Why Dukes Say I Do (4 page)

It was probably something the dowager had dictated to her maid, Isabella thought with a sigh. Why couldn’t she simply leave her to the business of bringing back Ormonde without overseeing every tiny detail?

Snatching up the page, she unfolded and unfolded and unfolded until the message was visible in the lamplight.

The words made the tiny hairs on the nape of her neck rise.

I know what you did last season.

Biting back a cry and grateful that Sanders had left to hurry the footmen with her bath, Isabella crumpled the page into a ball and tossed it into the fire.

If only that would erase the words from her mind as well.

*   *   *

His guest settled into her bedchamber, Trevor allowed himself to relax for the first time since learning who Lady Isabella was and why she’d come.

Settled into a hot bath, he leaned a weary head back against the edge of the tub while he listened to his valet, Jennings, putter around the dressing room next door. Contrary to what Lady Isabella might think, Trevor did not live an entirely rustic existence in Yorkshire. His father had been a gentleman, a duke’s son, and had not given up the comforts of his former existence entirely. He had simply chosen not to embrace the more frivolous customs of the aristocracy. He had also chosen not to return to the family estate in Sussex or mingle with the beau monde in London. That did not mean that his household in Yorkshire was barbaric. Far from it. When he had purchased the Nettlefield estate, he had set about making it the most elegant home in the county. And once the farms had begun to produce a profit, his wife had begun to fill its rooms with the finest furniture from York and a surprisingly eclectic collection of art and antiquities, in addition to the pieces that had come with the estate itself. As a result, Nettlefield truly was the most elegant house in the county.

Trevor, however, had grown up not caring a whit about such things. While his father had played at being the country gentleman, Trevor had spent much of his time at the side of the estate’s steward, Brooks, and learned all he could about the most modern methods of farming and animal husbandry. He spent his days visiting the tenants, ensuring that their homes were sound, and in general seeing to it that those activities his father was too elegant for were performed. He had never considered that the dukedom was something he need worry over. Certainly his father had never paid it much attention, and once he was gone Trevor had given it the same consideration.

Now, of course, the three men who had been between himself and the title were gone and Trevor found himself the head of a family that had turned its back on his father when he dared to marry for love instead of for monetary gain. Well, he’d be damned if he’d reward the Ormonde clan with his leadership. He would stay here in Yorkshire farming and go about his business and they could go to the devil. True, the local gentry and families of wealth would never let him forget his new position, but he had never been much for society—even the local variety—so he simply avoided them as much as he could. When his sisters were of age, he would worry about that. He didn’t wish for his eschewing of the title to have a negative effect on Eleanor’s and Belinda’s marriage chances, of course, but he wouldn’t have to consider that for some years.

Still, thanks to his grandmother’s machinations, he was burdened with the presence of the all-too-attractive Lady Isabella Wharton beneath his roof. Surely there must be some way to send the woman packing, to convince her that remaining in the country was a fool’s errand. He held his breath and ducked his head down under the water, then let the rivulets stream down his face as he rested the back of his head against the edge of the tub. He wondered what his unwanted guest thought of the Careys’ modern conveniences. She had likely assumed that the family bathed once a week in a tub near the kitchen fire. He laughed softly at the notion.

But the thought sparked an idea.

The key to getting rid of Lady Isabella was not to do her bidding, he decided. It was to offer her a bargain.

The more he considered the notion, the more he liked it. It would serve his grandmother right if her highborn surrogate failed solely because of her inability to endure the country life. After all, the dowager expected Trevor and his sisters to endure all the ridiculous hardships of life in the city. Why not prove to her that it was not so very easy for a leopard to change its spots? He had his doubts about whether the dowager would last for more than a few days in the country. It was hardly a stretch to think the same would hold true for the town-bred lady she’d sent in her stead.

Pleased with his scheme, Trevor relaxed into his steaming bath and made plans for the next day.

*   *   *

Despite her fatigue, the anonymous note meant Isabella had some difficulty settling down to sleep. As a result, the next morning found her fighting back an unladylike yawn as she made her way downstairs.

In the light of day the note seemed far less ominous than it had before. Obviously whoever had put it in her bag had intended to play some sort of cruel joke on her. Maybe it was the work of the dowager, who wanted to remind Isabella that the circumstances of Gervase’s death were easy enough to reveal should she fail in her quest to bring Ormonde back to London. Regardless, she was here now and no amount of intimidation would make Isabella forget her real reason for being here: Perdita’s happiness.

Fortunately for her purposes the dowager’s carriage had suffered a great deal of damage in last night’s accident, so there would be no returning to London for several days. This would give Isabella the time she needed to persuade the duke to come to London.

Or so she hoped.

She found the breakfast room with the help of a maid and was helping herself to toast and kippers when she heard a slight gasp behind her. Turning, she saw a young lady a few years older than Belinda standing in the doorway, her eyes wide and a look of unfettered delight on her pretty face.

“You are much more beautiful than Bel said,” she blurted out, dropping into a hasty curtsy at Isabella’s single raised brow. “I am Miss Eleanor Carey,” she said by way of introduction. “And you must be Lady Isabella Wharton.”

Carrying her plate to the table and nodding to the footman that she would like tea, Isabella waited for the girl to take a seat opposite her. She was not surprised to find the duke’s other sister to be as rag mannered as the younger Belinda, but she was startled by the young lady’s beauty. Surely Ormonde didn’t mean to waste this child on some yeoman farmer when she could make a wonderful match in London?

“I am,” she said, taking a small bite of toast. “I wonder, Miss Carey, that you are not in the schoolroom at this hour. Surely you have a governess to occupy your time.” It was a question but also a judgment. If she did have a governess, then the woman was hardly worth her salt if the girl’s casual manner was anything to go by.

“Oh, we don’t have a governess at the moment,” Eleanor said, eyeing the details of Isabella’s gown and coiffure with interest. “They keep falling in love with Trevor, so we have a hard time keeping one. When Miss Timms, the last one, declared her love for him, Trevor decided that we could go without one for a bit.”

Isabella had little difficulty imagining such a thing, but it was hardly a logical response for him to dispense with a governess altogether. Clearly his sisters were in need of some sort of social guidance, or Eleanor wouldn’t be introducing herself to guests and Belinda wouldn’t be accosting him about kittens. Perhaps while she was here she might prevail upon him to allow her to choose someone for the girls when she returned to London.

“Is that sleeve the latest fashion in London?” Eleanor asked candidly, her wistful gaze on Isabella’s gown. “We are sadly out of fashion here in Yorkshire, I fear, though the local seamstress, Mrs. Winters, does try to copy styles from
La Belle Assemblée
.”

Remembering what it had been like to be seventeen and desperate for news of the outside world, Isabella said, “I purchased this gown only last month from Madame Celeste. And she assured me that this sleeve was what every lady in Paris is wearing. Perhaps I can make some sketches for you to take with you the next time you visit Mrs. Winters? Before I go back to London, I mean.”

Eleanor clapped her hands. “That would be wonderful! I do know that Mrs. Winters tries her best, but I fear there is something sadly provincial about her work.”

Uncomfortable at the girl’s worshipful expression, Isabella decided to change the subject. “If you no longer have a governess to instruct you, how do you occupy yourself?” Surely the duke did not allow his sisters to run wild about the countryside. Even in the country it was frowned upon to allow girls who were not yet out to simply do as they pleased.

“Oh, on most days Belinda and I go to the Felshams’ for lessons with their daughters. But they are in London for the season just now, so we are left to our own devices.” Eleanor shrugged. “I practice the pianoforte. Some days Bel and I set up our easels in the garden and paint. I do try to ensure that she doesn’t run too wild. After all, we do not wish to develop a reputation. Since Mama died, I feel a certain responsibility to her. Though I know Trevor tries his best, he is a gentleman and hardly one to train one in ladylike behavior.”

After Eleanor’s earlier enthusiasms, this rather practical speech struck Isabella as surprisingly grown-up for such a young lady.

“How long has it been since your mother’s death?” Isabella asked quietly, putting her teacup down.

“Seven years,” Eleanor said. “Bel doesn’t remember her really; she was too young. But I do and I know she would not like it if we caused talk in the village. She was quite proud. Especially since Papa was a duke’s son.”

Touched suddenly by the girl’s determination to do her mother proud, Isabella made a decision. “Perhaps while I am here I can help you girls by telling you about how things are done in London. After all, you will be making your debut one of these seasons and you would not wish to be completely green when you get to London.”

“That would be lovely.” The somber mood gone as quickly as it had come on, Eleanor beamed once more. “I cannot tell you how pleased I am that you have come. I fear that Nettlefield is sometimes rather dull, and Trevor cares little for social niceties. He is a good brother, but a dismal duke. He doesn’t even really like to be called by his title. Can you imagine?”

Isabella could not imagine, but she knew that the duke’s reluctance to accept his title was the least of their worries.

They were forestalled from further discussion by the appearance of Templeton in the doorway of the breakfast room.

“Lady Wharton,” he said gravely, “several of the neighborhood ladies have called and wish to know if you are receiving visitors.

She looked at Eleanor, who shrugged. A habit that Isabella would need to warn her about.

“It is a small neighborhood,” the young lady said. “They probably learned about your accident from the servants and word spread. You cannot blame them for being curious. We get very little excitement here.”

Lovely, Isabella thought. I am reduced to being an entertainment for rural gawkers. “Perhaps you will come with me to meet them?” she asked Eleanor, thinking that this would be a good opportunity to judge how the girl’s manners were when she wasn’t overcome with curiosity.

Clearly the invitation was unexpected, because Eleanor’s eyes widened before she visibly squared her shoulders and rose elegantly from the breakfast table. “I would be delighted to perform the introductions,” she said with a gravity that almost made Isabella laugh. But she didn’t. A girl’s amour propre at that age was quite fragile. And there was no reason to mock Eleanor for behaving with dignity. If it seemed a bit stilted after her earlier frankness and unabashed enthusiasm, well, she could work on developing an easier manner the more that such introductions became commonplace for her.

Following the girl from the breakfast room, Isabella prepared herself to be scrutinized within an inch of her life.

Three

Refusing to be diverted from his daily routine by the presence of Lady Isabella in his household, Trevor went for his usual ride the next morning and followed it up with a visit to his friend Sir Lucien Blakemore’s estate, where he was scheduled to look over a pair of leaders for his new curricle. He might not choose to cut a dash in town or attempt reckless races from London to Bath, but he could not deny a certain weakness for a well-sprung, fast equipage.

“I hear you’ve got a rather attractive visitor at Nettlefield,” Lucien said as the two men shared a drink after Trevor’s purchase of the horses. “My valet had the news from the tweeny whose sister works in your kitchen,” he explained wryly.

Trevor’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “Glad to hear the gossip is traveling as quickly as ever through the village.” He was hardly surprised, but he had hoped for Lady Isabella to be on her way back to London before the village learned of her presenc. It was bad enough that she’d met his sisters. If the local ladies got hold of her she would tell them her reason for being at Nettlefield, and he had no wish for the collective wisdom of the village to be put to work devising reasons for him to fully accept his position as the Duke of Ormonde.

His father had made that decision for him long ago when he’d chosen to remain in Yorkshire and marry Trevor’s mother against the old duke’s wishes. If the old duke was worried about the succession then he should have thought beyond his own vanity and into the future. It was hardly Trevor’s fault that his uncle and cousin had died so young. He had no sense of loyalty to the Ormonde family at all. Especially after the way they’d cut off his father. Trevor would do his duty to the estate itself, because he knew that the people who worked for it had not chosen to cut off his father, but he would be damned if he’d go up to London and parade himself before the
ton
when he despised everything about the Ormonde family.

“So,” Lucien prompted, “tell me about her, this mysterious Lady Isabella Wharton who arrived in the night.”