“Heaven above, you can’t be serious!” The exclamation came from the duchess a split second after Anthony announced that Isabella was in fact the granddaughter of the Marquess and Marchioness of Deerford, not to mention daughter of the infamous Lady Margaret.
Anthony would not have been surprised if she’d had a fit of the vapors, but instead she just reached for her sherry and took what most would have considered to be an inappropriately large sip. Anthony smiled. He then explained the situation regarding Mr. Roberts, adding that he and Mr. Chilcott would have a word with him together. “So please don’t mention anything about my forthcoming proposal when they visit. I’d like to do this by the book and without another man’s intention to offer marriage hanging over us.”
“Yes,” his mother agreed, chasing her previous sip of sherry with another. “I think that’s a wise decision—one that will be more likely to ensure Miss Chilcott’s acceptance.” A crease appeared upon her forehead and she leaned toward him, tilting her head a little as she did so. “What about her . . . identity though? I assume her parents will apprise her of that?”
“I have explained how important it is that they do so immediately,” Anthony said, hoping that they would be wise enough to follow his advice. “I believe they were in agreement when I left.”
“Good . . . good . . .” The duchess nodded and down went another sip of sherry.
This was clearly a situation that called for fortification as far as she was concerned. Hell, Anthony mused, it’s a situation that has made me turn to brandy more than once.
His smile broadened as he raised his own glass to his lips and swallowed.
“And the letter?” his mother asked, nodding toward the missive that was lying on his desk. It had come from Lucien Marvaine, the Earl of Roxberry, assuring him that the culprit behind the shooting had been apprehended. There was nothing further however, no mention of who the perpetrator was, but a postscript suggesting that Anthony come to Roxberry Manor so Roxberry could apprise him of everything that had happened.
“The earl will have to wait,” Anthony said. “As eager as I am to discover why Lady Rebecca was shot, everything else is just a matter of formality. After all, the villain has been caught. I have more pressing matters to attend to.”
Leaning back in his chair, he breathed a sigh of relief. It looked as though a positive outcome was finally within reach. Tomorrow, Isabella would come for tea with her parents, after which, he and Mr. Chilcott would seek out Mr. Roberts and tell him that he’d best forget whatever plans he had of marrying Isabella. Once this was done, Anthony would offer Isabella a proper proposal, and with Mr. Roberts having by then released her of all obligation toward him, she would be bound to say yes. Anthony was sure of it. Tomorrow could scarcely come fast enough.
Isabella was in shock. It was the only way to describe what she felt after everything her parents had told her. It was also the only way to explain why she wasn’t furious with either one of them. She was a lady, the granddaughter of a marquess, and they’d kept this from her for eighteen years. Dear God, their existence was probably the best-guarded secret in all the British Isles and beyond. And now she was supposed to hop into the ducal carriage that had come to collect her and her parents, drive up to Kingsborough Hall and sit down to tea with the duke and dowager duchess.
She’d always dreamed of living a fairy-tale existence, but she was starting to think that whoever was penning this one had gotten a few details terribly wrong. What a muddle and what a deception. Yet in spite of it all, she was happy, because for the very first time since meeting the duke, she felt a spark of hope. “Does he know about this?” she’d asked her parents the previous evening, when they’d finally told her the truth. “Is the duke aware of who you are, Mama? Of who I am?”
“Yes, my dear, he knows, though he has only discovered it this afternoon.”
“When he came to visit?”
They’d both nodded, and Isabella, her curiosity satisfied, had kept quiet. One thought, however, had remained in her head with deep determination: “There is only one woman for whom I hold an interest. Unfortunately, she is quite determined to marry someone else.” He’d been hoping that she would agree to marry him in spite of everything. But how could she, with the hold Mr. Roberts had on her? Even now it would be difficult to go back on her agreement, or more precisely, her father’s agreement. His honor would be questioned and . . . Isabella dared not think of what might happen if Mr. Roberts revealed himself to be the spiteful sort.
Worse was the fact that if she did accept Anthony’s proposal now, he might not think her heart was in it, believing that her yes was determined by her newfound status. Heaven help her, but it was complicated. So she decided not to think about it overly much, enjoying her parents’ company instead as the carriage rattled along the road, swaying gently as it turned up the driveway toward Kingsborough Hall.
As soon as the carriage pulled up to the front door, the steps were set down by one footman while another opened the carriage door, each standing to attention on either side as they offered their white gloved hands and helped the guests alight. Gravel crunched beneath Isabella’s slippers as she stood staring up at the gray stone edifice, with its sunken windows and pointy turrets, thinking of the man who lived beyond these walls. She decided that the building and the man didn’t suit. The building was far too austere for such a kind and quirky soul.
Quirky.
She focused on the word and couldn’t stop herself from smiling. It suited him. There probably weren’t many dukes around who collected bits and bobs—seeing in someone else’s junk the possibility for art.
Artist.
Isabella’s smile broadened. Perhaps the building did suit him after all, for she could certainly imagine it as inspirational fodder for his creative mind.
Allowing her parents to lead the way, Isabella fell in behind them and ascended the front steps. As she passed over the threshold and into the grand foyer, she cast a discreet look at the butler, who stood as stiff as a newly starched cravat. And yet when his eyes met hers for the briefest of moments, Isabella saw the mortification there. He was embarrassed by the way he’d treated her when she’d been there last, and so, when he opened his mouth, Isabella was certain that he was about to apologize.
With no desire to further humiliate the man, Isabella gave him a little nod, smiled reassuringly and said, “We’re here to take tea with Her Grace.”
It was a redundant statement, of course, since the butler would be fully aware of who they were and why they’d come, yet when he responded in the affirmative and asked them all to follow him through to the blue salon, Isabella could have sworn that his features eased a little. She had saved his pride, and he was grateful for it.
They only had to follow him a short distance before they arrived at a room with an open door. With a knock, the butler announced their arrival, then stepped aside and waved them through.
“How kind of you to accept my invitation,” said the duchess as she rose to her feet and came to greet her guests. Anthony, who’d been standing by one of the windows looking out, turned, his eyes brightening as they settled upon Isabella.
She felt the heat rise in her cheeks and tried to get herself under control by greeting her hostess. “Thank you for having us, Your Grace,” she heard her mother say as she swept into a deep curtsy. “We are most honored.”
Isabella followed suit while her father bowed. She’d never seen her parents so formal before, yet her mother in particular behaved with unparalleled grace and etiquette. She was born to this, a voice reminded her just as the duke stepped forward to make his own salutation.
Isabella kept her gaze trained on a porcelain lion that sat beside the fireplace. He knows who I am. Something even she hadn’t known until the previous evening. The thought made her jittery in every conceivable way, for this changed everything between them. She was no longer some simple country miss whom he could take for a tumble without consequence. Indeed, the only way he could have her now would be through marriage.
“My lady,” he said, taking her mother’s hand and raising it to his lips for a kiss. “We are the ones who should be honored. I know how difficult it must have been for you to come here today.”
Isabella could feel her brow drawing together in a crease. How much had her parents told him?
“And Mr. Chilcott,” Anthony continued, shaking her father’s hand. “We are only too happy to welcome you into our midst.”
Isabella’s heart pounded as he stepped toward her next. His hair had been impeccably arranged (no doubt by a very patient valet), his cravat was elegantly tied without being ostentatious, and he wore a dark gray velvet jacket with a black waistcoat beneath and charcoal-colored breeches.
He looked impeccable, and as he took her hand in his, sending darts of heat racing up her arm, Isabella met his gaze—hot and smoldering. She could have melted into a puddle right then and there, he was so magnificently tempting. “Miss Chilcott,” he said. “May I say that you look exceptionally lovely today?”
It was a good thing that he took her arm then, for she feared she might have dropped to the floor—her knees were too wobbly to carry her weight a moment longer. What on earth was he doing to her? She tried to focus on what his mother was saying to her mother—something about how she recalled seeing her at a few social functions years back, except Anthony leaned close to her ear and whispered, “I always said you had a sparkle about you.”
The words softly tickled her skin, and she shuddered as it rippled across the nape of her neck. She could think of no response to such a remark, nor did she dare say anything just now for fear that her words would come out a croak. She remained silent instead, seating herself on one of two pale blue silk settees, her mother and the duchess already occupying the other, while her father had seated himself in an armchair. Anthony, in pursuit of her as always, lowered himself onto the vacant spot beside her. Dear God. Was it just her, or did the room seem overwhelmingly hot all of a sudden? If only she’d had a fan.
Matters didn’t improve as she sipped the warm tea that the duchess served, and no matter how much Isabella tried to concentrate on the conversation taking place around her, she could think of little other than the fact that Anthony’s thigh kept brushing against hers whenever he moved to pick up or set down his teacup—which he was doing far too often, in Isabella’s opinion.
At one point, she hazarded a glance in his direction, only to be met with a much too mischievous smile and a pair of eyes that told her he knew precisely what he was up to. She could have throttled him at that moment if it hadn’t been for the fact that they were not alone. He was deliberately trying to unsettle her, and the worst part was that it was working remarkably well.
Stifling a groan, she returned her attention to her father, who was now in the process of telling the duchess that he’d once had the honor of saddling her late husband’s horse during a visit he’d paid to one of the Deerford estates.
Dear God!
Isabella cringed, though the duchess appeared touched by the story, which included a very fine and flattering depiction of Anthony’s father. A lull arose in the conversation as they each considered the man who was no more—a person who’d been so highly regarded that it would be near impossible for anyone else to live up to him.
Isabella eyed Anthony and found in his features a determination etched so deeply that she wondered at how she could have missed it before. Her breath caught, and as he turned his head to face her, she saw him for who he really was—not some pampered aristocrat used to getting his way and willing to do whatever he had to in order to get it, as she’d initially thought.
The Duke of Kingsborough had resolve, but it was born from the love for a man he’d admired more than any other, and a longing to do whatever he could to make that man proud of him, even if he was no longer here to see what his son was capable of. Her heart swelled for him at that moment with a love so deep and pure that it very nearly took her breath away.
“I was wondering if you would permit me to show Miss Chilcott the library,” Anthony said, pulling Isabella out of her reverie. “There’s a particular book that I promised I’d lend to her.”
“How thoughtful of you,” his mother said. “I have no issue with it as long as the Chilcotts don’t—just be sure to leave the door open, that’s all.”
Isabella blushed at the duchess’s implication that something untoward might happen between her and Anthony if they were left alone behind closed doors. Well, it probably would, considering that they hadn’t even required that much when they’d kissed in the middle of the road for all the world to see.
“By all means,” her father said while her mother gave a nod of confirmation, “as long as you abide by your mother’s conditions—I’m in no mood for a duel.” He winked.
If Anthony thought it embarrassing, he hid it remarkably well, helping Isabella up instead and then offering her his arm. Saying something to the effect that they would be back shortly, he guided Isabella out of the room and away from the safety her parents and his mother had offered.
They didn’t have far to go, though with each step they took, Anthony became keenly aware of the heat entering his body at the point where Isabella’s hand rested upon his arm. He’d enjoyed the discomfort that had emanated from every part of her body as he’d sat beside her on the sofa, for it meant that she was far from indifferent to him. He knew this already, of course, but the confirmation bolstered his confidence. He was grateful for that, considering the conversation he would have with Mr. Roberts later in the day.
Arriving at the library, Anthony opened the door and ushered her inside, only to recall their last encounter here. A similar thought must have struck Isabella, for her eyes immediately went to the shelves where his figures were displayed and blushed. But then her eyes caught something, and she moved forward as if drawn by one singular object of interest. “Is that me?” she asked as she came to stand before the tiny model he’d made of her using the fabric from her gown.
It was Anthony’s turn to feel embarrassed, and he masked it by heading for the side table and pouring himself a brandy. For some reason, her opinion mattered more than he ever would have imagined. It was a silly hobby of course, but it was his, and he’d put extra time and effort into perfecting her likeness. It was imperative to him that she approved. “Yes,” he muttered, offering her a glass of sherry, but she waved away his offer as she peered closely at the figure, as if imparting every detail of it to memory.
With bated breath he waited for her censure, until she finally leaned back, turned toward him with glowing eyes and said, “You put more care into this one, Anthony. It’s . . . I mean, the others are incredible too—I’ve said so before—but this one . . . it’s as if . . .” She hesitated and averted her gaze from his.
“As if what?” Anthony prodded.
She kept quiet a moment, as if taking courage. When she spoke again, her voice was but a shy whisper. “As if your whole heart was in it when you made it. I absolutely love it.”
But do you love me?
He could not ask such a bold question without sounding foolishly desperate, so he merely thanked her as relief flooded his body and he decided to address the topic that had floated in the air between them since her arrival, no matter how uncomfortable it might be. “You seem to be taking the news of your heritage rather well—far better than I would have thought, in fact. How do you feel, knowing that you are not simply Miss Chilcott, but the granddaughter of a marquess?”
Taking a deep breath, she walked across to the bookcases and started perusing their contents. “No different at all really,” she said as she ran her fingers along the spine of an atlas. With a quick glance over her shoulder at him, she gave him a crooked smile. “Perhaps I ought to be angry with my parents for lying to me all these years, except nothing good would come of that. They are still the same people who raised me, cared for me and loved me. I understand why they did what they did—they loved each other, and this was the only way in which they could be together. Yes, they deceived me, but they were only doing what they thought best; what they believed would protect me.”
Anthony stared at her as she stood there, dressed in a simple light green gown, her hair knotted neatly behind her head, though a few loose tendrils curled against her cheeks. “You’re a very forgiving woman, Isabella. Your parents are incredibly lucky.”
She gave a little shrug with one shoulder. “I think it would be unfair of me to judge them based on a decision they made in the face of a difficult situation so long ago. Everyone makes mistakes, Your Grace, and they are my parents. I won’t hold a grudge.”
“And what of your grandfather, the marquess?”
Isabella stilled. “He treated my parents most selfishly. My mother refuses to speak of him, so I don’t know much. I suspect that it was he and my grandmother who stopped me at the ball to ask about my gown? They recognized it, though I was certain at the time that they were mistaken.”
“They asked me to help them find you, hoping that you might be able to give them a clue to their daughter’s whereabouts.” He watched as her posture tensed. “I haven’t said a word to them yet, though I do believe that it would be the kind thing to do. They lost their daughter twenty years ago and have been worried sick ever since.”
Isabella nodded, her face still turned away as she faced the many books before her. “So it was because of them that you went looking for me,” she said. There was no disappointment to be found in her voice. She simply stated it as fact.
It wasn’t true though, and Anthony definitely didn’t want her to think that this was the only reason why he’d scoured Moxley for any sign of her. “No, Isabella, I went looking for you because you stirred to life a part of me that I’d long since forgotten existed—a joie de vivre I haven’t felt in many years, not since my father got sick. In your company, I felt the weight of all the responsibility I’ve been shouldering for so long lighten, allowing me the opportunity to have fun. But there was also something else—something powerful that drew me to you, and I felt as though I’d be giving up on the best opportunity life was likely to afford me if I didn’t do all in my power to at least further my acquaintance with you.”
She didn’t move, but he could tell that his words had moved her, judging from the slight quiver in her breath. Moving toward her, he reached out his hand and gently traced the line of her jaw with his thumb. Her breath hitched, and though she might have appeared as calm and collected as a stone statue, Anthony could see her pulse racing against her neck, and he knew that her emotions were raging beneath the surface.
If he tried to kiss her now, she would allow it, of that he was certain, but he’d taken advantage of her too many times already and had made his decision—it was time to treat her with the respect she deserved and for him to act the part of the gentleman he claimed to be. How many times had he said he’d reformed during the past weeks, only to have gone and acted on his rakish impulses? It had to stop. And so he stepped away from her and crossed the room to a safe distance. “I believe it was Mary Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Woman that I promised you,” he said. She turned then, and he suspected from the surprise on her face that she had not expected him to have moved so far from her. She nodded. “It should be just over there to your right—one of those brown volumes on the lower shelf.”
He watched as she crouched down to retrieve it, but as she did, he remembered something. “Wait,” he said, starting forward, except she’d already noticed the book he’d hidden behind Wollstonecraft’s and was presently pulling it from the shelf as well. A wave of heat descended over Anthony as he swooped down in an attempt to snatch the book from her hands. It was too late though. She already had it firmly in her grasp, and he was forced to abandon his attempt, muttering an oath beneath his breath instead.
“It looks as though you’ve misplaced one of your books,” she said, smiling up at him.
“Quite right,” he said, hoping that she wouldn’t notice the sheen of perspiration gathering upon his brow. “If you’ll please hand it to me, I’ll make sure to put it back in the right place.”
She must have seen right through him, for her eyes narrowed and she frowned, looking from the book to Anthony, from Anthony to the book and back again. He held his breath as he waited for her to make her move, and then she opened it.
Oh dear God in heaven.
“The Path to Passion,” she read. “By Anonymous. Hmm . . . what a curious name for a book, and how rare for an author to seek anonymity rather than fame.”
Anthony felt himself cringe all the way down to the tips of his toes. He cleared his throat. “Er . . . yes. I suppose the author wasn’t particularly proud of this . . . ah . . . er . . . piece. Perhaps we should save him from the humiliation of reading any further?” He reached for the book as if it had been the dullest thing he’d ever set eyes on before, hoping she’d relinquish it.
Instead, she clutched it tighter and turned herself away from him. “Nonsense,” she said. “He or she is not even here, and besides, I’m rather curious now as to why it’s been hidden away like this. I’m beginning to suspect that it was on purpose.”
Christ!
Well, there was nothing for it now but to wait for the inevitable, so, without further ado, Anthony finished off the remains of his drink and returned his glass to the side table. He was just about to take a seat in his favorite armchair when a loud gasp stopped him in his tracks. It was impossible for him to stop the smile that sprang to his lips, for he knew precisely what it was that had evoked such a shocked response from Isabella, and he rather enjoyed knowing that he was no longer the only one feeling uncomfortable.
“Oh my,” she said in a breathy voice. “These are quite . . . ahem . . . provocative pictures.”
“Yes,” he said, seeing no sense in denying the obvious.
He expected her to close the book at that point as she blushed and fumbled for some sort of excuse to escape the library as well as his presence. What happened, however, was something entirely different, and it was Anthony who was left gaping as Isabella settled herself on the floor, appearing to study the images before her more closely as she angled the book first one way and then the other, tilting her head as she did so. “How on earth is this even possible?”
Anthony coughed—hell, he practically choked on his own breath in response to her question. “Isabella, I really don’t believe your parents would approve if they found you leafing through that particular book. I suggest you put it back where you found it immediately.” It had to be done for his own sanity if nothing else, for he knew by heart each erotic position the book portrayed, and watching her study them was doing very little for his tightly reined self-control.
Thankfully she agreed and did as he asked, but when she rose to her feet and turned to face him with the Wollstonecraft book in her hand, she tilted her head, studied him for a moment and eventually said, “I wasn’t aware such books existed, though I can certainly appreciate the educational benefit of them. Hopefully we’ll have the opportunity to study it together more closely at a later date.” And then, as if she hadn’t just fired his every desire, she added, “Shall we return to the others?” Upon which she headed for the door, leaving Anthony to deal with the uncomfortable state he was now in before he was once more presentable enough to enter back into polite society.