What a Duke Wants (18 page)

Now, just now, she was simply Isabella, his Bella. “I am so glad you are finally here. Can I help you with your coat?”

“Not quite yet. I have a surprise for you.”

What could the man have gotten her? She hoped it wasn’t jewels. Jewels with no place to wear them would only make her situation more apparent. She put a smile on and rose to greet him. “I do love surprises.”

“I do hope you like this one. I am afraid Divers will never forgive what it has done to my coat.”

His coat? Her question faded as a soft meow echoed from his pocket and tiny furred ears poked up.

“A
re you coming to bed?” Mark rolled onto his side and glanced at Bella as she sat staring down at the sleeping ball of fur. Who would ever have thought that a piece of fluff would bring her such joy? He’d only bought the kitten because the boy standing on the corner with the box had looked so tired. It was only chance that he’d even looked out of his carriage at that moment.

And Bella had seemed a little blue recently. The easy grins and laughs that normally filled her seemed to come less frequently every day. He’d wanted to cheer her and as he’d gazed into the box of kittens he’d remembered her desire for a cat.

He’d tossed the boy a shilling without another thought.

Bella’s smile as she’d taken the small creature from him was even better than he’d imagined.

In fact, life was far better than he had ever expected. Stretching out on the bed, he waited for her, and his further reward.

“In a moment. Do you think he’ll stay asleep?” Bella’s voice echoed slightly in the darkness. She rose, moving in front of the window, the light from it silhouetting her through the thin fabric of her shift. When had white become so enticing? He could not see her smile, but he knew it was there. She was such a contradiction of seduction and innocence. One minute she seemed like she knew exactly what she was doing to him and then she’d blush and look like she was hardly out of pigtails.

“I believe he is a she. And I have no idea.”

“I do hope she’s not lonely. Perhaps I should put her in the bed with us.”

Now that was not happening. “I am sure she’ll be fine where she is. I’d hate to crush her in my sleep.”

“You are right. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Are you going to name her?”

Bella stopped, placing a hand beside him on the bed. Then she grinned, the smile he had been waiting for. “I do think I’ll call her Duchess. Every duke needs a duchess.” She climbed up beside him.

He could only grin himself. These nights with Bella made everything else seem possible. They had been together less than a week and already these nights were the highlight of each day.

And it was not merely the sex. Oh, the sex would have been enough to keep him happy—and he would have been most unhappy without it—but it was talking to Bella that he looked forward to the most. When she greeted him each night with her soft smile he felt something inside him loosen, something tight that he put on each morning with his cravat and let loose as her small hands eased the jacket from his shoulders. She would pour him a glass of brandy and no matter how late the hour they would talk—sometimes about the most mundane things, should she replace the pillows on the bed with something of a different shade or should she redo the whole chamber at once? Sometimes she asked about his family, consoling his sadness that neither his sisters nor his mother were making it to London for the festivities. On other nights he would discuss the news he had heard that day. To his surprise, she too was much more interested in current politics than in the king’s wardrobe.

“Thank you for the kitten.” She snuggled up beside him. “I’ve been missing caring for Joey these past days and Duchess will give me something to do, something to love.”

He pushed aside the thought that she could have loved him. She’d been missing Joey. That must be why she’d seemed sad and worried. It was as simple as that.

He wrapped an arm about her, drawing her closer. “I am glad I could make you happy.”

She kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Thank you.”

She made no further move, but there was no hurry. There was great comfort in knowing what was coming without having to plan each move—not that he normally minded the planning, but he could definitely see the attraction in keeping a mistress. Having a wife must be like this too.

Where had that thought come from? He pushed it aside and turned to Isabella, running a finger down her upturned nose. “You’re being quiet now. No political questions tonight?”

“Will you think me silly if I confess to just enjoying listening to you talk? I do care about politics and what is happening. In fact the more I learn the more I care, but mostly I just like listening to you. It may be the best part of my day.”

“The best part?” he questioned, leaning over to lay a light kiss upon her lips.

She giggled on cue. “You know what I mean.” She rubbed her hips against him. “Some things are just without compare, and therefore should not be compared.”

“You’re saying all the things a man likes to hear.”

“Should I try doing all the things a man likes to do instead?”

Her lips began a slow trail down his chest and he did not bother to answer.

Chapter 18

I
t was a very small life, very safe and very contained. Isabella walked around the walled garden behind her house. Her house. Her world. She had left it exactly twice in the week since she had returned to London with Mark. Two visits to the modiste, that was her world.

That and this house. She had begun to claim it as her own, recognizing that she needed to claim something in order to survive. It was strange how the meaning of that word could change from day to day, even from hour to hour. Last week as she’d stood along the roadside, hiding from the men who sought her, survival had meant coin in her pocket and avoiding those who would drag her back to London, those who knew of her past, of her crimes. Two weeks before that, survival had meant rising at dawn to feed Joey before he could awaken Mrs. Wattington.

Sitting down on a bench, she stared at the high walls of her home, her prison.

What did survival mean now? It meant not leaving the house, not being seen more than was necessary. It meant keeping Mark happy—although that did not seem to be a problem. It meant not giving in to Divers’s dour glances or the pinched lips of the housekeeper. Surviving meant trying to keep the pieces of herself together.

It meant persevering—alone.

This was not a life she had been raised for, that she understood. Even as a servant there had been a certain level of respect, and satisfaction when a job was well done. And friends. It was not until now that she realized just how important the light chatter of a chambermaid could be, realized that even if it was annoying to share her bed with a snoring lady’s maid, it was still companionship.

Here she had no one, nothing.

Only Mark.

Mark and this house.

Mark should have been enough. He talked to her, he laughed with her, and he loved her—if only in the physical sense.

“Merrreow.” The kitten danced into the yard, her short gray tail held high. She’d yet to master a proper meow, but Isabella delighted in her singing call.

“Trying to tell me I am not alone, are you? How could I forget about you, my Duchess?” She scooped up the cat and buried her face in the soft fluff.

“Merrreow.” It was not much of an answer.

“I am sorry for ignoring you, but sometimes I just long for a person to talk to during the days. The maids make me feel a disappointment and I am not even sure why. It’s like they don’t want me here.” She rubbed her nose in the fur again, earning herself a light swat.

Grabbing the small paw, she pulled slightly. “Don’t do that or I’ll think you don’t like me too. Oh, do I sound like I am feeling sorry for myself?”

The kitten batted at her again.

“Do you think I should leave? I am safe here, but how long can I go on like this? I have money now, so that is no longer an excuse.” She pulled a deep breath into her lungs and held it. One week with Mark had earned her more than she’d earned in the previous year. She wondered if he had any idea how much was left on her dresser each morning—and how insulting she found it. But still she grabbed the coin and placed it in her pocket or under her pillow at night.

Because money was survival. It gave her mind the freedom to dream of something different, of that small cottage with a garden.

It gave her the chance to believe she had choices.

Only they would be choices without Mark. Whenever she pictured that small cottage he was sitting in some corner of it, or outside splitting logs. A duke splitting logs. She was clearly demented.

But did she want her dream if he was not in it? Could she be happy without him?

“I would miss him if I left, you know,” she said.

The kitten looked up at her wide-eyed.

“You do think I am feeling sorry for myself and that it is not attractive.”

Duchess struggled to be free and Isabella placed her back on the ground. Pulling a gulp of air into her mouth, Isabella puffed out her cheeks and blew out an extremely rude noise. There was some small advantage to always being alone. It was wonderful not to constantly monitor one’s actions.

Standing, she shook out her skirts. The deep blue silk shimmered about her, tempting her to twirl in circles.

Why not?

Bowing to a narrow beech tree, she began to dance, Duchess chasing after the swirling fabric. The king’s coronation was in two days and she imagined herself at one of the private balls being held the night before. Dancing had always been one of her favorite things. During the few balls she had attended before running away she had danced with anybody who asked her. There was such joy in the precise movement, in the bend and curtsy, the intricate footwork that placed one in perfect position with one’s partner. It was hard dancing with an unmoving tree and a chasing kitten, but she made adjustments and ended in a great twirl, laughter flying from her. The cat looked up in confusion.

It was with some disappointment that Isabella finished her imagined dance and curtsied politely to the beech.

Maybe Mark could take her out someplace. There must be someplace that mistresses were allowed to go, mustn’t there? It would be far different from Almack’s, but she could adjust—just as she had to dancing with a tree and a kitten.

That would need to wait until after the coronation, however. Mark had returned later and later each night as the king demanded more from his courtiers. Her job for now was simply to help him relax and forget for a few hours all that awaited him in the day.

She twirled again, letting her skirts bell about her. She would not be disappointed in her isolation. She scooped up Duchess again and placed a kiss upon her nose.

She would go out. It was early enough in the day that nobody fashionable would be seen for hours. Mark, or rather Strattington, was probably watching the king’s stocking being pulled up.

And if nobody was out, then nobody could recognize her—her pursuers could not spend their entire lives looking for her. She would go and buy ribbons and bonnets and pretend that it was all just great fun, pretend that she was the girl she used to be.

W
hy did being king mean that you required a room full of people in order to dress? Mark kept his face placid as the king’s corset was pulled tight. Really, there were some things that should be kept private. Although, as Mark attempted to shrug his shoulders in his tight, wrinkle-free jacket, he had to admit that even with only being a duke his life had changed and things that had once seemed preposterous now seemed normal. He might allow only Divers to help him most days, but that was far more than he’d ever had before. Douglas might occasionally have helped with his uniform coat or pulled off his boots, but it had been the exception rather than the rule. And he’d certainly never had to wait for Douglas in the morning before he could begin to dress—nor had Douglas shown up when he’d had a woman in the room.

He’d almost screamed at Divers to get out the first morning he’d appeared at Isabella’s bedside. The top curve of one of her breasts had been visible above the coverlet and he’d seen the man’s eyes drop to it—not that he could really blame him. It was only Divers’s calm look that had kept Mark from action. Divers had clearly seen nothing out of the ordinary in his being there and it had forced Mark to realize that this was just one more piece of being a duke. He hadn’t liked being forced to don the mantle before he’d even put his feet on the floor.

Being king must be like that—you simply adjusted to what must be. Although the king had been raised knowing he was going to be king. He’d never had the unexpected duty thrust upon him—well, taking over the regency might not quite have been expected, but King George had seemed rather willing. Mark was not sure he would have taken the duchy if there had been any choice involved.

“I am glad to see you here.” The Duke of Hargrove strode toward him. “I always value another sensible addition to our company.”

Mark nodded. He could not say that he was happy to be here.

“And how was the remainder of your journey? I heard there was some commotion about a girl, a maid. I do hope it did not affect your journey.”

Had the gossip about Isabella already spread through London? “My travel was quite satisfactory. Thank you.”

“And the girl? What happened to her?” Hargrove asked.

Before Mark could ask why Hargrove cared, the Duke of Brisbane’s voice spoke from behind. “Have you been fitted for your coronation costume yet?”

“I’ll talk to you later.” Hargrove strode away.

“Not a friend of yours, Brisbane?” Mark asked.

“Let’s just say Hargrove and I tend to take different sides on almost everything, from voting in Lords to choosing our lovers.”

Mark was not going to pursue that. “And what do you mean,
costume
? I must have seen it. I would admit to losing track, given all the swags of fabric that have been held against me in the last weeks. In truth I leave that all to my valet. He knows far more than I have any wish to.”

“You have not seen it or I believe you would have remembered. You must ask your valet about it. Given your normal somber style of dress, I would imagine he is hiding it from you.”

“Why would I remember my coronation attire? I am sure it is grand, but I must confess it all seems unbelievable to me.” Mark gestured down at his own dark coat. “I am still in mourning, but have been informed that there are many different shades of black and that I must know when it should be adorned with gold embroidery along with all the rest. I do not see the need to embroider so many layers of black when they do not show unless carefully examined.”

Brisbane sighed softly. “I will begin with the easy question. If you had paid any attention you would realize that we are all to be dressed as Tudor nobility for the ceremony. Do you really believe that you would not have noticed a pair of bright puffed pantaloons, a properly padded codpiece, and a jacket with sleeves too broad to fit through a doorway? And the hats. I will not even begin to describe the piece of grandeur that will sit atop my head.”

“Tudor?”

“You really have not been listening these last days, have you? That is something else you will have to learn. It is all very well to think about something else—someone else—but you must still pay attention and consider. The king has spent twenty-four thousand pounds on his coronation robes alone and we do not even begin to figure the cost for the raised walkway to Westminster. I understand his need for pomp and show, it is a very valuable tool, but he does not consider how the people will feel about the cost. There has been outcry at his expenditures before and still he pays no heed.”

Mark’s mind was still reeling from the thought of a Tudor costume. Damn right, Divers had been hiding it from him. He wouldn’t—although of course he would. An important lesson in life was learning when an issue was worth raising to a high level of importance. A Tudor costume was no more than a few hours of embarrassment. There would be some discussion of the padded codpiece. He did not need padding.

“Your mind is wandering again,” Brisbane said. “You must learn to keep your ears open and think at the same time. Our mutual aunt, Lady Smythe-Burke, assures me that you are more than worth the time and effort. Now, what do you think of this matter of blocking the queen from the coronation? He may have tried to divorce the woman, but she is still queen. And do keep your voice down. There are some answers you do not want to reach his ears.” Brisbane’s glance went to the king.

I
t felt wonderful to be out in the air. July was hot. It was one of those moments she was glad to be a woman. The thin blue silk of her skirts not only twirled well, it was also light. Being dressed in a wool coat, waistcoat, and high linen shirt would have been unbearable. She glanced at a man on the other side of the street. And boots. Who would wish to wear boots when the weather was like this?

She was young. She was fed. She had a place to sleep—a quite wonderful place to sleep. And she had money in her pocket, a great deal of money. It was preposterous that she had let herself feel morose because Mark was not the same in the morning as at night. Her sister had told her that the way men treated you before and after was subject to great change—although the one time she’d seen Lord Peter sneaking from her sister’s rooms in the early hours of the morning he had not looked stiff and forbidding. He’d looked like he should be whistling.

She knew just how to put that look on Mark’s face. Last night she’d stood before him in nothing but her stockings and she’d seen that look. Of course the likelihood of Divers arriving bedside before they were properly awake did put a damper on those thoughts in the morning. One more thing to think about after the coronation. She could not mention it to Mark when he was expected to be dressed for the king each day—but afterward—afterward might be a whole different story.

Oh, look at that bonnet. Isabella strolled across the street toward the most magnificent creation she had ever seen—feathers and froth in the most delightful shade of peach. It should have been ridiculous, but it was simply, simply wonderful. She’d have no place to wear it, but what did that matter? She’d be happy sitting in her own garden in such a flight of whimsy.

Pausing before the window, she stared at the hat, imagining herself in it. She had just decided that she would indeed purchase it when a voice called from across the street. “Isabella Masters. You stop right there. I know it is you. Don’t you dare try and leave.”