this is my daughter, Lady Huntley, and her husband, Lord Huntley.”

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintances,” Isabella said, executing a graceful curtsy.

“Oh, the pleasure is all ours,” Lady Huntley said, her lips curving upward and dimpling at the corners. “Isn’t that so, Peter?”

“Most assuredly,” Lord Huntley murmured as he reached for Isabella’s hand, leaned over it and placed a soft kiss upon her knuckles.

“You see, my brother—”

The ringing sound of metal striking glass stopped Lady Huntley from finishing her sentence. Isabella realized then that the music had ceased and that all the guests had turned toward the steps leading out of the ballroom, where the duke stood staring down at the crowd.

He looked devilishly handsome with his cravat slightly loosened and a few locks of stray hair brushing against his forehead. But he also looked terribly serious with that frown he was wearing upon his brow—not at all like the easygoing man she’d strolled with in the garden. He took a deep breath. Exhaled it and . . . took another. Good heavens. Was he nervous? Surely not.

“He’s always disliked being the center of attention,” Lady Huntley whispered. Addressing the duchess she said, “Mama, was this your idea?”

“This is his first public appearance as duke,” the duchess whispered back. “I thought it prudent for him to assert himself by saying something. Besides, he can do with the practice. As it is he avoided taking his seat in Parliament last year, claiming exemption due to his state of mourning. He won’t be able to use that excuse this year.”

Lady Huntley let out a small groan. “I only hope he doesn’t embarrass himself by fainting. Look, he’s tugging at his cravat again and rocking from side to side like he always does when he’s nervous.”

Isabella cringed. The duke might command an air of confidence when he was on equal footing with everyone else, but speaking aloud with all eyes pinned on him was clearly not his forte. Sending up a silent prayer that he would somehow garner the sense of calm required, she thanked her lucky stars that she was not the one standing in his shoes.

“I would like to thank you all for coming here this evening,” the duke finally said, his voice growing in strength as he spoke. “The title of duke is not one I had hoped to assume at such a young age, for it has come to me at a terrible cost. I miss my father every moment of every day, and can only hope that I may one day be as great a man as he was.

“But life must go on, and I now have duties to attend to. It is for this reason that my mother and I have invited you all here this evening; to usher in a new era here at Kingsborough Hall as we commemorate my father—a man who will never be forgotten by any of us.” Raising his champagne flute, he then said, “To the sixth Duke of Kingsborough.”

“To the sixth Duke of Kingsborough,” the crowd echoed his salute as they raised their glasses in unison.

“That was pretty good,” Lord Huntley said as the music started back up and the chatter of the guests resumed, “for a man who doesn’t care for public speaking.”

Isabella had to agree. In fact, she’d found the toast both heartfelt and moving, leaving her with no doubt that Kingsborough was well on his way to becoming a very fine duke indeed. His eyes had met hers right after he’d finished, and he’d stepped down from his vantage point on the steps with (she suspected) the intention of joining her. The duchess wasn’t likely to approve if he did, for although she’d been nice enough to Isabella, she’d been far from subtle in her suggestion that her son had other guests to see to as well.

“As I was saying before,” Lady Huntley said, drawing Isabella’s attention toward her. “My brother seems quite taken with you.” She leaned closer to Isabella. “Tell me more about yourself, Miss Smith.”

“I . . . er . . .”

“She’s from Flemmington,” the duchess said, leaping to Isabella’s rescue. Why she would carry on what she knew to be a lie with her very own daughter went beyond Isabella’s realm of comprehension. She could only deduce that the duchess’s desire for discretion outweighed any thoughts she had of being honest.

Lady Huntley frowned. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of it. Is it far?”

“Very far,” the duchess replied before Isabella had a chance to, “though it is my understanding that there’s quite a grand lake there with ducks and such—lovely for boating.”

“How charming,” Lady Huntley said. “We shall have to visit you sometime, shan’t we, Peter?”

“I suppose we can try,” Lord Huntley said, his eyes shifting between the duchess and Isabella. There was no denying that he was not as easily convinced about Isabella’s place of residency as his wife was.

“How delightful it is to see you again, Miss Smith!” The voice belonged to Mr. Goodard, who, Isabella discovered as she turned to her right, was standing directly beside her. “I was hoping you’d be willing to dance the next set with me.”

“You’re very eager this evening,” Lady Huntley said as she stepped around Isabella to better face Mr. Goodard. “Your dance with Lady Georgina was particularly entertaining. I do hope that you enjoyed it.”

“As a matter of fact, I did.” Mr. Goodard frowned while Lady Huntley’s eyes narrowed into two tiny slits. They stood like that, staring at each other for a moment in awkward silence until Mr. Goodard’s eyes suddenly widened and he stepped back, pointing an accusing finger at Lady Huntley. “It was
your
idea!”

“I haven’t the slightest notion of what you mean,” the countess replied primly.

“
You
suggested the Hampstead move, didn’t you?”

Lady Huntley shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Aha! I knew it!” Mr. Goodard turned to Lord Huntley. “Do you have any idea how devious your wife can be?”

“I’m beginning to have an inkling,” Lord Huntley murmured.

“If you ask me, I’m quite impressed with her patience and surprised she didn’t exact her revenge sooner,” the duchess said.

“Revenge?” Mr. Goodard looked well and truly stumped. “What on earth for?”

“Stand perfectly still, Louise,” Lady Huntley said in what was presumably meant to be an imitation of Mr. Goodard’s voice—a very poor imitation at best. “There’s a squirrel nibbling on your skirt.”

Isabella stared at the countess, as did everyone else in their small group, including Lord Huntley. It was as if everyone was holding their breath, waiting to see how the situation might unfold, each of them reluctant to speak for fear that doing so would put a rapid end to what had quickly turned into a most entertaining exchange.

Mr. Goodard gaped at her. “Are you serious? That was years ago, not to mention that you should have known better than to believe me.”

“You know that I have an innate fear of rodents,” Lady Huntley protested.

“But squirrels are so cute,” Isabella couldn’t stop herself from saying.

Lady Huntley gasped. “Cute? They are no such thing, Miss Smith. In fact, they are no more than rats with bushy tails! Remove the tail and I tell you, it’s a rat, and I abhor rats.”

“I see,” Isabella murmured.

“Nonetheless,” Mr. Goodard said, “you can’t possibly mean to blame me for stepping into that hole and breaking your ankle—that was entirely your own doing.”

“I wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t been frightened of a fictitious squirrel,” Lady Huntley said between clenched teeth.

“Well, you’ll be happy to know that your attempt to delay me from enjoying Miss Smith’s company was quite successful,” Mr. Goodard said. Lady Huntley finally smiled. “However, I am here now and only too happy to comply with the duchess’s desire for me to entertain Miss Smith for a while.”

Lady Huntley turned to her mother. “Mama, I’m not sure that would be a good idea.” She lowered her voice and added something else that Isabella failed to hear.

“Not to worry, my dear. Mr. Goodard has promised to be on his best behavior this evening.” The duchess pinned the gentleman in question with a dangerous stare. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Goodard?”

“It most certainly is, Your Grace.”

“There, you see?” the duchess said in her usual, gentle voice. “There’s nothing to worry about. Besides, it’s not as if we won’t be keeping an eye on him.” She wagged a finger at Mr. Goodard. “You’re to stay indoors where we can see you. Is that clear?”

“Absolutely,” Mr. Goodard said with a nod of confirmation as he reached for Isabella’s hand, placed it upon his arm and began escorting her through the crowd and toward the dance floor.

“I take it that your reputation leaves much to be desired,” Isabella said a short while later as she and Mr. Goodard stepped nimbly forward between the colonnade of expectant ladies and gentlemen who’d chosen to participate in the country dance.

Mr. Goodard smiled as he glanced down at her. “You are correct in your assessment, though the fact that you don’t consider my name to be synonymous with the devil clearly indicates that you must have led a rather sheltered life. Not fond of the City, Miss Smith?”

Isabella averted her gaze. “Not particularly,” she said. Thankfully, they were forced to part from one another and take up their respective positions at the end of the colonnade, preventing Mr. Goodard from prying further. Looking sideways, Isabella spotted the duke. He was saying something to an older gentleman, but then, as if she’d called his name, he turned toward her. His eyes met hers, and there was a hint of a smile behind them—nothing overt, but an inner warmth that flowed across the space between them.

Isabella gave herself a mental shake and returned her attention to her dance partner. He was strikingly handsome—too much so, no doubt—and yet Isabella felt no more for him than she did for Mr. Roberts, whom she was destined to marry. An awful acknowledgement, she told herself, since this made Mr. Roberts no more dear to her than a man she’d just met.

The duke, on the other hand . . . well, she’d known him for an even shorter duration than she had Mr. Goodard if one considered that Mr. Goodard had made his acquaintance known to her first. But there was something about the duke that Isabella was finding hard to resist. It was an eagerness to know who he was as a person, what his childhood had been like and which experiences had made him the man he was now. A crazy sensation, she realized, but one she could not seem to rid herself of regardless of how much she tried to focus on Mr. Goodard’s handsome face instead. It was no use. Her thoughts invariably returned to the duke.

Isabella sighed.

“Are you all right?” Mr. Goodard asked as he stepped toward her, took her hands in his and spun her around while the other dancers waited for them to resume their places. “You don’t look as if you’re enjoying yourself, which is unusual, since ladies in my company
always
look as if they’re enjoying themselves.”

That brought a smile to Isabella’s lips. “I imagine you must be used to blushes and batting eyelashes wherever you go.” She made an attempt at a lovesick gaze. “Is this better?”