Why Dukes Say I Do (19 page)

Isabella felt ill watching the oily man claiming such a crime against himself. Poaching was a problem, but surely if the man took better care of his tenants it would not be necessary. She had seen how worn and dirty the prisoner’s clothing was.

“Mr. Carson,” the duke said, turning to the man still being held fast by Moneypenny. “Is there anything you wish to say in your defense?”

“Answer His Grace, you great looby,” Moneypenny said, shaking the man by the arm despite his greater height and breadth. “Tell him what ye told me afore.”

“Begging your pardon, Yer Grace,” the prisoner said with a surprisingly soft voice, “I were that desperate. It’s been a hard winter and my Sarah was just brought to bed again. Iffen there was work hereabouts or if Mr. Palmer would stop raising the rents, then mebbe—”

“Do not try to blame this on my friend Palmer, you thieving rascal,” Thistleback interrupted before the man could finish his statement. “If you were to exercise some self-control and weren’t constantly breeding them perhaps—”

“That will do, Thistleback,” Ormonde said sharply. “There are ladies present.”

“The devil you say,” Thistleback burst out, scanning the room until he saw Isabella in the back and stopping, his mouth agape. Turning back to Ormonde, he demanded, “What is she doing here, Ormonde? This is no place for a lady. Surely you can see that!”

“She is here because she wishes to be here, Sir Lionel,” Isabella said, standing and walking toward the front. “I will thank you to keep your opinions to yourself. And stop interrupting the proceedings. I am quite confident that you are not even a proper witness as these things go.”

“Thank you for that, Lady Wharton,” the duke said dryly. “Now, if you will return to your seat, perhaps we may continue?”

Stopping halfway from the front of the room where the men were gathered, Isabella saw that the duke was saying something to her with his eyes. Just what it was he was saying she could not discern. But it was enough to convince her that perhaps she had best keep out of the matter. It would not do to let her dislike for Sir Lionel and Mr. Palmer color whatever Trev—the duke, she corrected herself—was going to decide about Mr. Carson.

Once she was seated, the duke continued, “Mr. Carson, I can well imagine that you have had a difficult year on Mr. Palmer’s estate. However, that does not give you leave to steal game from his land whenever you wish.”

“But, Yer Grace,” the man objected, his hangdog expression growing even more morose, “I cannot leave Sarah and me bairns to take care o’themselves. Please, Yer Grace—”

Ormonde raised his hand to forestall any further protest. “I have seen the affidavits from Mr. Palmer’s gamekeeper. It would seem that by your own admission you are guilty.”

To Isabella’s dismay the prisoner seemed to diminish before her eyes, his shoulders sagging, all the fight gone out of him. Surely the duke would not sentence the man to jail or, worse, to hanging for one stolen rabbit. She watched with a sinking stomach as Sir Lionel patted Mr. Palmer on the back at his apparent victory.

“However,” the duke said, and Isabella felt her breath catch in her throat, “since you have been held in gaol for the past week while we were waiting for the affidavits to be sworn, I will consider your punishment to have already taken place and I will request that at this time Mr. Moneypenny free you to go about your business. But if I hear any word of you or your sons poaching again, I will see to it that you are punished much more harshly.”

While Ormonde had continued speaking Isabella had felt her eyes fill with tears and to her surprise she found her hands clasped before her in some sort of silent supplication. She realized now what he had meant when he talked about his duties as a magistrate being important to the surrounding community. What if Mr. Carson had found himself before someone like her father had been or, worse, like Wharton had been? It was horrific to imagine that in someone else’s hands the man might have found himself transported or, worse, hanged.

“This is absurd!” Mr. Palmer said, his face turning nearly the color of his puce waistcoat. “The man was poaching on my land and I expect you to mete out the justice he deserves, Ormode.”

“I have done so, Mr. Palmer,” the duke said curtly, rising from his seat before them. “I suggest you reconsider the manner in which you decide to raise your rents and refuse to make repairs on the cottages on your estates. I realize that poaching is a crime, but I cannot fault a man for doing so when he has been driven to desperation by the mismanagement of your estates. I would suggest that you look into getting a more competent bailiff if you wish to keep this same thing from happening again.”

Trevor stood his ground while Palmer and Thistleback fumed before turning to stalk from the room and out of the house.

“I canna thank ye enough, Yer Grace,” Mr. Carson said, shaking the duke’s hand like a pump handle.

“Thank me by never poaching on Palmer’s land again, Carson,” the duke said. “And if you are looking for honest work, come back next week and have a talk with my head groom. I’ve heard from Moneypenny here that you are a dab hand with a horse.”

With another barrage of thanks, Carson, followed by a grinning Moneypenny, stepped out of the chamber and into the hallway beyond.

“Now do you understand?” Ormonde asked as he waited for Isabella to cross the room to stand at his side. “I cannot abandon these people simply because my cousin had the misfortune to get himself killed before he could have a son. I won’t do it.”

“I understand that you are tied to the people here, certainly. But I begin to wonder if some sort of compromise might be worked out.”

“What do you mean by that?” Ormonde asked, his auburn brows rising in question.

“I’m not sure yet,” Isabella said, unwilling to voice her idea just yet. For now it was enough that she was almost finished fulfilling his requirements so that he would accompany her to London. She did care about what happened to the people here and the people of the duchy of Ormonde, but for now she was content with the knowledge that her sister’s engagement was well on its way to being preserved from the dowager’s interference.

For now, that was enough.

Ten

“No, Ellie, turn your foot like this.” Belinda demonstrated the step for her sister. Much to everyone’s surprise, the girl who had little use for fashion or social graces had taken to dancing like a cat to cream.

The duke had been co-opted into the dance lessons, as had his friend Sir Lucien Blakemore.

Miss Nightingale had taken up a position at the pianoforte.

Now Isabella was watching as Ormonde, partnering Belinda, stood back as she demonstrated the step for her sister.

“That’s what I’m doing, Belinda.” Eleanor was, sadly, not quite as adept at dancing as her younger sister, and her frustration with the activity was beginning to show. “We may as well stop. I’m never going to be able to do this properly before the Palmers’ ball.”

“Do not give up so soon, Miss Eleanor,” coaxed Sir Lucien. “I have it on very good authority that the young men of the county are quite looking forward to dancing every set with you.”

The duke looked as if he wished to hunt down these young men and thrash them, but the other man’s words seemed to do the trick with Eleanor. She blushed prettily and asked, “Really? You aren’t just saying that?”

The baronet placed his hand over his heart. “On my honor, it’s the truth.”

“Don’t be so missish, Ellie,” her sister said with a roll of her eyes. “Of course they’ll want to dance with you. You’re prettier than either of the Green sisters and you won’t see them sitting out any of the dances.”

Sensing that a sisterly spat was imminent, Isabella interrupted. “I think you have mastered the polonaise for now, Eleanor. Why don’t we try the waltz?”

“Isn’t that a bit fast for the country?” Ormonde asked with a frown. He was clearly having some issues with his baby sister moving into the adult world.

Before Isabella could speak, Miss Nightingale said, “Your Grace, it is perfectly acceptable for a young lady to dance the waltz at a country ball. When she goes to London, of course, she will need permission from the patronesses of Almack’s, but here it will be quite unremarkable.”

“Miss Nightingale,” Isabella instructed, “will you please play a waltz? Sir Lucien and I will demonstrate.”

If either the duke or the governess objected to the notion, neither of them said it aloud. Miss Nightingale simply nodded, and the duke folded his arms across his chest, his mouth pursed in a grim line as he watched the couple.

Blakemore was an excellent dancer, and Isabella had to admit that it was not unpleasant to be held in such a handsome man’s arms. They twirled through the drawing room, where earlier the footmen had been asked to roll up the carpets for the impromptu lessons.

Isabella knew the precise moment when the baronet lost his concentration and missed a step. It was when Miss Nightingale coughed. It was discreet and barely audible over the sound of the pianoforte, but as soon as the noise pierced the air Isabella felt her partner stiffen and stumble.

He caught himself at once, but not before Ormonde stepped forward and said, “I think you’ve demonstrated enough, Luce; let me show them how it’s done.”

Isabella was startled by the duke’s intrusion, not least because she had not thought him able to perform the steps of the waltz. But, for all that his parents had kept him buried in the country, the duke danced beautifully. And Isabella could not deny that the feeling of his strong hand at her waist and the other in her hand was intoxicating. She had been unwilling to admit it, but she could no longer deny that she found the Duke of Ormonde to be devilishly attractive. In part because she sensed that his regard, once won, was worth far more than the easily dismissed charms of the men she was accustomed to back in London.

Once, twice, she and Trevor whirled through the room, the music of the pianoforte weaving a spell around them, almost as if they were alone in the room. The duke’s intense blue gaze sending coils of heat from her chest to her belly, and lower. What would it be like to have that gaze on her in a more intimate setting? A shiver ran through her at the thought.

“Cold?” Trevor asked, pulling her ever so slightly closer. They were still perfectly respectable, but Isabella was now close enough to inhale the sandalwood and clove scent of him. She could feel the warmth of his skin through the fabric of his coat and gloves where her hands held on for dear life.

“I just felt a little chill, that’s all,” Isabella said, sounding breathy to her own ears. She could tell by the way his eyes narrowed that he knew the real reason for her shiver, and she could not, for love or money, look away. It was as if some invisible force kept their eyes locked together across the scant space between them.

In that moment, Isabella felt all of her cares fall away. The threats, the worries over her sister, the danger Thistleback posed to Isabella’s reputation. None of it mattered but this man, with his strong arms clasping her waist and hand, leading her through a dance that felt more intimate than any of the moments she’d spent in Ralph’s bed. There was something about this man, this dance, that rang with truth in a way that threatened her very soul.

As if sensing how close she was to tears, Trevor said in a voice so low that only she could hear it, “Easy. Easy there.”

At last, the final strains of the music died out, and Trevor and Isabella came slowly to a stop. She was pleased to note that he, too, was a little out of breath. And was it her imagination, or was he taking his time letting her go?

“Now that is how a waltz should be performed,” Belinda said with a sigh.

But Eleanor would have none of it, “You have never even seen a waltz before today. How would you know?”

“I’ve seen pictures,” the younger girl retorted. “And I think Trevor and Isabella make a lovely couple.”

Sir Lucien disguised his guffaw behind a cough. To Isabella’s relief, the duke did not say anything at all.

“Do you think you’ll be able to dance the waltz, Eleanor?” she asked, careful not to make eye contact with any of the adults in the room. It was one thing to get lost in the dance while it was going on but quite another to reveal just how transported she had been.

“I think so,” Eleanor replied. “But I would rather dance with Sir Lucien, I think. I love you, Trevor, but I’d rather not dance the waltz with my brother if I can help it.”

Now it was Trevor’s turn to roll his eyes. “I suppose it’s to be expected. But remember I’ll be watching, Luce.”

The other man threw up his hands in innocence. “You have nothing to fear from me, Your Grace. I’ve known Eleanor since she was in the cradle.” He turned to the young lady. “No offense intended, my dear.”

“None taken,” Eleanor said with a laugh. “You are hardly my notion of love’s young dream, you know.”

Miss Nightingale coughed. Whether it was to cover up a laugh Isabella could not say. But it caught Sir Lucien’s notice. “Are you ill, Miss Nightingale?” he inquired sweetly.

“Not at all, my lord,” she responded, her lovely face impassive. “I simply had a tickle in my throat. Pray forgive me for calling attention to myself.”

Eleanor and Sir Lucien had just begun to dance the steps of the waltz when Isabella heard a slight throat-clearing sound behind her. Turning, she saw Templeton. Not wishing to disturb the lesson, she gestured for the butler to follow her into the hall. She felt Trevor’s gaze on her the whole time, but he made no move to follow them.

“What is it?” she asked the older man once they were out of the drawing room.

“This came for you just now, my lady,” he said. “It is marked ‘Urgent,’ so I thought you would wish to see it at once.”

He handed her a neatly folded missive, her name scrawled in a firm, masculine hand on the front. There was no direction on the letter, so it could not have come by post.

“Who brought this, Templeton?” she asked, trying to decipher the crest on the wax seal.

“A footman from the Palmers’ household, my lady,” he said. “The fellow said that he would not wait for a reply.”