The Trouble With Being a Duke (20 page)

He tried to wave her away, but she grabbed his arm instead and gave it a hard yank. “What the devil did you have to do that for?”

She gave him a tart look—no doubt in response to his profanity—then jutted her chin toward the window. Turning his head, Anthony looked out and discovered that they had returned to Moxley, the carriage at a standstill while a farmer passed with his cart. It took him a moment to figure out why his mother had woken him but once he did, he felt his jaw clench, for there was Miss Chilcott hanging on the arm of Mr. Roberts, gazing up at him and smiling as the two of them entered the modiste’s.

Bloody, bloody hell!

“You have to do something,” his mother said.

Like punch someone,
Anthony thought.
Mr. Roberts would do nicely
. He nodded. “I couldn’t agree more. I take it they didn’t notice us?”

“Not as far as I can tell,” his mother said. She looked away, and Anthony knew there was something she wasn’t telling him. When she met his gaze it was with great hesitation. “It appeared as though Mr. Roberts was too busy telling Miss Chilcott about something, while she in turn was giving him her undivided attention. I doubt either one of them would have noticed if a parade of elephants had wandered by.”

Not the answer he’d been hoping for. He felt his chest constrict. If he’d lost her to that bore, he’d . . . he’d . . . hell, he didn’t know what he’d do. “I’ll see you at home, Mama,” he said, scrambling to get out of the carriage so he could hurry to the modiste’s and intervene in Miss Chilcott’s outing with Mr. Roberts. Once on the ground, he gave his mother an awkward smile. “There’s something I must see to first.”

She nodded her understanding and wished him good luck.

As he strode across the street, his heart was pounding, his hands felt sweaty and there was a jitteriness coursing through him that he didn’t much care for. Truth was, he was terrified—terrified that Mr. Roberts had finally gone and proposed to her during his absence, terrified that she had accepted his offer, since Anthony had seemingly vanished, and terrified that she didn’t reciprocate the feelings that threatened to overwhelm him with their power.

“Ho there, Kingsborough!”

Anthony stopped in his tracks and turned his head to find Casper striding toward him.

“I tried calling on you yesterday but was turned away by Phelps—thought you might have removed yourself to London already.”

“No. I was called away on some family business.”

“Nothing serious, I hope?” Casper said, frowning.

Anthony gave his friend a quick account of all that had happened in the last few days while his friend’s frown deepened in response to every word. “I’m so sorry to hear it,” he said once Anthony had finished. “How is your mother taking it?”

“As one would expect—she’s devastated.”

Casper nodded. “Perhaps it will be good for her to get to London and attend some social functions. The ball she hosted livened her spirits.”

“I think you may be right. It’s just . . .”

“Are you still chasing that Chilcott chit?” There was a look of amusement in Casper’s eyes that Anthony didn’t much appreciate. And then his friend said the one thing that Anthony couldn’t dispute. “Good God, Anthony—you’re completely besotted by her.”

“Well . . . I . . .”

Casper barked a laugh. “You, of all people—a notorious rake! Well I’ll be.”

“A reformed rake,” Anthony muttered, crossing his arms and standing his ground.

“I hear they make the best of husbands,” Casper said. He was smiling so broadly that Anthony could see all his teeth. “And you’re a duke, to boot. What an excellent catch for her.”

“Perhaps you’d like to tell
her
that,” Anthony grumbled. He and Casper had known each other since they were lads, so since they’d already embarked on this subject, Anthony saw no point in holding back.

Casper’s face grew serious once again. He stared back at his friend in disbelief. “She won’t have you?”

“Apparently she has some duty toward Mr. Roberts, and with me having been away for three days without giving her any hint of where I went and why, I’m inclined to assume the worst.” He nodded toward the door to the modiste’s. “They’re in there together right now.”

Understanding dawned on Casper’s face. “You were going to happen upon them
accidentally,
weren’t you?”

Anthony shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“Come on then,” Casper said. “I’ll help you out.”

“You will do no such—” But his friend stepped past him, opened the door and entered the shop before Anthony had a chance to finish his sentence. With a deep breath, he followed him inside, keeping close to the exit while he surveyed the space.

There were bundles of fabric everywhere, in all possible colors and nuances. Anthony had never seen anything like it, for he had all his clothes made in London. The tailor came to him, he’d select the fabric based on swatches and that would be the end of it. This . . . it was overwhelming.

Following Casper, he ventured further inside the shop, his hand deliberately reaching out to touch a shimmery blue silk that slipped between his fingers like water, and an image of Isabella dressed in the fabric, of his hands running over her body and of . . . The sound of her voice coming from the far corner of the room snapped him out of his reverie. “What about the lilac muslin over there?” she asked.

“Too dull,” came Mr. Roberts’s voice. “You need something more vibrant, like that amaranthine velvet, for instance.”

Did he just sigh?
Anthony met Casper’s gaze, and, judging by his attempt to restrain his laughter, Anthony knew that yes, Mr. Roberts had just sighed over a fabric. What the hell was wrong with him?

“The purple one?” Miss Chilcott asked, her voice sounding not the least bit convinced. “It’s a bit too bold, don’t you think?”

There was a loud sigh, upon which Mr. Roberts could be heard saying, “It is important to recognize the exact hue, Miss Chilcott. ‘Purple’ is much too broad a descriptive for such a lovely shade, and no, it is not too bold. Imagine it trimmed with black and with a black spencer to match.” His voice had taken on a dreamy note. “You’ll look—”

“Like a plum?” Isabella offered.

It was Anthony’s turn to press his lips together to keep from laughing.

“No, Miss Chilcott. Plum is an entirely different color.”

“Why, hello, Miss Chilcott,” Casper said as he rounded the display shelves that stood in the middle of the room, blocking Miss Chilcott and Mr. Roberts from Anthony’s view. “And Mr. Roberts is here too, I see. What a coincidence, since I was just on my way over to call on you—thought I’d stop in here first to see if I might be able to find something appropriate for my . . . er . . . friend.”

Anthony groaned. Was it really necessary for Casper to refer to one of his mistresses in front of Isabella? On the other hand, what other reason would he possibly have for visiting a modiste? He considered stepping forward and announcing his own presence, but he stopped himself when Casper continued. “I couldn’t help but overhear your recommendation to Miss Chilcott—seems you’re quite the expert with regard to fashion. Perhaps you’d be willing to help me out? There’s a fine selection of laces over here.”

“Yes . . . yes, of course, Mr. Goodard,” Mr. Roberts said, taking the bait without the least bit of hesitation and sounding most flattered. “I would be happy to help.”

Anthony heard them move and was about to do so himself when it must have occurred to Mr. Roberts that he was meant to be escorting Miss Chilcott. “That is, of course, if you do not mind,” he said, addressing her as if she’d now become a nuisance.

“By all means,” she said. “Take your time. I shall continue to admire the amanthine until you return.”

“Amaranthine,” Mr. Roberts corrected, his voice tinged with exasperation.

Another shuffle of feet sounded, followed by footsteps as Casper and Mr. Roberts moved to the other side of the shop. Anthony made his move, rounding the shelves.

There before him stood Isabella, her back slightly toward him as she looked down at the piece of fabric that lay spread out on a counter. Did Mr. Roberts really intend for her to wear that? It would never suit someone as gentle and kind as her—it was much too gaudy for a woman with such soft blonde hair and pale complexion. She needed something milder, like the silk he’d seen at the front of the shop.

Stepping forward, he moved closer until he was standing at her right shoulder, but she was so lost in thought—serious thought, if the crease between her eyebrows was any indication—that she didn’t register him at all. How he longed to smooth away her worries and distract her from all her concerns. “If it’s any consolation, I would have said it was purple too,” he whispered.

She spun toward him, eyes wide, and in one fraction of a second he saw the contents of her heart. Then she must have remembered his absence—that he hadn’t called on her like he’d said he would and that he hadn’t even sent her a note—for her expression became shuttered, and when she spoke, her voice was as cool as rime on a winter’s morning. “I have nothing to say to you. Please leave.”

“I’m sorry about the way I—”

He was cut off by her laugh—quite possibly the most sarcastic laugh he’d ever heard. “Sorry? Whatever for? You owe me nothing, Your Grace, least of all an apology.” The struggle that raged within her was so painful to watch that Anthony was tempted to look away. He forced himself not to, took a deep breath and placed his gloved hand upon the one she was resting on the counter. It did not have the effect he’d been hoping for. Instead she snatched her hand away and glared up at him. “How dare you?” she seethed.

He felt himself stiffen as anger rose in him as well. He might not have acted very gentlemanly toward her, but he had his reason—a very good reason, in fact—yet here she was in Mr. Roberts’s company, treating him with disdain when she’d not even listened to what he had to say. He opened his mouth to speak, when the tinkling of a bell announced the arrival of yet another customer and he heard both Casper and Mr. Roberts say in unison, “Lady Harriett, how do you do?”

What followed happened with such speed that Anthony wasn’t entirely sure of what to make of it. One moment, Isabella was standing before him, the next she was dashing past him, only to trip over a bolt of fabric that had fallen to the floor and land in a heap with the grace of a sack of potatoes and a loud “umph.”

Anthony stepped forward to help her up, taking her by the arm as he asked about her welfare.

“Please don’t touch me,” she whispered, attempting to shake him off as her eyes darted about with the fear one might expect from a rabbit chased by a hound. What the devil?

“Kingsborough!” a sweet voice chimed just then, and Anthony turned his head to find the detestable Lady Harriett smiling up at him with stars in her eyes. “I had no idea that you were back in town—what a lovely surprise. After our last conversation I hadn’t thought I’d see you before the Darwich Ball, but since you’re here . . .” Her words trailed off, and Anthony could have sworn that the look she served Isabella held some hidden meaning.

If only he could figure out what the bloody hell was going on. He wasn’t afforded much time to consider it though before the lady continued by saying, “Perhaps you could help me find a suitable fabric for the gown I plan to wear that evening. You could have a waistcoat made to match—now wouldn’t that be splendid!”

Anthony sensed Isabella stiffen by his side and realized what game Lady Harriett was playing at. She knew he had designs on Isabella because, like an idiot, he’d blurted out his plans without thinking what a woman like her might do when she discovered her adversary to be of such inferior rank.

He pulled himself up to his full height and opened his mouth to give the abominable creature the proper set down she deserved when Mr. Roberts came up beside Lady Harriett with Casper right on his heels. Casper gave Anthony a look of apology while Mr. Roberts stared at him in surprise. “Your Grace,” he said. His gaze drifted to where Anthony’s hand still gripped Isabella’s arm before returning to Anthony’s face with a frown of disapproval. “I didn’t realize you were here as well.” His features softened, but when he spoke, there was no mistaking the menace of his question. “I hope you’re not planning to abscond with my fiancée.”

Fiancée?

Had he proposed, then? More importantly, had Isabella accepted? She must have if Mr. Roberts was claiming her to be his fiancée. A pang of jealous rage poured through him at the thought of it, but he forced himself to remain still and in control of his features. There was no way he would allow any of the people present to know the weight of the blow that Mr. Roberts had just dealt him. Releasing Isabella, since this seemed the prudent thing to do, he said, “Miss Chilcott took a tumble—I was merely helping her up when Lady Harriett arrived. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Mr. Roberts said, his assessing gaze still fixed on Anthony. “It is only too fortunate that you were here to assist. Thank you.”

Anthony glanced at Isabella, hoping that something in her eyes—some truth she dared not speak—would answer the one question that he dared not, could not, ask.
Are you engaged to this man?
But he found nothing there to appease the uproar that had taken hold of him, and when Mr. Roberts announced that he had placed the order for the amaranthine velvet and that he and Miss Chilcott also had plans to visit the milliner’s in pursuit of a new bonnet for Miss Chilcott, Anthony was left with no choice but to watch her walk away.

Nothing had ever depressed him more, but at least he’d handled the situation with the same degree of restraint his father would have shown. It was a small comfort.

“So, Miss Chilcott is to marry Mr. Roberts, then?” a vexing voice asked as soon as the couple had left.

“Lady Harriett . . .” There was no mistaking the warning in Casper’s voice as he tried to silence the nefarious woman, but she stupidly added, “How disappointing that must be for you, Your Grace.”

His name coming from her lips grated, and Anthony stared at her, his eyes trapping her with menace, all thought of the civility he’d shown a moment earlier forgotten. She gasped a little and took a retreating step backward, but he was too angry to care. “What did you do?” he asked, his voice filled with ducal command.