The Trouble With Being a Duke (18 page)

Isabella gave him a dubious look as she reached for the book. “Isn’t she one of those Gothic novelists?”

Anthony shrugged. “I suppose you could say that, though I thoroughly enjoyed reading it myself. I’m sure you will too, for it is full of both intrigue and romance.”

And then he waggled his eyebrows in a manner so suggestive that it was impossible for Isabella not to laugh. “Very well.” She grinned. “I shall give it a try—thank you.”

He bowed slightly in acknowledgement of her thanks and said, “I do hope you’ll allow me to purchase it for you as a token of my appreciation.”

“That’s very generous of you,” Isabella said. “But not in the least bit appropriate, I’m afraid—we’re not even courting, and I couldn’t possibly accept—”

“My dear Bella,” he said in a tone so devilish that it flipped her stomach upside down. “I am well aware that we are not courting and that Mr. Roberts is the man whom you intend to marry. My feelings for you however are genuine, and consequently, I have every intention of doing what it takes to change your mind.”

Isabella’s heart knocked against her chest. She could feel her legs trembling beneath her own weight and automatically glanced around in search of a chair. She really ought to sit down before she collapsed to the floor—again. But when she turned back to gauge the distance between herself and Anthony, he was closer than before—so close she could feel his breath against her forehead. Her mouth grew dry and she reflexively licked her lips, only to catch him staring at her with that same hooded expression he’d had in the barn right before he’d kissed her.

She gasped at the thought of it. He couldn’t. No, he wouldn’t—not in the middle of a bookshop in broad daylight and for all the world to see. She squeezed her eyes shut, and the next thing she felt was his lips—not on her mouth as she had expected—but against her ear. “Do you know why I’m so determined?” he asked.

She shook her head, refusing to look at him.

“Because I want you for myself, Bella—in every conceivable way. Mind, body and soul—I want it all.”

Isabella squeaked. It really was a miracle that she was still upright, considering that her legs had long since turned to jelly. Opening her eyes a little, she was surprised to discover him gone, and she immediately hastened around to the other side of the bookcase, where she found him paying Mr. Browning for her book. His ability to distract her was nothing short of impressive, not to mention frightening; she hadn’t even realized he’d taken it.

“Now then, Miss Chilcott,” Anthony said as soon as Mr. Browning had finished wrapping the book for him. “How about a cup of tea?”

Wary of keeping his company for fear of what people might think—or worse, of gossip reaching Mr. Roberts and her parents—Isabella shook her head. “Thank you, but I really ought to be getting home.” She then headed for the door, suddenly quite desperate to get away from him.

Anthony followed her out, his hand stopping her in her path as he took hold of her arm. She spun back toward him, almost colliding with his firm chest, and it was just too much—her shortness of breath, the rapid beat of her heart, the heat that shot through her at the awareness of how she longed for him to pull her into his embrace. His effect on her was overwhelming, and she staggered backward and met his gaze, only to be stunned by the amusement she found in his eyes and the cheeky smile that played upon his lips.

The horrid man was enjoying her discomfort. She felt like pummeling him. And then he said, “I believe Mrs. Wilkes’ Tearoom has strawberry tarts.”

Isabella blinked. “I beg your pardon?” she managed.

“The tea shop over there,” he offered by way of explanation as he nodded across the street. “I saw the tarts on display in the window on my way over here and immediately thought of you. I know how much you like them, though given the time of year, they’ll be made with preserves no doubt, and not with fresh strawberries, as you would prefer.”

She never should have told him about her fondness for strawberries, for he was clearly using it against her now and with his own devious motives in mind. She had to resist, no matter how tempting the man and the tarts might be. “Unfortunately I must decline.” Something shifted behind his eyes at her refusal, but she wouldn’t be swayed and pressed on instead, determined to do what she must. “My parents will be expecting my return. Good-bye, Your Grace.”

He didn’t release his hold on her, however, and she was halted once again. When she turned her head to look back at him, she was met with a most grave expression. “Your book, Miss Chilcott,” he muttered, offering her the small parcel.

With a brief nod, she accepted the gift, his fingers brushing against hers as she did so, sending a pulse of energy straight through her. “I will call on you tomorrow,” he said, his voice deep with promise.

She shuddered, drew a ragged breath and clutched the book to her chest. He released her then, allowing her to escape, which she did, hurrying away from him at a near run just as it began to drizzle. Her heart was still pounding when she reached her house, dashing inside with one singular purpose—to reach her bedroom without having to face Marjorie or her parents. The last thing she wished to discuss at the moment was the unnerved state she was in. Why did their paths have to keep crossing like this? It was torture seeing him and knowing that he wanted her as much as she wanted him when such a thing was impossible. Why couldn’t he just leave her alone and let her forget? No, she would never be able to forget him. He’d ruined her for anyone else, and when she said her vows to Mr. Roberts, she would forever carry the burden and regret of love lost in her heart. She let out a bitter sigh.
Why did life have to be so bloody unfair?

Chapter 19

“Y
ou have a visitor, miss,” Marjorie announced the following morning as Isabella sat with her mother, each of them working on their embroidery.

Isabella’s heart jumped. Surely it wasn’t Anthony. He’d said he’d call, but would he come so early in the day? She wasn’t prepared. “Who is it?” she asked, hoping her voice sounded calmer than it did to her own ears.

“A lady.”

Isabella sensed the tension in her mother’s posture. “Does she have a name?” she asked.

Marjorie shook her head. “She did not give me one but asked specifically to speak with Miss Chilcott.”

“Well, by all means then, show her in,” Isabella said, putting her needlework back in its basket as she wondered who this lady might possibly be. Lady Louise, perhaps?

“She asked that you come outside,” Marjorie said, looking somewhat uncomfortable, “so you can speak in private.”

Isabella stilled and glanced hesitantly at her mother, whose brow was furrowed in a deep frown. “It seems we’ve been quite overrun with nobility these past few days,” she said tightly, making her disapproval known.

Isabella rose and went to the door. It had to be Lady Louise, for she doubted the duchess herself would venture into this part of town, requesting a private conversation with her. “I’ll just see who it is,” she told her mother as she stepped into the hallway and opened the front door.

The woman she found waiting for her, however, was not Lady Louise. In fact, Isabella had no idea who she might have been, for she had never seen her before in her life. She was pretty, with light brown curls framing her face. Her figure was fashionably slim, and Isabella couldn’t help but feel a stab of envy at her natural elegance. “May I help you?” Isabella asked.

The woman gave Isabella a head to toe inspection, then stared down her nose at her with the same amount of disgust and arrogance that she probably reserved for toads. “Frankly, I don’t know what he sees in you.”

“I beg your pardon?” Who was this woman, and what on earth made her think she had the right to speak to Isabella that way?

“The duke may have taken a momentary interest in you, Miss Chilcott, but you know as well as I that it is only a matter of time before he tires of you.” Her lips curled upward and her eyes flickered with disdain. “Why, you’re not even worthy of being his mistress, so why don’t you stop your . . . whoring and save us all further embarrassment by staying away from him?”

Isabella could scarcely believe her ears, but she recognized the rage that swept through her at the other woman’s insult. “I don’t believe I care for your tone, Lady . . .” She deliberately allowed her words to trail off, hoping this shrew would fill in the blank.

“Harriett,” the lady said, and then, “the Duke of Kingsborough’s fiancée.”

Isabella could feel the blood draining from her face. “His fiancée?” she squeaked, hating how panicked she sounded.

Lady Harriett nodded as though she’d just conquered France. “It hasn’t been formally announced yet, so I thought I’d use what little time I have before it becomes public knowledge to do a little housekeeping. It’s one thing for the duke to have a few indiscretions—indeed, I expect nothing less—but what I won’t stand for is when those indiscretions stop being discreet.” She stepped toward Isabella with a sneer. “I saw you leaving his barn with your clothes and hair in disarray as I was on my way to Kingsborough Hall myself the other day, and I am well aware of his . . . appreciation of you.”

Isabella felt sick.

“However,” Lady Harriett continued in a brighter tone than before, “he knows his duty and will eventually accept that he must end his acquaintance with you. I merely thought to speed things along.”

“If that is all,” Isabella said, her voice clipped with anger, “then I would like to ask you to leave.”

Lady Harriett gave her a hard stare. “Don’t do anything foolish, Miss Chilcott, or I will see what little reputation you have ruined.”

“Is that a threat, my lady?”

Lady Harriett shrugged as she moved toward the gate. “I only mean to caution you,” she said, “unless of course you wish for the whole town to know what a harlot you really are. Good day!”

If only Isabella had had a rock in her hand, she would have happily tossed it at Lady Harriett’s head, she was so enraged. The nerve of her to come to her home and . . . and accuse her of being a whore! She watched, her whole body shaking, as Lady Harriett climbed inside her awaiting carriage and drove away.

It couldn’t be true, could it? Anthony would have said something, surely he would. He’d asked her father for permission to court her, for heaven’s sake. Was it possible he’d changed his mind and offered for Lady Harriett instead? The woman had said that their betrothal was recent. Perhaps it had happened yesterday after she’d walked away from him on Main Street. He hadn’t looked pleased, but he
had
promised he’d call on her. She took a deep, steadying breath and decided that the only reasonable thing to do at this point was to ask him herself. She certainly wasn’t about to take that snooty Lady Harriett at her word.

“A
letter, Your Grace.”

Anthony watched from his side of the table as his mother plucked a letter from the silver tray that Phelps was holding toward her. His mood was somber at best after having told Winston about his meeting with Miss Chilcott in the barn. As he’d expected, his brother had looked at him as if he was unworthy of being a duke, and then he’d told him precisely how disappointed he was in his behavior. It had been nothing less than what he deserved.

“Thank you,” his mother said, breaking the seal and pulling a neatly folded piece of paper from the envelope. She read, her lips parted and when she looked up, Anthony immediately knew that something was amiss. “It’s my sister,” she explained, looking to each of her children in turn.

“Is she all right?” Louise asked, while Huntley, Winston and Sarah broke off their conversation to offer the duchess their undivided attention.

“She took a fall and . . .” Her voice broke. “From what I gather, she is not herself. I must go to her at once.”

“I will escort you,” Anthony said, placing his napkin next to his plate and rising. He signaled Phelps, who’d removed himself to the doorway. “Please tell the stable master to ready the landau.”

The butler nodded and disappeared into the hallway beyond.

“Would you like me to come with you?” Winston asked.

“No,” Anthony said. It was a kind offer, but he knew that his brother was eager to return home and pick up the reins of his business. Things never ran quite as smoothly as they did when Winston was there, and besides, Anthony didn’t want to suffer his brother’s glower for the entire duration of the carriage ride. There was no denying that he was still angry with him. “You have plenty to see to as it is.”

“Huntley and I can join you if you like,” Louise offered.

Anthony gave her an appreciative smile. “Thank you, but I know that you were planning to return home and close up the estate before removing yourselves to London for the Season. Don’t worry—Mama and I will be fine.” He turned to his mother, who was looking worried and pale. “If you can be ready to leave in an hour, we should be able to make it by nightfall.”

She nodded quietly, acknowledging his words, and rose slowly to her feet. Louise was beside her in an instant. “Let me escort you upstairs,” she said. “I’ll call for your maid, and the two of us can help you pack.”

Anthony watched them go before turning his attention back to Winston, Sarah and Huntley. “I’m sorry to leave you all in such a rush, but knowing Mama, she’ll worry herself sick until she sees Aunt Cordelia.”

“You mustn’t concern yourself about us,” Sarah said, her voice as soft as always. “Your mother needs you, and we completely understand. We just hope that your aunt will be all right, and like Winston said—if there is anything at all that we can do to help, by all means, let us know.”

“Thank you, Sarah, that’s very kind of you, but right now I just . . . I need to pack. If you’ll excuse me.” He left them then, heading to his study to collect enough money to sustain them on their journey. After that, he called for his valet, who accompanied him upstairs to help him pack. Half an hour later, he and his mother said their good-byes to Louise, Sarah, Winston and Huntley, climbed into the carriage and headed north.

“I’m sorry to burden you like this,” his mother said as she turned away from the window to face him. They had left Moxley behind a while ago and were now galloping at full speed across the English countryside.

Anthony stared at her. “Your apology is completely unnecessary,” he said, taking her hand in his and giving it a gentle squeeze. “I am only happy to help, surely you know that.”

She attempted a smile and nodded. “Yes, but I feel as though you’ve been doing little else for the past five years.”

“I don’t mind it,” he said, hoping to ease her concern. “It’s my duty to take care of you, and even if it weren’t, I’d still do it. You’re my mother and you need me, that’s all that matters.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “I can’t help but think that it has kept you from making a family of your own. You put your life on hold for all of us—for your father when he was sick, for Winston and Louise so they could be free of the burdens you chose to carry on your own, and for me. We’ve all been like rocks around your ankles, weighing you down and keeping you in one place.”

Anthony shook his head. “You’re wrong. I’m the oldest and I was here—managing the estate and taking care of you and Papa was my responsibility. Granted, it wasn’t easy seeing Papa in such a state of decline, but I never considered any of it a burden.”

She wiped the tears away with her hand and leaned back against her seat. “I’m glad you’ve finally met a woman whom you care about. Miss Chilcott—”

“Oh no,” Anthony muttered, staring back at his mother with wide eyes. “I told her I’d call on her this afternoon, but I completely forgot with our haste to get on our way.” Her expression was once again pained, so he hastily said, “Not to worry—I’ll send her a letter as soon as we reach our destination. I’m sure she’ll understand, given the circumstances.”

His mother nodded. “You should invite her for tea one day, Anthony. I’d like to meet her when she’s not masquerading as Miss Smith.” Her smile was good-natured, and Anthony couldn’t help but return it. What other mother would be willing to accept that her son had fallen for a woman who wasn’t who she’d said she was? None, he wagered.

He contemplated her words and said, “Perhaps that’s not a bad idea. One thing is for certain—I can use all the help I can get in convincing her to marry me instead of that wet towel Mr. Roberts.”

“That’s a bit possessive of you, don’t you think? From what you’ve told me, Mr. Roberts has been courting Miss Chilcott for almost a year. You can’t possibly expect her to just toss him aside from one day to the next just because you’ve suddenly come into her life.”

Anthony glowered. He knew she was right, but that didn’t make him feel any better. “I know she feels the same way as I,” he grumbled.

“Even more reason for her to be backing away from you.” She gave him a stare so frank that Anthony felt certain she saw the situation with far more clarity than he did. “I’m not familiar with Mr. Roberts, but if your description of him is accurate, then I very much doubt he’s managed to elicit as much as a blush from Miss Chilcott, which would mean that if she’s responding to you in the same manner that you’re responding to her, well heavens! The poor girl must be terribly confused, perhaps even frightened by such an onslaught of emotion.”

Anthony closed his eyes against the truth that shone in his mother’s eyes. Her meaning wasn’t much different from what Winston’s had been the previous evening, but her words were kinder. God help him, he felt like an ass. Not only had he burst into Miss Chilcott’s life with his sudden need to claim her as his own, seeking out her house, investigating her identity and meeting with her parents, but in the space of one week he’d kissed her three times and had fondled and pleasured her in a barn, for heaven’s sake. He had single-handedly turned her life upside down, had acted on his baser instincts and had felt affronted when she’d asked him to walk away and leave her alone. “I’ve selfishly pursued her with no thought for what she might be going through,” he muttered.

“Well, I suppose the need for haste has been a factor for you, considering it really will be too late once she marries Mr. Roberts, and since he’s already been courting her for a year, I daresay he’ll propose soon—especially if he and the Chilcotts feel a need to act quickly.”

“I’ve made a complete mess of it,” Anthony said, looking at his mother as if she could somehow give him the answer he needed to make Miss Chilcott his. “I can’t let her marry him, Mama—not with this . . . this bond that’s between us. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I feel it inside me, drawing me toward her. If she marries him, I’ll . . .” He expelled a deep breath and shook his head. “I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“There’s nothing strange about the way you feel, Anthony, though I must admit that I’m a bit surprised by just how quickly you fell for her. It was the same for me and your papa, you know—we saw each other for the very first time across a crowded room and there was this inexplicable pull.