“Yes,” his mother agreed, chasing her previous sip of sherry with another. “I think that’s a wise decision—one that will be more likely to ensure Miss Chilcott’s acceptance.” A crease appeared upon her forehead and she leaned toward him, tilting her head a little as she did so. “What about her . . . identity though? I assume her parents will apprise her of that?”
“I have explained how important it is that they do so immediately,” Anthony said, hoping that they would be wise enough to follow his advice. “I believe they were in agreement when I left.”
“Good . . . good . . .” The duchess nodded and down went another sip of sherry.
This was clearly a situation that called for fortification as far as she was concerned. Hell, Anthony mused, it’s a situation that has made me turn to brandy more than once.
His smile broadened as he raised his own glass to his lips and swallowed.
“And the letter?” his mother asked, nodding toward the missive that was lying on his desk. It had come from Lucien Marvaine, the Earl of Roxberry, assuring him that the culprit behind the shooting had been apprehended. There was nothing further however, no mention of who the perpetrator was, but a postscript suggesting that Anthony come to Roxberry Manor so Roxberry could apprise him of everything that had happened.
“The earl will have to wait,” Anthony said. “As eager as I am to discover why Lady Rebecca was shot, everything else is just a matter of formality. After all, the villain has been caught. I have more pressing matters to attend to.”
Leaning back in his chair, he breathed a sigh of relief. It looked as though a positive outcome was finally within reach. Tomorrow, Isabella would come for tea with her parents, after which, he and Mr. Chilcott would seek out Mr. Roberts and tell him that he’d best forget whatever plans he had of marrying Isabella. Once this was done, Anthony would offer Isabella a proper proposal, and with Mr. Roberts having by then released her of all obligation toward him, she would be bound to say yes. Anthony was sure of it. Tomorrow could scarcely come fast enough.
Isabella was in shock. It was the only way to describe what she felt after everything her parents had told her. It was also the only way to explain why she wasn’t furious with either one of them. She was a lady, the granddaughter of a marquess, and they’d kept this from her for eighteen years. Dear God, their existence was probably the best-guarded secret in all the British Isles and beyond. And now she was supposed to hop into the ducal carriage that had come to collect her and her parents, drive up to Kingsborough Hall and sit down to tea with the duke and dowager duchess.
She’d always dreamed of living a fairy-tale existence, but she was starting to think that whoever was penning this one had gotten a few details terribly wrong. What a muddle and what a deception. Yet in spite of it all, she was happy, because for the very first time since meeting the duke, she felt a spark of hope. “Does he know about this?” she’d asked her parents the previous evening, when they’d finally told her the truth. “Is the duke aware of who you are, Mama? Of who I am?”
“Yes, my dear, he knows, though he has only discovered it this afternoon.”
“When he came to visit?”
They’d both nodded, and Isabella, her curiosity satisfied, had kept quiet. One thought, however, had remained in her head with deep determination: “There is only one woman for whom I hold an interest. Unfortunately, she is quite determined to marry someone else.” He’d been hoping that she would agree to marry him in spite of everything. But how could she, with the hold Mr. Roberts had on her? Even now it would be difficult to go back on her agreement, or more precisely, her father’s agreement. His honor would be questioned and . . . Isabella dared not think of what might happen if Mr. Roberts revealed himself to be the spiteful sort.
Worse was the fact that if she did accept Anthony’s proposal now, he might not think her heart was in it, believing that her yes was determined by her newfound status. Heaven help her, but it was complicated. So she decided not to think about it overly much, enjoying her parents’ company instead as the carriage rattled along the road, swaying gently as it turned up the driveway toward Kingsborough Hall.
As soon as the carriage pulled up to the front door, the steps were set down by one footman while another opened the carriage door, each standing to attention on either side as they offered their white gloved hands and helped the guests alight. Gravel crunched beneath Isabella’s slippers as she stood staring up at the gray stone edifice, with its sunken windows and pointy turrets, thinking of the man who lived beyond these walls. She decided that the building and the man didn’t suit. The building was far too austere for such a kind and quirky soul.
Quirky.
She focused on the word and couldn’t stop herself from smiling. It suited him. There probably weren’t many dukes around who collected bits and bobs—seeing in someone else’s junk the possibility for art.
Artist.
Isabella’s smile broadened. Perhaps the building did suit him after all, for she could certainly imagine it as inspirational fodder for his creative mind.
Allowing her parents to lead the way, Isabella fell in behind them and ascended the front steps. As she passed over the threshold and into the grand foyer, she cast a discreet look at the butler, who stood as stiff as a newly starched cravat. And yet when his eyes met hers for the briefest of moments, Isabella saw the mortification there. He was embarrassed by the way he’d treated her when she’d been there last, and so, when he opened his mouth, Isabella was certain that he was about to apologize.
With no desire to further humiliate the man, Isabella gave him a little nod, smiled reassuringly and said, “We’re here to take tea with Her Grace.”
It was a redundant statement, of course, since the butler would be fully aware of who they were and why they’d come, yet when he responded in the affirmative and asked them all to follow him through to the blue salon, Isabella could have sworn that his features eased a little. She had saved his pride, and he was grateful for it.
They only had to follow him a short distance before they arrived at a room with an open door. With a knock, the butler announced their arrival, then stepped aside and waved them through.
“How kind of you to accept my invitation,” said the duchess as she rose to her feet and came to greet her guests. Anthony, who’d been standing by one of the windows looking out, turned, his eyes brightening as they settled upon Isabella.
She felt the heat rise in her cheeks and tried to get herself under control by greeting her hostess. “Thank you for having us, Your Grace,” she heard her mother say as she swept into a deep curtsy. “We are most honored.”
Isabella followed suit while her father bowed. She’d never seen her parents so formal before, yet her mother in particular behaved with unparalleled grace and etiquette. She was born to this, a voice reminded her just as the duke stepped forward to make his own salutation.
Isabella kept her gaze trained on a porcelain lion that sat beside the fireplace. He knows who I am. Something even she hadn’t known until the previous evening. The thought made her jittery in every conceivable way, for this changed everything between them. She was no longer some simple country miss whom he could take for a tumble without consequence. Indeed, the only way he could have her now would be through marriage.
“My lady,” he said, taking her mother’s hand and raising it to his lips for a kiss. “We are the ones who should be honored. I know how difficult it must have been for you to come here today.”
Isabella could feel her brow drawing together in a crease. How much had her parents told him?
“And Mr. Chilcott,” Anthony continued, shaking her father’s hand. “We are only too happy to welcome you into our midst.”
Isabella’s heart pounded as he stepped toward her next. His hair had been impeccably arranged (no doubt by a very patient valet), his cravat was elegantly tied without being ostentatious, and he wore a dark gray velvet jacket with a black waistcoat beneath and charcoal-colored breeches.
He looked impeccable, and as he took her hand in his, sending darts of heat racing up her arm, Isabella met his gaze—hot and smoldering. She could have melted into a puddle right then and there, he was so magnificently tempting. “Miss Chilcott,” he said. “May I say that you look exceptionally lovely today?”
It was a good thing that he took her arm then, for she feared she might have dropped to the floor—her knees were too wobbly to carry her weight a moment longer. What on earth was he doing to her? She tried to focus on what his mother was saying to her mother—something about how she recalled seeing her at a few social functions years back, except Anthony leaned close to her ear and whispered, “I always said you had a sparkle about you.”
The words softly tickled her skin, and she shuddered as it rippled across the nape of her neck. She could think of no response to such a remark, nor did she dare say anything just now for fear that her words would come out a croak. She remained silent instead, seating herself on one of two pale blue silk settees, her mother and the duchess already occupying the other, while her father had seated himself in an armchair. Anthony, in pursuit of her as always, lowered himself onto the vacant spot beside her. Dear God. Was it just her, or did the room seem overwhelmingly hot all of a sudden? If only she’d had a fan.
Matters didn’t improve as she sipped the warm tea that the duchess served, and no matter how much Isabella tried to concentrate on the conversation taking place around her, she could think of little other than the fact that Anthony’s thigh kept brushing against hers whenever he moved to pick up or set down his teacup—which he was doing far too often, in Isabella’s opinion.
At one point, she hazarded a glance in his direction, only to be met with a much too mischievous smile and a pair of eyes that told her he knew precisely what he was up to. She could have throttled him at that moment if it hadn’t been for the fact that they were not alone. He was deliberately trying to unsettle her, and the worst part was that it was working remarkably well.
Stifling a groan, she returned her attention to her father, who was now in the process of telling the duchess that he’d once had the honor of saddling her late husband’s horse during a visit he’d paid to one of the Deerford estates.
Dear God!
Isabella cringed, though the duchess appeared touched by the story, which included a very fine and flattering depiction of Anthony’s father. A lull arose in the conversation as they each considered the man who was no more—a person who’d been so highly regarded that it would be near impossible for anyone else to live up to him.
Isabella eyed Anthony and found in his features a determination etched so deeply that she wondered at how she could have missed it before. Her breath caught, and as he turned his head to face her, she saw him for who he really was—not some pampered aristocrat used to getting his way and willing to do whatever he had to in order to get it, as she’d initially thought.
The Duke of Kingsborough had resolve, but it was born from the love for a man he’d admired more than any other, and a longing to do whatever he could to make that man proud of him, even if he was no longer here to see what his son was capable of. Her heart swelled for him at that moment with a love so deep and pure that it very nearly took her breath away.