Enchanting the Duke Page 9

  “Pebbles, never mind the tea,” Isabelle said, rising from her chair. “I believe I’ll just sit in the garden.”

  “Shall I serve you outside?”

  Isabelle shook her head and turned to leave.

  “My lady, are you ill?” The man’s concern was all too apparent in his voice.

  Isabelle managed a smile for him. “Please do not let Nicholas know where I am.”

  “My lips are sealed.” Pebbles gestured as if buttoning his lips together.

  Isabelle walked outside and sat on the first stone bench she saw. How humiliating to have believed the duke was attracted to her. The man could have his choice of any woman in England. Any woman in Europe. Why would he ever consider her? She was merely his ward, and he was a reluctant guardian.

  “Is aught wrong, child?”

  Isabelle looked at the old woman sitting on her left. “I see that angels do make mistakes.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “The duke has several ladies whom he escorts around town.”

  “So?”

  “So, His Grace harbors no tender feelings for me,” Isabelle said. “Most likely, he cannot bear to be in the company of a young and inexperienced woman like me.”

  “Youthful innocence can be a powerful aphrodisiac.” Giselle lifted her flute to her lips and began playing. At first the melody was spritely and playful, but then slowed into a hypnotically sensual tune.

  “Welcome to London,” someone called.

  Isabelle would have recognized that voice anywhere. She watched the Duke of Avon descending the steps that led from the street. Dressed completely in black except for his white shirt, the man appeared as enticing as Lucifer himself. And just as dangerous.

  “How did you know I was sitting here?” Isabelle asked, by way of a greeting.

  “I followed the dulcet tones of your flute.”

  Isabelle rounded on Giselle, but the old woman had vanished. “I don’t like your London,” she told the duke.

  “My London?” John echoed, sitting beside her on the bench.

  “I do prefer the rustic life in Stratford.”

  “And how were things in rustic Stratford when you left?”

  “The catkins were hanging from the birch and the hazel trees,” Isabelle answered. “The fuzzy buds of the pussy willow were beginning to swell, and crocuses were breaking through the frosty ground.”

  “How exciting,” John drawled.

  “The other day I even heard a starling singing a courting song to his mate.”

  John stretched his long legs out. “You may return to those earthly pleasures after the season. Perhaps some handsome young swain will be singing a courting song to you.”

  Isabelle cast him a sidelong glance. “I wonder that you could part from your women long enough to greet me.”

  John leaned close, the warmth of his breath tickling her neck. “You sound like a jealous wife.”

  Isabelle refused to dignify that comment with a reply.

  “To which women do you refer?”

  “The merry widows reported upon in The Times.”

  “Oh, those women,” John said. “Perhaps I’m awaiting your come-out so I can sing you a courting song.”

  “Considering all your women, you’ll be too hoarse by then.” Isabelle began a lecture on his lack of morality. “Your good reputation is irreplaceable. Once tarnished, it’s gone forever. Consorting with numerous women will ruin whatever reputation you possess.”

  John stood then, startling her. He towered over her and said in a clipped voice, “Mistress Montgomery, I am not in the habit of listening to lectures from anyone, never mind a slip of a girl still in the schoolroom. My women are none of your business. I am the guardian here, not you.”

  Without waiting for her reply, John headed for the steps leading to the street. He paused and looked back when he heard her speak.

  “I demand you return me to my home,” Isabelle said, bolting off the bench.

  “You are home, Belle.” He gestured toward the mansion. “This is Montgomery House.”

  “I meant Stratford.”

  “You’re come-out into society will be the fifteenth of March,” John said, turning away.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To pay my respects to your stepmother.”

  “The door is over there,” Isabelle said, pointing toward the kitchen door.

  “Am I a servant to enter through the rear?” John asked, clearly appalled by her suggestion.

  “Pride goeth before a fall, Your Grace.”

  “Wise words that you should heed.” John stared her straight in the eye. “I’ll see you inside.”

  “I’m going directly to my chamber,” Isabelle informed him.

  “As you wish, Mistress Montgomery.” John gave her a curt nod. “Until the fifteenth evening of March.”

  Isabelle marched into the kitchen. She hurried up the servants’ stairs to the third floor and slammed her bedchamber door.

  “Quiet, child,” Giselle said, from where she sat in front of the hearth. “You’ll rouse the dead.”

  “The duke infuriates me,” Isabelle said. “The man is arrogant, overly proud, immoral—” A knock on the door interrupted her. “Yes?”

  “Lady Delphinia requests your presence in the drawing room,” Pebbles called. “His Grace is here to welcome you to London.”

  “I have the headache,” Isabelle said. “Send His Grace my regrets.”

  “Very good, my lady.”

  “I’ll need to say a good act of contrition for that lie,” Isabelle said, glancing at the old woman. “His Grace heard your flute playing.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s strange, don’t you think?”

  Giselle gave her an ambiguous smile. “The duke has excellent hearing.”

  Isabelle gave her a pointed look.

  “Oh, very well. His hearing my flute playing means he listens with his heart.”

  * * *

  Beware the Ides of March. Isabelle walked down the third-floor corridor in Duchess Tessa’s mansion, where she’d been assigned a chamber in order to prepare for her come-out party.

  “The soothsayer said that to Julius Caesar.”

  Isabelle stopped short and stared at the old woman. “Your presence at my come-out party will create problems,” she whispered, her gaze scanning the corridor to verify no one was listening. “Please return to our chamber at once.”

  “But I’ve been waiting all these years to see you dance with the dark prince,” Giselle complained in an unangelic voice.

  “The dark prince is attending my come-out party?”

  Giselle nodded.

  “Then you must return to our chamber.”

  “Oh, very well.” Turning away to walk back down the corridor, Giselle muttered about ungrateful mortals.

  Isabelle paused a moment at the top of the stairs to compose herself. With a badly shaking hand, she smoothed an imagined wrinkle from the skirt of her blue silk ball gown.

  The hazy image of the man she’d glimpsed in the Avon River so many years ago flitted across her mind’s eye. Would she recognize the prince when she saw him? Would he know they were destined to be together for all of eternity? And, most importantly, would she make a fool of herself in front of the ton?

  Those unanswerable questions and her insecurity made breathing difficult. Her legs felt weak, and her knees were beginning to shake as voices from below drifted up the stairs to her. Isabelle wished she hadn’t sent her guardian angel back to her bedchamber.

  Indecision gripped Isabelle and kept her rooted where she stood. Escape leapt into her mind. It wasn’t too late to return to her chamber and stay hidden behind the locked door. She’d done that numerous times as a child, but she was a child no longer. Running away was not an option.

  “Oh, there you are,” said a deep voice.

  Isabelle lifted her gaze to see John Saint-Germain walking up the stairs. The duke was darkly handsome, and any young woman
of breeding would be ecstatic to have him sponsor her come-out. Any young woman but her.

  “Come and meet my brother before the guests arrive.” John held out his hand in invitation, and when she placed her hand in his, he led her down the staircase to the second floor.

  When they entered the ballroom, Isabelle saw that the others had already gathered there and were forming a reception line. Dowager Tessa, Aunt Hester, and Delphinia stood together and chatted while Lobelia and Rue, looking surprisingly pretty, ogled a young man who appeared to be about twenty-five.

  Leading her to the young man, John said, “Mistress Montgomery, I wish to make known to you my brother Ross.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “Meeting the young lady who has disturbed my brother’s peace of mind is a distinct pleasure,” Ross Saint-Germain said. He gave her a smile that reminded her of her guardian, yet this brother had none of the duke’s dark intensity.

  “Mistress Montgomery, I would be honored if you would gift me with your first dance tonight,” Ross said.

  Isabelle smiled and would have replied, but the duke spoke first. “Mistress Montgomery has already promised her first and last dances to me.”

  Isabelle stared at the duke. She had done no such thing. In fact, she’d passed the greater part of the day worrying if anyone would invite her to dance, especially if they caught her talking to herself.

  “Then you must promise me your second dance of the evening,” Ross Saint-Germain was saying.

  “I would love to dance with you, my lord.”

  And then the dowager’s majordomo positioned himself at the top of the staircase. Within a few minutes, he began announcing their guests as they descended to the ballroom. Everyone’s gaze seemed fixed on Isabelle, the young woman who had caught the attention of England’s premier widower, the Duke of Avon.

  Isabelle saw the first of their guests descending the stairs to the ballroom and panicked. She felt the color draining from her face and took a step back, but the duke’s hand at her elbow prevented her from making a fool of herself.

  “Simply imagine all of these people standing around in their underdrawers,” John reminded her.

  His wit helped Isabelle to relax. She gave him a wobbly smile and proceeded to welcome their guests as graciously as a young queen acknowledging her subjects’ approval.

  Isabelle watched in surprised fascination as two young noblemen tripped over each other to catch her stepsisters’ attention. Stephen Spewing, Baron Barrows, insisted that Lobelia dance the first and the last dances with him. Charles Hancock, Baron Keswick, nearly begged Rue to dance with him.

  “Both men believe your stepsisters possess large dowries,” John whispered. “I’d pay a small fortune to get those witches out of your life forever.

  “Lobelia and Rue aren’t so bad,” Isabelle said, coming to their defense. “They’re just—”

  “Shallow and snide?”

  “Exactly.”

  And then Lobelia’s voice reached Isabelle’s ears, making her cringe. “This must be your mother,” she heard her stepsister say to a young man.

  “I am his wife,” the woman said, and the two of them moved on.

  Isabelle flicked the duke an uncomfortable glance. He shrugged his shoulders slightly and managed a smile. There was nothing to be done for her stepsister’s stupidity now.

  “Oh, how wonderful!” Isabelle heard Rue gushing at a heavyset woman standing in front of her. “You’re having a baby. When is the blessed event?”

  “I am not carrying a child,” the fat woman said, and left the reception line without bothering to greet Isabelle.

  “How radiant you look would have been a more discreet thing to say,” John whispered in her ear. “Something vague always leaves room for interpretation. Remember that.”

  Isabelle nodded in understanding.

  “Here comes trouble,” said a familiar voice.

  Isabelle turned toward it. She forced herself to remain silent.

  “Do not even consider talking to yourself,” John ordered.

  Isabelle returned her attention to the receiving line, discovering Nicholas deJewell and a blond-haired man standing in front of her. She forced herself to smile at her stepmother’s cousin and squelched the urge to yank her hand back when he lifted it to his lips.

  “You are the loveliest woman in attendance,” deJewell complimented her.

  “Thank you, Nicholas.” Isabelle sensed John inching closer.

  “I wish to make known to you my friend, William Grimsby, the Earl of Ripon,” deJewell continued.

  Isabelle shifted her gaze to the attractive blond man. “My lord, I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “I am more pleased to make your acquaintance,” the Earl of Ripon said. “Dare I hope you will reserve one of your dances for me?”

  “Of course, my lord.” Isabelle watched both men turn to greet John and noted the exchange of cold looks between her guardian and Grimsby. The current of hostility that passed between them was as tangible as the floor beneath her feet.

  “Good evening, Your Grace,” Nicholas spoke first. “I hope you don’t mind that I’ve brought a friend along.”

  “I don’t mind in the least.” John slid his dark gaze to the fair-haired man. “How are you, Grimsby?”

  “Hearty as ever, Your Grace.” Grimsby’s smile did not reach his blue eyes. “I see you still have a penchant for blondes.”

  Isabelle felt John tense beside her and hoped no trouble would result from the uninvited guest. Why did these two men hate each other? Why were most of the guests casting interested glances in their direction?

  “Shall we dance?” John said to her before the two men had actually moved on.

  Isabelle nodded. She would have agreed to almost anything to escape the tension.

  Leaving the reception line, John escorted Isabelle onto the dance floor and, with a flick of his hand, gestured the orchestra to begin their first waltz. He moved with the graceful ease of a man who had waltzed a thousand times, and she followed his every step as if she’d been born to be held in his arms.

  “It’s customary for couples to converse while dancing,” John said.

  Isabelle met his dark gaze. “Lobelia and Rue look especially lovely tonight, don’t you think?”

  John nodded, but the hint of a smile made the corners of his lips twitch. “I did need to yank the feathers from their coiffures.”

  “You did what?”

  “I told them they needed to attract husbands, not the neighborhood cats.”

  Isabelle laughed, her gaiety drawing the attention of the couples dancing near them.

  “I knew I could wrench a sincere smile out of you,” John said. “By the way, you waltz very well.”

  “When I was a child, I practiced dancing by standing on top of my father’s feet,” Isabelle told him. “We would waltz around the hall together every evening. I was very light on my feet. Our dances always ended in laughter.”

  John smiled at the image. “Perhaps we could try that sometime.”

  “I think I would crush your feet if we tried that,” Isabelle said, smiling.

  Isabelle danced next with Ross Saint-Germain, who pointed out several young women who’d been angling to become a duchess since the day his brother was widowed. One was a beautiful brunette, Amanda Stanley, and another was Lucy Spencer, a lush redhead. For some unknown reason Isabelle felt the unfamiliar pangs of jealousy at the thought of her guardian marrying either woman. She wondered what his late wife had been like. She must have been a special woman to have won a marriage proposal from him. She wanted to ask his brother about her but squelched the urge. Asking about someone’s private life would be rude. How difficult it would be to compete against a beloved, dead wife.

  The next several hours passed in a daze of dancing and conversation. The low point of the evening for Isabelle arrived when she danced with Nicholas deJewell, but she managed to escape from him as soon as the music ended.

 
Several times Isabelle spied Giselle standing against the wall and watching her. At those moments, Isabelle focused hard on her dance partner in an effort to keep the old woman from calling out to her. The strain of trying to keep from making a fool of herself was great.

  “You don’t seem to be having much fun,” Ross Saint-Germain remarked, claiming her for the second-to-the-last dance.

  “I’m having the time of my life,” Isabelle said. “I cannot remember when I have enjoyed myself so much.”

  “You are the worst liar I’ve ever met,” Ross said, smiling.

  Isabelle inclined her head and amended herself. “I feel much better now that I’m dancing with you.”

  “Do you really talk to yourself?”

  Isabelle missed a step. “Who told you—”

  “Your stepsisters are telling anyone who will listen that you have been slightly unbalanced since your father’s passing.”

  “My stepsisters fear not being able to find husbands,” Isabelle said. “To answer your question, I do not talk to myself.”

  “I assumed it was jealous gossip.”

  “I have a guardian angel with whom I speak,” Isabelle informed him. “Nobody but me can see or hear her.”

  Now Ross Saint-Germain missed a step.

  Isabelle smiled at his mistake. “I share all of my problems with my guardian angel.”

  Apparently, her smile made him think she was joking. “What problems can a beautiful woman have?”

  “I have Lobelia and Rue.”

  Ross laughed and inclined his head at her wit.

  When the music ended, John appeared to claim her for the last dance. Isabelle gazed up at his dark features and suddenly felt there was something vaguely familiar about him, that she’d seen him before that day at Arden Hall. And then she thought of William Grimsby.

  “Why does the Earl of Ripon dislike you?”

  John gave her a look that said whatever had passed between Grimsby and him was none of her business. “I’ll call upon you tomorrow at Montgomery House to see how you are faring,” he said, ignoring her question. “Do not forget the Debrett ball is next week.”

  Isabelle decided to drop the issue. The dance ended, and as soon as all of their guests had departed, Isabelle returned to Montgomery House with her stepfamily.