The Trouble With Being a Duke (21 page)

“I . . . I . . . I don’t know—”

“That is
not
the answer I am seeking, my lady.” He leaned toward her, taking perverse pleasure in watching her tremble as she leaned back until she hit the shelving unit. “Miss Chilcott was terrified of you, and you took the opportunity to imply that you and I have formed an attachment, so don’t feign ignorance with me. I know a snake when I see one.”

She gasped at the insult. “It was merely a bit of fun, really,” she said, her gaze shifting imploringly to Casper, but she would find no help from him.

“Fun?” Anthony’s words dripped with incredulity, and then the dam broke and he found himself yelling, “FUN?”

The shopkeeper came running to ask if everything was all right, but she took one look at Anthony and chose to retreat to a safe distance. Anthony forced himself to take a deep breath. He had to get himself back under control—dukes yelling at people in shops simply wasn’t done—and to think how well he’d handled the situation with Mr. Roberts, only to lose his temper a second later. Closing his eyes to avoid having to look at the woman before him, he reined in his emotions. He couldn’t be sure of what she’d told Isabella, but he had an inkling, and when he spoke again his voice was a deep rumble—the sort that demanded obedience in the most rebellious sorts. “Please stay away from her, Lady Harriett. Do not speak to her or approach her, for if you do, I cannot answer to the consequences.”

There was a beat of silence, and then she asked, her voice snippy and completely lacking the respect that was his due, “Is that a threat?”

“You can bet your bonnet it is, my lady.” Anthony turned on his heels and stormed out. Good Lord, he’d never considered resorting to murder before, yet there were suddenly two people whom he was now very keen to dispose of.

“I say, Anthony,” Casper said from somewhere behind him. “That was very well done, indeed. Bravo!”

“That woman has overstepped,” Anthony said as he marched along, his anger still coursing through his veins, putting his nerves on edge and tightening his muscles.

“I couldn’t agree more!” Anthony could hear Casper’s footsteps quickening as he tried to keep pace. He said nothing more for a while, but when Anthony turned sharply onto Church Lane, he asked, “Where are we heading?”

“To Miss Chilcott’s house.”

“Do you think that’s wise?” Casper asked, hurrying after him.

Anthony spun around to face his friend, stopping so abruptly that the two almost collided. “I need to know if Mr. Roberts spoke the truth when he referred to her as his fiancée, I have to tell her that whatever Lady Harriett has said to her is a lie, and I have to explain the reason for my absence.”

There was sympathy in Casper’s eyes as he regarded Anthony. “I don’t mean to point out the obvious, but Miss Chilcott does seem quite determined to thwart your advances. Are you sure it wouldn’t be best for you to direct your attentions elsewhere? If we go to London—”

“You don’t understand,” Anthony said, knowing how impossible it was for his friend the rake to comprehend the sort of power love could hold over a man. It was crippling, really. “It is either her or no one. I will not go to London to waste my time on women I don’t give a flip about when the one woman who fills my every thought is right here. I need to make this right—this tangled mess that threatens to drive me insane.”

“Well, you certainly don’t lack determination,” Casper offered with the barest hint of a smile.

Anthony held his gaze. “I’ll do whatever it takes to secure her hand.”

“Providing it’s legal of course,” Casper said, his eyes starting to sparkle.

Anthony deliberately hesitated just long enough to make his friend wonder before he responded, “Of course.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

They’d started walking again, though at a more casual pace. Anthony pondered the question a moment before saying, “Yes, I believe there is. The Season is starting, and since I have no intention of leaving Moxley before I’ve settled this matter with Miss Chilcott, I’d be most obliged if you would see to escorting my mother to London for me. Louise and Winston will be better company for her right now than I, and as you mentioned earlier, attending a few social functions will do her good.”

“I will be happy to help if she agrees. Just let me know when she will be ready for departure.”

Anthony nodded. “She wished to invite Miss Chilcott for tea in order to further her acquaintance with her. If they meet tomorrow, then I see no reason why you cannot depart the day after that, but I will send a note around so you are made aware of the proceedings.”

They came to a halt in front of Miss Chilcott’s home. “You’re quite optimistic,” Casper remarked, “to think that you can pacify Miss Chilcott to the point where she will be willing to appear at Kingsborough Hall tomorrow. I suggest you pray for a miracle.”

“No need,” Anthony said, sensing that whatever miracle he needed had already occurred in the form of his mother’s request. “I shall not be the one issuing the invitation, Casper—my mother shall, and I doubt very much that Miss Chilcott would turn down the Duchess of Kingsborough for any reason.”

“My dear man,” Casper chuckled as he dipped his head in admiration, “I fear your quarry may have underestimated her pursuer, but wouldn’t it be better, then, to give her time to cool a little? Surely you can wait until tomorrow with your questioning.”

Anthony shook his head. “No, for I wish to give her something to consider before we meet again, and besides, I doubt I’ll get a moment’s rest tonight unless I discover whether or not she has promised herself to Mr. Roberts.”

Chapter 21

H
aving promised Casper to send word later in the day about his mother’s decision to journey to London with him, Anthony bid his friend a good day, assuring him that the matter he now faced was one he must see to alone.

Unlatching the gate, he stepped inside the garden and started up the path that led to the front door. Once there, he took a moment to straighten his jacket before raising his fisted hand and giving the door three loud raps. It didn’t take long before the door opened, revealing the same maid he’d encountered on his previous visits. “I’m afraid Mr. Chilcott is not at home,” she said. “Would you like to leave a note?”

“I’m not here to see Mr. Chilcott,” Anthony told her. The fact that she would make such an assumption rather than ask him to state his purpose was a sharp reminder of his current location. “It is Miss Chilcott I’ve come to call upon.”

“She’s not at home either,” the maid responded.

Anthony hadn’t expected her to be, considering Mr. Roberts had seemed quite keen on finding a fashionable bonnet for her. He’d probably insist that it match the purple fabric he’d selected for Isabella’s new gown. Anthony shuddered. Poor Isabella—she was going to look positively ghastly in that color. “If you don’t mind, I should like to wait for her—there is a matter that I wish to discuss.”

The maid looked perplexed, and Anthony realized then that she had been informed to turn him away, except he was making it more difficult by giving her reasons not to. And then something that Isabella had said about her mother a few days earlier came to mind.
She hates your kind and will never allow me to wed you
. “In the meantime,” he said, “if Mrs. Chilcott is available, I would be delighted to join her for a cup of tea.” And then he did something he never would have thought himself capable of. Frustrated by the lack of success he’d had in winning the Chilcotts’ favor, he decided to abandon some of the changes he’d made to his character and pushed his way past the maid without being granted entry. Not the sort of thing one might expect from a duke, and certainly not his proudest moment considering his efforts to live up to his father’s good name, but enough was enough—he would not be turned away.

“Your Grace,” the maid gasped behind him. “You cannot—”

But Anthony had already entered the parlor and found Mrs. Chilcott, who was sitting on the sofa with her embroidery in her lap, staring back at him with what could only have been described as deep loathing. Anthony smiled and executed a very ducal bow. “What a pleasure it is to see you again, Mrs. Chilcott.”

“I cannot say that I return the sentiment,” she said.

“Forgive me, Mrs. Chilcott,” the maid spluttered. “I tried to send him away, but he insisted and—”

“That’s quite all right, Marjorie,” Mrs. Chilcott told her coolly. “It isn’t your fault that the gentleman lacks manners. You may bring us some tea if you please.”

The flustered maid bobbed a quick curtsy and dashed from the room.

“May I?” Anthony then asked, gesturing toward an armchair.

“By all means,” Mrs. Chilcott replied, her voice still clipped. “At least it will save me from having to crane my neck.”

Accepting the cue, Anthony stepped toward the chair and sat. Leaning back and making himself comfortable, he met Mrs. Chilcott’s assessing gaze without the least bit of hesitation and said, “I would be most grateful if you would please explain your dislike of me.” She didn’t flinch, and yet there was a movement about her mouth suggesting she wasn’t entirely comfortable with the question. Anthony decided to use it to his advantage. “You do not know me at all, and yet you are rather determined to think the very worst of me. Consequently, I am inclined to believe that you are drawing a parallel between your own experiences and those of your daughter.”

“Your Grace! You are entirely too forward,” Mrs. Chilcott snapped, but not before she’d revealed the fear that brewed beneath her otherwise placid demeanor. It shone in her eyes more brightly than the sun. “I should ask you to leave.”

Anthony nodded. “Yes, you should, but I will not oblige you on that score—not yet—not until you tell me why you would rather throw your daughter into the arms of an undeserving scoundrel than see her happily married to me.”

Mrs. Chilcott turned red and her eyes widened, but Anthony would not be cowed so easily, no matter how many rules of etiquette he had to break in the process. His and Isabella’s future was at stake, as well as their mutual happiness. He intended to stand his ground.

“Mr. Roberts is a very respectable gentleman, whereas you . . .” Her words trailed off as the maid returned with a tea tray. She moved to pour, but Mrs. Chilcott waved her away.

When they were alone again and the door had been closed behind the departing maid, Anthony crossed his arms and leveled Mrs. Chilcott with a very direct stare. “Do go on,” he said. “I believe you were about to tell me what it is about my person and character that you so blatantly disapprove of.”

“For starters, how about the way in which you barged into my home without invitation, or perhaps the patronizing manner in which you’re addressing me now?” Her voice was clipped, her eyes fierce as she spoke. Worst of all, she made an excellent point—one which could not be denied. “You think you have the right to do as you please because of your title, to treat the rest of us as if our opinions are inconsequential unless they align with yours.” She waved her hand with distaste. “Hmpf! You’re no better than a spoiled child determined to have his way and throwing a tantrum when you’re told you can’t. Frankly,
Your Grace,
your actions have proved you to be as arrogant as any other aristocrat and not the sort of man my husband or I will entrust our daughter to. Isabella will marry Mr. Roberts and you will leave them both in peace if you have any shred of dignity at all.”

The verbal blow struck its mark, rendering Anthony speechless. He suddenly saw himself through her eyes, reflected on all his actions of late—the way he’d kissed Isabella at the ball without even knowing her name, seducing her in the barn to prove himself superior to Mr. Roberts, doggedly pursuing her although she’d asked him not to and his rude behavior toward Lady Crooning, her daughter Lady Harriett, and, worst of all, the Chilcotts. It was as if he’d abandoned all civility the moment he’d set eyes on Isabella, making him no better than the man he’d once been and diminishing whatever chances he’d ever had of success. The answer to his problem became clear: to win Isabella’s hand in marriage, he would have to ignore the elemental urge to knock all obstacles aside and drag her away with him like a savage. Instead, he must resolve to be polite, considerate, honorable . . . qualities that would surely be rewarded with respect if nothing else. And if at the end of the day this proved insufficient in his plight . . . well, then he would have to accept defeat with grace.

He eyed Mrs. Chilcott, who was still regarding him in much the same way he suspected she’d watch a criminal. It was time for him to right his wrongs, and there was no better way in which to do so than simply apologize. “You’re right,” he said. “I’ve acted abominably, for which I’m well and truly sorry. I hope you’ll accept my sincerest apologies.”

As she stared back at him, her eyes widened, as if this was the very last thing she’d expected him to say. They remained like that for a beat or two, their gazes locked, with neither willing to look away, until she sighed and with a nod said, “Thank you, Your Grace, that is most kind of you.” She hesitated before adding, “I believe I’ve also said some things in anger which I hope you’ll forgive. Please understand that I just want what’s best for Isabella.”

It was of course a comment to be expected from a mother who loved her daughter, and yet she spoke in a manner that was nothing short of enlightening. To her way of thinking, Mr. Roberts represented safety and security for her daughter, while Anthony did not.
She hates your kind
. Whatever experience Mrs. Chilcott had had with the nobility, it had not been positive.

“So do I,” Anthony told her. “And I know that you believe you are doing so by encouraging her to marry Mr. Roberts, but you are wrong. Mr. Roberts has only his own interests at heart. I don’t believe he will love her.” He didn’t wish to elaborate on his reasoning, since much of it was based on speculation. Still, his instincts were seldom wrong.

Mrs. Chilcott eyed him dubiously. “And you will?” She met his gaze with steel in her eyes as she leaned toward him and said, “I understand that you have tried to abandon your rakish ways—to reform, as they say—but that doesn’t change who you are at heart. You are an aristocrat, Your Grace, and in my book, that is hardly something to be proud of, as evidenced by your actions thus far—actions which have lacked both honor and decency.”

Though he’d just made a similar observation, he didn’t enjoy the accusation. He felt compelled to say something in his defense, but Mrs. Chilcott continued.

“The way in which you’ve been chasing after Isabella is simply disgraceful. There’s nothing honorable or respectable about it, and at the end of the day, you’re doing not only her but yourself a great disservice.” He couldn’t deny that his actions toward Isabella had been rash, and he dreaded the thought of her mother discovering just how far he’d taken his advances. But he knew that what he felt for her was more than lust—something deeper and enduring. Perhaps he should say so? He opened his mouth to speak, but Mrs. Chilcott stopped him as she added, “Please leave her alone. Leave
us
alone.” She stood, signaling an end to the interview.

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Anthony said, rising as well. “You see, I—”

“Margaret?” Mr. Chilcott’s voice called from the entryway to the sound of the front door closing behind him. “Where are you, love? I . . .”

Anthony turned just in time to see Mr. Chilcott come to an abrupt halt in the parlor doorway, his mouth open in dismay as he registered Anthony’s presence. With a sidelong glance in Mrs. Chilcott’s direction, he noticed that her eyes had grown wide and that the blood had drained from her face. She’d completely lost her composure. Why? It took but a second for Anthony to realize the implication of Mr. Chilcott’s words.

Margaret.

Surely not
the
Margaret—the one who had gone missing twenty years ago—the Marquess of Deerford’s daughter? Anthony shook his head. Of course not. It was a ridiculous notion, and yet . . . Isabella had told him that her mother had bought the gown from a peddler, but what if that was untrue? What if the gown had belonged to Isabella’s mother all along? It would certainly explain a lot, like the grace with which Isabella carried herself, not to mention her refined speech pattern. She’d been able to pass herself off as an aristocrat at his ball because she was one.

Turning his head slowly toward Mr. Chilcott, Anthony asked the one question that overshadowed the rest. “Does Isabella know?”

It was clear that Mr. Chilcott was trying to think of something to say that might dismiss all of Anthony’s suspicions. Resignation eventually enveloped his features and he stepped forward, closing the parlor door behind him. “No,” he muttered.

Good God!

“We wanted to protect her,” Lady Margaret added. Her voice sounded weak now compared to the resolve that had underscored it just a few minutes earlier.

“By lying to her about her heritage?” They were mad, both of them.

“It was for her own good,” Lady Margaret said as she perched herself on the edge of the sofa and poured an extra cup of tea for her husband before turning her attention to Anthony and offering him a fragile smile. “More tea, Your Grace?”

Struck dumb by the incredulity of it all, Anthony slumped back down on his chair and nodded mutely. Isabella was the granddaughter of the Marquess of Deerford and she hadn’t the slightest idea.
Bloody hell
.

“We had our reasons for keeping this from her, you understand,” Mr. Chilcott said. “It was . . . easier than telling her the truth.”

Easier for whom?
Anthony wondered. He swallowed hard as he tried to come to terms with it all. The deception was monumental, and he found his anger rising at the thought that these people could have lied so thoroughly to their children for so many years without any apparent shame. “Why?” he asked. “Why did you do it?”

There was a beat of silence before Lady Margaret responded. “Because I wanted to keep my girls safe from the humiliation of what happened to me and because I wanted to keep myself safe as well.”

“From what I have been told, you were kidnapped.” Anthony looked to each of them in turn to see if what he said was true, only to find Lady Margaret biting nervously on her lip while Mr. Chilcott lowered his gaze to his lap. Realization struck, and Anthony found it impossible to look away from the man who sat in the other armchair. “Good Lord. She ran away with you! What were you? A footman or her father’s secretary—his valet, perhaps?”

“I was the stable master,” Mr. Chilcott said. He looked up, and there was a shadow of torment in his eyes that could not be dismissed. “And just so we’re clear, Margaret and I did nothing wrong. We love each other as much now as we did back then, probably more, but her father—”