When You Wish Upon a Duke (2 page)

But this traveler had persevered. Beneath the tree, the carriage slowly came to a stop before the front door. The horses were weary, their heads drooping, and the driver moved stiffly as he climbed from the box to open the carriage door. The passenger who stepped forward was a gentleman, his traveling cloak swirling around him and a thick leather portfolio in his arms. As the driver thumped the butt of his whip against the manor’s door to rouse the servants within, the gentleman looked upward, the cocked brim of his hat pointing like the beak of an inquisitive blackbird, and swiftly Charlotte slid deeper into the shadows to keep from being seen. The door opened, candlelight spilling out onto the steps, and Harbough, their butler, ushered the stranger within.

“Who could he be, Charlotte?” asked Diana with
growing excitement. “Why would he come here now, in the middle of the night? Maybe he’s a pirate, or a French spy, or—”

“Oh, hush, Di,” Charlotte said, scrambling back through the window. “Pirates and Frenchmen don’t wait for Mr. Harbough to open the door. More likely he has word from one of Mama’s London relations.”

“I’d rather he were a pirate,” Diana said, taking Fig from Charlotte and cradling her in the crook of her arm like a baby. “Or a Frenchman.”

“You’d best hope he’s not French, or you won’t be able to speak a word to him,” Charlotte said as she hurried through the room. “You’ll wish you’d paid more heed in our lessons.”

“You didn’t either, Charlotte,” Diana protested, trotting after her. “That’s why Madame left. She said we were unteachable, like the cursed beasts of the forest.”

“Les maudites bêtes de la forêt.”
Charlotte might not recall much genteel French, but she did remember Madame’s exasperated exclamations, which had been far more amusing than the verbs they’d had to memorize. “Come, don’t dawdle. I don’t wish to miss anything.”

By the time they reached the front staircase, Harbough had just taken the stranger’s cloak, the two men’s shadows wavering in the light of the many-branched candlestick held by one of the maids. The three of them looked up to Charlotte and Diana on the landing. The stranger was definitely not a pirate or even a Frenchman, decided Charlotte with disappointment, but most likely a solicitor or other such dour fellow with papers or letters for Mama. Dressed in serviceable black, he was above middle age, his nose long beneath his snuff-brown wig and his lined features studiously composed. Yet even he couldn’t entirely hide his weariness after his journey, and with no sign yet of Mama from her
rooms, Charlotte realized it was her responsibility to welcome him.

Hastily she smoothed her palms over her hair and began down the stairs, her bare feet muted on the worn oak treads. Halfway down, she also realized that Mama would not be pleased to have her welcoming guests when she was dressed only in her night rail and a raggedy wool jersey, but at least the jersey was so stretched that it covered her to her knees, and besides, it
was
the middle of the night.

“Lady Charlotte Wylder,” Harbough announced, as grandly as if she were entering a ballroom. “Lady Charlotte, Mr. Thomas Carter.”

Charlotte smiled. Smiling generally eased any situation, however awkward.

“Good day, Mr. Carter,” she said. “Or rather, good evening. Is Mama expecting you?”

“Good day, my lady,” Mr. Carter said, bowing low. “Pray forgive the inconvenience of the hour, my lady, but it is you I have come to see, not Lady Hervey.”

“I?” Charlotte’s eyes widened with astonishment. “You must be mistaken, sir. No one calls on me.”

“I assure you that there is no mistake, my lady,” Mr. Carter said solemnly. “His Grace would never make such an error.”

“His Grace?” Charlotte repeated warily. She folded her arms over her chest, the long sleeves flopping over her hands. From the landing behind her she heard a smothered giggle from Diana, and Charlotte’s first astonishment now shifted to unabashed suspicion.

“His Grace, meaning a duke?” she continued. “A
duke
? Oh, what a pretty jest, sir, and I know you’re party to it, too. Go on, then. Tell me why a duke—any duke!—would send you to call upon me.”

“Forgive me, my lady, but His Grace would never jest
over such an important matter.” Mr. Carter hesitated, choosing his words with care. “As the, ah, the fateful day of your nuptials draws closer, arrangements must be made.”

“My
nuptials
?” Charlotte flushed. Now, this was dreadfully cruel, to tease her like this about marriage. She knew she was eighteen, already past the age when girls in the village wed, and also past the age when Mama and Father had been married. Yet because of who Charlotte was and where they lived, there were never any young men interested in her. Mama had always made vague promises to take them to London for suitable husbands when they were older, but always in some distant future, not now, and not to a
duke
. “A pox on you, sir, to show such unkindness toward me!”

But the gentleman only shook his head as he reached inside the leather portfolio. “Forgive me, my lady, but I assure that this is no jest, with no unkindness intended. Here is a gift His Grace sends to you, his portrait, as a token for the future you will share.”

He stepped forward to hand Charlotte a flat velvet-covered box. For a long moment she could only stare at it there in her fingers. Then she slowly, cautiously unlatched the tiny golden clasp and opened it. Inside lay a small oval portrait of a handsome gentleman with dark hair, a blue sash across his chest. The portrait was painted on ivory and ringed with tiny winking brilliants. A painted stranger claiming to be a duke: how could this be her husband?

“Mr. Carter, good evening!” cried Mama, appearing on the landing beside Diana. Lizzie was there, too, yawning, evidently awakened by the commotion. “Pray forgive our makeshift welcome, but with the length of your journey, I was not given to expect you until tomorrow at the earliest.”

“Good evening, Lady Hervey,” Mr. Carter said, bowing gallantly. “The hour is unseemly, I know, but His Grace is a lord who expects promptness in all matters, and on this most important errand, I have traveled without stopping.”

“Yes, I imagine dukes must be obeyed,” murmured Mama, “no matter what the hour. Poor man, you must be weary beyond measure.”

“Mama, please,” Charlotte said, catching Mama by the arm. “About Mr. Carter, and this duke, and—”

“His Grace, Charlotte. You must call him His Grace,” Mama corrected gently, looping her arm around Charlotte’s waist and drawing her close. Her smile twisted, as if she was trying not to cry. “Mr. Carter, you have met my eldest daughter?”

“Yes, Mama, he has met me,” Charlotte said quickly, her suspicions and uneasiness rising by the second. She pressed the miniature portrait into her mother’s hand. “He brought me this as a gift.”

Mama stared at the handsome painted face, her fingers pressed to her cheek.

“Heavens, heavens,” she murmured. “Oh, how much His Grace favors his late father!”

“But who is he, Mama?” Charlotte begged. “How can you know him, while I do not?”

“Oh, my lamb, I am so sorry,” Mama said, shaking her head with a sad regret that did little to calm Charlotte. “Everything was decided so long ago by your father, you see, when you were still in the cradle. I was going to tell you tomorrow, before Mr. Carter arrived, but now he is early, and I—I didn’t.”

“Then tell me now, Mama.” Charlotte tugged the sleeves of her jersey over her hands, twisting them into the rough wool so that no one could see how her fingers shook. “What Mr. Carter says cannot possibly be true, can it?”

“Charlotte, Charlotte, my own dear.” Again Mama tried to smile, a single tear sliding down her cheek. “It is true, every word. Within the week we shall all leave Ransom Manor for London, and as soon as it can be arranged, you will wed His Grace the Duke of Marchbourne.”

Greenwood Hall
Surrey

James Augustus FitzCharles, third Duke of Marchbourne, stood in the center of the largest arched window in his bedchamber, his hands clasped behind his back. He was dressed for riding, and riding he would go, as soon as the tall French clock behind him struck eleven. That, he had calculated, would be the precise time to leave the stable, ride through the yard and the allée and across the north fields, and be near the London road when the coach passed by.

He could have waited until later next week, for the formal introductions that had been planned by his elders and their solicitors. To them his marriage was only a transaction of dynastic business, a calculated union of families and fortunes that had been blessed by His Majesty himself.

But for reasons that Marchbourne—or March, as he had been called by his friends since he’d inherited the dukedom—himself could not entirely explain, he’d no wish to wait for that chill formal introduction. Instead he’d decided that his first meeting with Lady Charlotte Wylder should appear to be by purest accident beneath the open sky, as if a whim of fate instead of their fathers
had brought them together. He’d intercept her traveling party and graciously invite them to stop here at Greenwood for refreshment, as any host might. He’d already ordered tables arranged in the west garden, where his late mother’s white roses were beginning to bloom, and his cooks were busily preparing a selection of temptations for ladies. But that would be all. A chance meeting, followed by civil hospitality, white roses and sweet biscuits and tea, an accident of love contrived by an ardent bridegroom.

More likely an accident of tomfoolery, March thought with disgust as well as despair. What was he thinking, anyway? He’d always believed himself by nature far too practical for this sort of ridiculous gallantry. His history with ladies was impeccably honorable, and as far as he could tell, he’d never once fallen in love. It simply hadn’t been necessary. Lady Charlotte Wylder was already his, by right and by law, and had been betrothed to him since he’d been a boy of eight. There was no need for him to contrive a romantic folly with roses and biscuits to win her. He was twenty-six years old and a gentleman in his prime, master of all the land he could see from this window and much more besides, a peer of the realm and great-grandson of a king.

Yet here he was now, so beside himself with anticipation and dread and uncertainty that he didn’t wonder the entire household couldn’t hear his heart knocking away in his chest.

Eleven, and not before. He did not wish to appear too eager. Eleven, and—

The clock struck, the chimes as solemn as ever, and March nearly jumped from his boots. By the eleventh chime, he had composed himself once again and begun walking purposefully through the house, beneath the painted gazes of his long-gone ancestors in their stiff ruffs and gilded frames and before the occasional bowing
servant. It took exactly nine minutes to walk from his rooms to the front door—he knew because he’d timed himself numerous times before calculating a useful average—so by a quarter past the hour, he had taken his hat and gloves from his servant and put them on, respectively, his head and his hands, had walked down the fifteen polished white stone steps, and had mounted the horse that the groom held for him. Two other grooms were also waiting, ready to ride behind as an escort. Waiting, too, was Carter, dressed in his usual gloomy black.

By trade Carter was the solicitor who oversaw all the niggling legal details that were part of every estate the size of Greenwood. But Carter had also been in the service of the Dukes of Marchbourne for so long that he’d earned March’s trust as well in other, more personal matters. When his letters to the Dowager Countess of Hervey had gone unanswered, March had naturally sent Carter to call upon the lady and flush her out from the ancient, distant pile of a house where she’d hidden herself with her daughters. And, just as naturally, it made sense to have Carter at his side now—if for no other reason than that he could make proper introductions.

They rode down the drive, cutting off across the west fields, around the lake, and past the miniature Temple of Jupiter that his father had built on a whim. It was a splendid day, full of warmth and sunshine on the green fields and trees around them, but March’s thoughts were turned so thoroughly inward that he saw none of the beauty around him. Fortunately, another of Mr. Carter’s gifts was the ability to keep a companionable silence, and he rode patiently beside March until, at last, March could no longer keep his doubts bound within.

“You are certain the party of ladies left Tensmore this morn, Carter?” he asked without preamble. “You are sure of it?”

“As certain as I can be of anything, sir,” said Carter, who was accustomed to this kind of abrupt conversation from the duke. “I had word that Lady Sanborn’s coach left Tensmore shortly before dawn.”

March shook his head. “How can you be so sure, Carter? If Lady Hervey is as—as
scattered
as you have portrayed her to me, then I find it difficult to believe that she would be capable of so prompt a departure.”

“You are correct, sir,” Carter said. “If arrangements had been left entirely in Lady Hervey’s hands, then I doubt she and her daughters would have yet left Ransom Manor. But because they are now being guided by the countess, I expect that promptness is the order of the day, and that they left Her Ladyship’s house exactly as planned.”