CHAPTER FIVE
He had a well-regarded reputation among all the nobility of northern England. He had a gentlemanly demeanor; women gawked at him, and some even hungered for his hand in marriage. She couldn't deny that as much as she disliked it, he had a presence about him that suggested he had everything a modern gentleman truly should.
Certainly, she could have a fine dinner with a fine gentleman, and ask him for a way out of the mess of an estate her father had left her. Certainly, a man of refined personality and taste would understand - he had been friends with Isobel's father, after all. Certainly, the Duke of Thrushmore would hear out the plight of the people of Upton, and the debts her father incurred helping them - and he'd help her. After all, if the duke ran in to the same sort of problems her father had - he would have given everything of himself to help his people, wouldn't he? All proper gentlemen would.
But none of those thoughts, none of the reassurances ringing in her head, none of the shrill compliments paid in the voices of haughty, squeaking English maidens set Isobel Duskwood at ease. She had always felt something strange - wrong, even - with the Duke of Thrushmore. Perhaps it simply had to do with him once seeking her out for marriage - something that set her young heart into tangles. Still, he had not made aggressive overtures since - and he certainly didn't carry with him the arrogance or malformed manners that the putrid Lord Brighton had evinced. She tried to convince herself she had nothing to worry about from the duke. That their discussion would be candid and that he would charm her, certainly - but that she'd not face the indignity that the Lord Brighton had showed her.
As Mr. Trevingham's cart rumbled slowly along cracked cobblestones across a seemingly boundless road carving through endless hills, Lady Duskwood yawned, all the stress having taken quite a toll on her sleep of late. She had spent all of the evening and morning lodged against the seat of this uncomfortable carriage, but the ache in her back was far from the most distracting and nerve-wracking part of this whole ordeal. She silently practiced her introduction to the Duke of Thrushmore - a gentle and slow curtsy, certain to catch his eye; the lilt of her voice, demure as a young heiress should be, and deferential; deferential to the power and the presence of a man as respected as he, a man deserving as a gentleman. She pondered endlessly what precisely she needed to say. How should he refer to him? 'Duke'? 'Gentleman'? Or perhaps she take him on his offer to call him something so intimate, his name, Eugenius? She had never felt comfortable calling a man by a name so forwardly; title was expected to be respected out here, after all. She swallowed hard, tapping her chin, her knees bobbing anxiously. She knew that the carriage would begin to draw close to the Duke of Thrushmore's estate before the sun set. Its bright glow would bask across her face; he'd see every imperfection, every little detail. She hurriedly reached for her mirror, glancing at herself, picking apart every tiny detail on her face. The darkened wear hanging from beneath her eyes. Imperfections in the glow of her skin. She fretted over every one.
"M'lady, we'll be rounding the corner to the Thrushmore Estate here momentarily!" Mr. Trevingham called back to his passenger, whose heart thumped harder in quiet fear. She couldn't put off all those feelings she'd had about the duke, and she feared whether her insecurities about him would harm her charm. All the questions ran at an intense pace through her mind, and she couldn't resolve it; one question, then another, and then another dozen. The hoof beats continued unabated, closer and closer, until she took a deep breath, trying to calm the wild feeling raging inside of her. She thought to stop the wagon, to turn it around, retreat to her estate, and wilt like a dying flower - perhaps there was no way out of this mess.
No, no, she told herself; no. The duke will listen - he'll help us. We've nothing to worry about. She told herself over and over again that everything would be fine, her heart throbbing in her throat. When the horse's hooves came to a slow and measured step, she glanced out the window - unsure of just how much time had passed, as she wracked herself nervously.
"M'lady!" Mr. Trevingham called back to her.
"Y-yes, I'm here," Isobel scrambled for a response, "I'm awake, I'm—"
"Shall I announce you, m'lady?" Mr. Trevingham asked. "Are you quite ready?"
"I-I should—" she stammered. "No, no. There's no need for an announcement, or—"
"Oh, come now m'lady, any proper lady like yourself ought have an introduction! Lemme—" dressed in a shabby suit and quite anxious to fulfill his duty as chauffeur, Mr. Trevingham ignored Isobel's quiet protests and sauntered churlishly to the front gates of the manor - and it was quite a manor. The stories of the wealth of Thrushmore certainly hadn't been tall tales, if Lord Eugenius Miller's estate served as any indication - the carriage had woven through a garden of shimmering-white paths, marbled statues, beautiful fountains and perfectly-trimmed hedges to arrive at glimmering oak doors that look as if a master craftsman carved them only yesterday. Marble glints in the sunlight, giving Thrushmore Estate an appearance close to what Ms. Isobel imagined heaven must look like as the angels fly close to its gates. Golden statues of angels trumpeted from each corner of the massive home, with spires and towers in classic architectural style flanking a grand entrance hall. Mr. Trevingham looked to be a tiny, shiftless vagabond against a backdrop so stunning, and Lady Duskwood thought to stop him, stumbling out of the carriage. Her dress caught on a stray nail in the doorway, she heard the fabric rip, stumbling and nearly falling into her face as she landed harshly on her feet outside the rickety cart.
"Announcing the Lady Duskwood, Duchess of Upton!" Mr. Trevingham announced the name and title proudly as he threw the doors open, shouting at the gathered group of young lady servants, all of whom glanced at him with marked skepticism. Hobbling on a sore foot from her tumble out of the wagon, Isobel breathed heavily as she stumbled in behind.
"Thank—thank you, thank you, yes, Mr. Trevingham, yes, thank you," she repeatedly nervously, her cheeks a burning shade of blush as she tried to shuffle her excited driver off to his carriage.
"I'll be waitin' just outside for you, okay, m'lady?" Trevingham smiled a crooked smile. Looking like a disaster as she staggered through the threshold, Isobel quietly hurried him off with nods and more thank-yous. As she entered the manor, the scent of lilac incense struck her sweetly; she could smell herbs de provence in the cookpot, and the luxury of the grand manor's hall left her dumbfounded. Her heart beat nervously while a veritable army of capable servants eyed her silently, sizing up the heiress with judgmental gazes. Furniture in the Ottoman style lay scattered across the greeting hall, with expensive silvered candelabras lighting the path between marbled floors and Persian rugs. Chandeliers glinted with burning candles as the day began to fade, the sun looming just above the hills without.
"Excuse me," Lady Isobel asked, her voice quiet as the squeak of a mouse. "I'm... the Lady Duskwood, and I'm here to meet with the Duke of Thrushmore... I do believe?..." perhaps her carriage driver had brought her to the wrong estate. The thought mortified her. Eyes watched her tensely; some jealous, some skeptical. All of them, the gathered group of young women, so silently skewering her.
"Yes, yes! Yes, oh dear, please forgive me, Lady Duskwood," croaked an old voice down the monolithic staircase at the rear of the expansive, finely-appointed hall. Rushing down the stairwell as quickly as his creaking bones could carry came the Duke of Thrushmore, garbed in the finest jacket Isobel had ever seen. Even her father couldn't dream of having something so finely tailored, certainly bought from London and brought out here, to the distant hills near Scotland. "I should have been here to meet you. Ladies, please, make Ms. Duskwood feel welcome, won't you?"
Isobel's heart calmed, and she let out a monumental sigh; perhaps she had been mistaken all this time, and he would prove to be what she had hoped he was - a proper gentleman. The crew of maids moved in concerted unison with only quiet words offered to one another, showing Isobel to a seat on the high-backed, overstuffed couch; she sunk into its cushions, as another lady offered her tea and a few others whispered polite questions into her ear that passed through her mind quickly; asking her if she needed help, or wanted some scones... she couldn't hear them all, and finally offered a polite nod and dismissed the lot of them.
"Please, ladies, I'm... I'm quite fine," Isobel snickered weakly, not used to such pampering treatment. "I'm just here to... to meet with the duke," she insisted, her voice a tiny squeak. Like a troupe of dancers the maids gracefully moved together through the hall, small murmurings and curious glances shot back at Isobel, comfortable on the couch, as they disappeared into a trap door cut into the side panels beneath the stairwell. Like that the commotion ended, leaving Isobel alone as footsteps echoed through the hall, the Duke of Thrushmore strutting confidently, head held high, like a bird with its chest presented proudly.
"They're lovely ladies, truly - I hope they didn't distress you, Lady Duskwood," the duke said; as he grew closer, she shuddered, as that feeling came over her again. She tried to push it out of her mind - he had been nothing but a gentleman thus far, and she felt certain he would help her plight.
"Oh, no, certainly not," Isobel giggled, wearing charm as thick as a harlot's perfume with each of her feminine little chortles. "I'm flattered, m'lord." She thought back on her plan - she had wanted to curtsy charmingly, and quietly cursed that she had been robbed of the occasion. She nodded her head, and he took her hand, swiping it his way and kneeling to deliver to her a charming kiss on the glove. She giggled again, laying it on heavily, the thought of her people heavy on her mind.
"Good. Certainly, I hope the kitchen and waitstaff won't put you off, either - dinner's being prepared as we speak," the duke grinned that toothy grin, and Isobel pushed away all those thoughts that had plagued her mind.
"Dinner? That's quite generous of you, m'lord," she said, suddenly feeling him lifting her with the grasp on her palm. The sensation took her by surprise; he had been the paramount of a gentleman, but to so roughly demand her presence felt odd. "Oh—excuse, excuse me," she coughed quietly. "I'm—there's something of a matter of urgency I had wanted to discuss with you, m'lord. It concerns the state of affairs - back at my estate," she tried to cut to the reality of her situation, but the duke had little interest.
"Come, let's speak of your worries over dinner, my dear - oh, but I'm getting ahead of myself," he interrupted abruptly as she moved to speak again. "How was your trip? Free of incident, I hope? No run-ins with those Merry Bandits I've heard tell of from the other ladies traveling up this way?" he asked, though he didn't give her nearly enough time to adequately answer. She began to feel this hadn't been about her, or her needs... she quickly felt it would be about the duke, and not himself.
"M'lord—"
"Please, call me Eugenius if you would, lovely Isobel," he insisted, dragging her towards a side panel; all the doors felt hidden, carved into the panels of the wall. Lovely Isobel. Hearing the phrase sent a shiver along the Lady's spine.
"Eu-Eugenius," she said the name with hesitation, not wanting to feel so personal with the man who had so long made her uncomfortable, but hoping it would save her village and her estate, the more she said it. "The matter is rather urgent, and I had hoped—" he dragged her, all quite forwardly, into the dining hall - nearly twice as grand as the entrance hall, with the sun peering a beautiful vivid-orange through soaring windows arrayed across the walls. Portraits, statues, battle-scarred armor and other trinkets lined walls carved and varnished in maple and oak, with gold trimming every surface - including the black tablecloth atop a banquet table longer than any she had yet seen. The duke clearly possessed a love of ostentatious wealth - not far from the braggadocio of the Lord Brighton, in fact, though the duke did everything bigger. Big halls, big colors - he even wore a suit too large for himself, something that became apparent when the anemic man moved closer. He wanted to appear bigger, bolder - everything that, perhaps, he was not.
"Have you heard much of the Merry Bandits? They're all the talk across Thrushmore and Harshire," the duke once again silenced Isobel's worried words, ushering her down the stretching, stretching dining hall. "They've caused quite the stir along the roadways, fancying themselves modern incarnations of the old Robin Hood tales. Preaching justice, when truly all they are is a gang of roustabouts," the duke grumbled. "I've spoken to the sheriff of my lands already - and he'll not tolerate those sorts of thieves, he promised. I hope they haven't been making trouble in Upton - I'm certain you've been busy since your father passed," he continued unabated, quite liking to hear himself talk. Flustered, Isobel began to speak bolder.
"Please, m'lord, concerning that - there's a matter on the table I quite hoped to discuss with you, about the nature of my father's finances," Isobel interjected.
"Oh, yes, of course, your father's estate," the duke mentioned offhandedly. "It must be difficult, very difficult for one, unmarried woman to manage something so stressful. Please, sit," he finally said, and Isobel plopped rather unladylike into the dining chair even before he had finished pulling it out for her. "Now, we've a few matters I'd like to discuss, lovely Isobel," he said in an atrocious, quiet purr. Isobel held herself together reasonably, her leg shivering in discomfort, but she thought of her people - of Upton, and her father. She thought of Lord Brighton's crass advances, and swallowed her pride.
"M'lord..."
"Please, lovely Isobel. Eugenius, I insist," he grunted, that off-setting smile growing. He sat next to her, looming closely; Isobel withdrew in calm confusion. He ought to know not to crowd her - certainly, not like this.
"E... Eugenius," she hissed. "My estate... you know, how truly my father loved the people of Upton - how much he would do anything to help them," Isobel smiled as a bowl of soup was set before her. The scent of slow-roasted vegetables stewed in stock and freshly-picked herbs de Provence struck her strong; she took in a deep whiff, and it smelled so truly heavenly. Having eaten little save an apple plucked from a roadside stand all day, she wanted so badly to devour the food, but she kept her sense of propriety intact, as best she could. The Lord Brighton could act so crass, and the Duke of Thrushmore could overstep his bounds, but she, at least, would make her father proud.
"Your father, as I understand it, took on quite a lot of debt in the furtherance of the estate - owed to that malcontent, Lord Brighton, in Norbury," the duke spat, taking a loud slurp of his soup.
"You... you knew?" Lady Isobel remarked in faint surprise. "You knew of my father's situation? And of... of the duke?"
"Did you think I would have listened to you had I not known you needed my help?" the duke smiled a sickening smile bright and wide. "Please, enjoy your soup, won't you?"
"Did... did you do nothing to help my father while he was still alive, duke? I had thought you to be a friend of his," she exhaled, fiery.
"Your father had little interest in asking me for my assistance, lovely Isobel. I'm not certain why - but, it is as it is, and now..." the duke's smile grew dark and devious; she suddenly felt his hand on her leg, and she recoiled, taking in a sharp breath at the man's gross actions.
"D-duke! I'm..." she stilled her nerves. "I... yes, I need... I need help, the Lord Brighton, he sought to take advantage of me, in exchange for forgiveness of the debts my father left to him. I had hoped to have a good discussion, with a gentleman—"
"Lovely Isobel," the duke purred, a wretched noise that wrenched Isobel's stomach. "I lost my wife, as you may have heard... she was such a lovely young thing. And since she's been gone..." Isobel felt the duke's fingers sliding, heedlessly up her leg, and she shuddered, her breaths halting. "...I've felt so alone, here in the manor. I've needed someone here, in the manor... to keep me company..." he drew closer, and Isobel felt her leg begin to shudder hard; when he dared to grasp her thigh, she shrieked, shuddering and pulling away from the man who had been made out to be such a gentleman by so many woman across northern England. The chair groaned as its legs skidded across the wooden floor.
"M-m'lord!" she exclaimed.
"Lovely Isobel, come to me," he growled, a severe look in his eyes. "I'll make the debts with Lord Brighton go away. I'll even take your hand in marriage," he offered, as Isobel should beg him for the opportunity. She recoiled, surprise setting in to her bones. If this is the way that the man all of north England took to be a fine gentleman conducted himself - what could she expect from the rest of high society?
"M'lord, I... I simply hoped we could come to a business accord—" Isobel took a step back, but the duke persisted; feeling cornered, she shook as he came closer, sniffing her scent loudly and biting at her jaw with a feral aggression.
"I've needed you for years, little Isobel," he hissed into her ear. "And now I can have you. You need me, don't you?" he asked, his voice full of kink and lust. "You need me to fix your problems. Don't worry. I can make it all go away, if you'll be mine," he snarled, and without warning, he pressed his lips to hers. Isobel's eyes opened wide and she groaned, huffing and pulling herself away from his embrace.
"M'lord! This..." Isobel stammered in disbelief. "I th-thought you were a gentleman!"
"I am a man, and I'm the best chance you've got," the duke reminded her harshly. "Come, stay at my manor. Stay with me—"
"You're no different than that dissolute creature in Norbury," Isobel scolded. "I thought you a gentleman. I'll be taking my leave," she said, flustered. The Duke strutted after Isobel as she stormed towards the end of the dining hall, the pretense of her manners faded.
"You'll never make it alone, not in this world, lovely Isobel," the duke's voice rose to a shout, a voice much bigger than his aging, shrinking body. "Not with that monster, Brighton, at your heels. Do you think you can get past him without my help?" he called after her. Isobel flung the doors open, her cheeks bright with barely-concealed fury.
"I'll be very relieved to prove you wrong, Lord Miller," she shouted, clacking her way to the front doors.
"You'll be back! You've no choice!" the duke said, a dark laugh in his throat. She heard it echo into a muffle as she stormed into the last dying strands of sunset, her eyes downcast, the stress heavy on her shoulders again. She heard the rickety cart rounding the corner, Mr. Trevingham's face twisted in mild befuddlement.
"M'lady, that didn't last quite long for a dinner, I must say," he commented wryly. "Your dinner dates are quite the fiascoes of late, it seems."
"That's quite accurate," Isobel sighed in a frustrated bluster. "I know you'll... perhaps be quite put off by this request, Mr. Trevingham, but..."
"Another ride, back to Lord Brighton's estate?" he queried knowingly. Lady Duskwood's shoulders slumped.
"Perhaps we could stop for food beforehand. My dinner plans keep coming up short," she said.