Chapter 13

“You are my brother, and I love you.”

Griffith looked up from the ledger on his desk to see Miranda standing in the doorway of his study. “Thank you?”

She released a sigh and rolled her shoulders back. “Of course.”

He rolled his quill in his fingertips, waiting for her to continue. It wasn’t a very taxing trip from her house to his, but there didn’t seem to be much reason for her to make such a trip in order to tell him something he already knew, even though they rarely mentioned it. “Is that all?”

“No. Mother isn’t going to be happy that I’m doing this, but you don’t deserve to be ambushed on a blind side.”

“What are you talking about?” Griffith set his quill aside and stood as Miranda took a step into the room. The idea that his mother was hiding something disturbed him. She’d been honest to a fault with him since his father had died. What could possibly be so horrible that she would try to protect him from it now? “What is wrong?”

Miranda’s eyes widened. “Oh! I didn’t mean for you to think anything was wrong. It’s nothing like that. You’re giving a party.”

Years of practice kept Griffith’s face devoid of surprise. As a young duke he’d learned early on that people would try to shock him into action or make him think he didn’t know enough. Now he mulled over Miranda’s statement in his mind, looking at it from every angle.

It still didn’t make any sense.

“Are you well, Miranda? Is the baby making you ill?”

“Yes, a little. Mostly in the afternoons, though, which is rather convenient, when you think about it.”

Griffith didn’t want to think about it. He really didn’t. With a gentle hand he guided Miranda to one of the chairs near the fireplace.

His lack of response, however, didn’t deter her from going into detail about how the midday malady allowed her to accomplish her morning tasks and still go out in the evenings, for at least a little while longer.

Ryland entered without knocking. “Did she tell you? I’ve already made arrangements for us to stay with Anthony and Amelia. I’ll not have her becoming overtired by a misplaced sense of responsibility for this event. We’ll travel back and forth as needed.”

“He, however”—Miranda pointed one angry finger at her husband while rubbing her other hand over her middle—“is very inconvenient. There is no reason why I cannot help Mother.”

“Aside from the fact that she doesn’t want your help.”

“If I don’t help she’ll have him tied to a chair in the drawing room while the ladies take turns passing through for inspection.”

Griffith liked to think he could normally determine what was going on with only a portion of the information, but this was something he couldn’t quite follow.

Mother was giving a party, apparently, although Miranda had first said that Griffith was giving one. It had something to do with him, though, because Miranda was concerned for his well-being, and Ryland seemed to be in at least a bit of agreement.

“Whatever Mother is planning”—Griffith kept his voice even and slow, like when he talked to the animals at his estate—“I’m afraid I cannot be a part of it. I need to take a short trip back to Riverton. I shall be gone but a week. We can return to looking at this situation then.”

With any luck they’d have all regained their senses and learned how to actually deliver a piece of apparently important news.

Ryland looked at his wife. “I thought you said you told him.”

“I did!” She shifted in her chair. “But then we started talking about the baby.”

The smile Ryland gave her as he brushed a hand through the curls at the back of Miranda’s neck made Griffith feel intrusive. Should he be witness to such an obvious gesture of love? He never remembered his father giving his mother little touches, but he did recall the shared smiles.

Ryland’s attention soon turned back to Griffith. “You’re having a party.”

“So Miranda said.”

“Your mother has sent out the invitations. In some cases she’s delivered them personally.”

A heavy lump began to form in Griffith’s throat. His quiet week at Riverton, his plan to find a way to think and pray through everything, was in definite danger. “The party is at Riverton?”

“Yes.”

Griffith turned to his sister. “And she wasn’t going to tell me?”

Miranda shook her head. “No. She didn’t want to give you a chance to tell her otherwise. She already has a speech prepared for your argument that she has her own house in which to throw a party. There’s even an answer if you are bold enough to tell her she’s no longer mistress of Riverton.”

“She isn’t mistress of Riverton. No one is.”

“Tell that to Mother.”

As much as Griffith wanted to, they all knew he wouldn’t. His mother had been encouraging him to host a house party in the country for years, claiming it was the fastest, easiest way to cull the best of the lot.

In the past the excuse had been to find husbands for his sisters. Now that everyone else was settled, the intent could only be his own matrimonial bliss.

“How many ladies has she invited?”

“At least a dozen. She wouldn’t let me hold the list, but I did spy Miss St. Claire’s name.” Miranda paused a moment before grinning like the impish younger sister she was. “And Miss Breckenridge’s.”

She could tease him all she wanted. He wasn’t worried on that front. “Miss Breckenridge would never tear herself away from all of her suitors to retire to the country for a week.”

Miranda scoffed. “She will if it will land her cousin a duke.”

Ryland leaned on the back of Miranda’s chair and pierced Griffith with his grey gaze until Griffith wanted to punch the duke in the face just to get him to stop. “You could stop your mother easily enough, you know. Just ask Miss St. Claire to marry you. You’ve already decided it’s going to be her.”

The solution was as simple as Ryland stated, but Griffith found himself struggling to muster the same enthusiasm he’d had for the match at the beginning of the Season. That, more than anything, caused his heart to beat against his chest. Griffith never changed his mind. That was why he always thought his decisions through so carefully. Why didn’t he want to march over to Lord Pontebrook’s house and ask for Miss St. Claire’s hand?

“No, this is good.”

Neither of his guests looked shocked. Miranda smiled indulgently while Ryland merely twitched an eyebrow.

Griffith cleared his throat and continued. “I spend a lot of time at Riverton. It is best that Miss St. Claire see the house and how things get along there so she can best know what I am asking of her.”

The excuse sounded good. Sort of. If he’d said it to anyone else he wouldn’t be worried about it, but Ryland was capable of dissecting a statement as well as Griffith did. Probably better.

“A test of sorts,” Ryland said softly. “To ensure her suitability.”

“Yes.” Griffith gave a single nod. “That’s it precisely.”

“Because you might change your mind.”

Griffith said nothing. There was absolutely nothing he could say that wouldn’t make the situation worse. “I must go tell my valet to pack some of my nicer evening clothes for the trip. Excuse me.”

He bowed his head at his sister and her husband and then left the room in a measured pace that was at odds with his racing heart and the desperate need to breathe.

Praise God and all that was holy, perhaps Isabella hadn’t been abandoned after all. There was no way to describe a sudden trip to the country other than as a blessing. Even if she had to spend the whole time avoiding the Duke of Riverton. Not that she wouldn’t have avoided him anyway—interacting with the duke always left her feeling despondent—but her uncle had very nearly demanded it.

The carriage rocked as it turned from the road onto the long drive through the grounds of Riverton. She hadn’t known what to make of the invitation to the duke’s house party—or rather Lady Blackstone’s house party at the duke’s estate—other than the fact that its timing had been perfect.

“It looks like it might rain.” Uncle Percy nearly clapped his hands in glee as he pressed closer to the window and looked up at the sky. “We’ll be forced to stay indoors and converse. I should be able to convince at least two or three men of the merits of voting for the apothecary law.”

Unless any of them had actually been helped by an apothecary. Knowing how much the people in her own village depended on the local apothecary—even though he lived in a village three miles distant—made Isabella a bit uneasy. The closest doctor was another six miles down the road from the apothecary. What would happen to the people of her village when this measure passed? And why hadn’t she considered that aspect before? True, her aunt and cousin had died because of an apothecary’s misdiagnosis, but couldn’t a trained physician have made the same mistake?

She turned from her view out the other side of the carriage. “I thought you said none of the men would be here. You specifically told me I was to remain inconspicuous this week.”

“These are married men. Come to get away from the stress of the city.” Uncle Percy straightened his waistcoat. “You keep to your rooms and make your excuses. Frederica will have the duke well in hand, and there’s no one else you need to bring to heel.”

Isabella glanced at Frederica, who grimaced at the mention of the duke. She had to know that was why they’d been invited. The party was a thinly veiled attempt on his mother’s part to see him finally wed.

“I don’t want to have the duke well in hand,” Frederica said quietly.

Isabella had to applaud the will of determination. Freddie seemed to have grown bolder since the fight between her father and Arthur, but it was making Isabella’s life difficult. The more aggravated Uncle Percy got, the more demanding he became. And his bad mood only meant more demands on Isabella.

“You’d throw a nearly guaranteed future as a duchess away for what—a muddy tent, following around a bunch of soldiers? He’s in the cavalry. He’ll have to spend more money on the horse than he does on you.” Uncle Percy looked as if he wanted to spit, but he’d rented the carriage they were riding in, and he wouldn’t risk damaging anything. “You’ll do as I say and entertain the duke this week.”

Frederica set her mouth in a line and crossed her arms, but she didn’t say anything. Isabella knew that wasn’t an agreement, but her uncle seemed to take it that way, because he relaxed and rubbed his hands together while nodding.

“This is good,” her uncle continued. “Frederica will have a week with the duke and you will disappear. A few days away from London, everyone having to do without your presence—that should put all those coquettish rumors to rest when they’re knocked on their backsides once more by your beauty.”

He frowned at her, glaring. “Take care not to get too much sun. I won’t have you going back to town all tan and country.”

“I thought you said it was going to rain,” Isabella mumbled.

His eyes narrowed. “What did you say?”

She tightened her face into a smile that hurt everything from her forehead to her chin with its falseness. “I brought three books, so it should be easy to occupy myself away from the party.”

It would be refreshing, if she were honest. Especially if she could sneak out of the house and go for a walk every day. Alone. Just her and the sunshine and the grass and the trees. Would the duke’s lands carry the same scent as he did, that woodsy, earthy scent? She shook her head to clear the thought.

As they rounded a corner in the lane, Riverton came into view.

Air left Isabella’s lungs in a rush as her mouth dropped open a bit at the beauty of the house before her. Behind an elaborate wrought-iron gate, intricately carved spires reached for the sky as the evening sun hit the rows of windows in a sea of sparkling, dancing lights. The closer they got to the house, the more detailed the carvings on the side became and the more house she could see. It stretched on in a series of turrets and alcoves until it gave way to the rolling lawns and decorative gardens.

It was glorious. She could certainly stand to spend a few days wandering around the grounds admiring the house from every possible angle.

They were greeted by a smiling Lady Blackstone and a grim-looking duke.

“We are so very glad you could make arrangements to leave London on such short notice.” Lady Blackstone turned a serene gaze on her son.

Isabella had only encountered the countess a handful of times since coming to London, but all of those encounters had left Isabella feeling the slightest bit frightened of the woman. In a room of calm and collected people, Lady Blackstone seemed the most contained, yet she also seemed dangerous. The depth of her gaze indicated she was simply waiting for the right time to strike.

Even now, without a glare or a grimace, she seemed to be pulling her son, who had to weigh at least twice as much as she did, into line.

The grimace cleared from the duke’s face, and he nodded his head in a welcoming bow. “Welcome to Riverton. Enjoy your stay. We’ve readied rooms for you. The maid will show the ladies to their room. Feel free to rest and freshen up. We will have a late dinner to accommodate all of the travelers. My lord, there are men in the library, if you wish to join them.”

Isabella was glad to leave both Uncle Percy and the nerve-racking duke behind as she and Frederica were led up the stairs and through rooms and passages, each more exquisite than the last. Wide corridors flanked with decorative tables and charming paintings were also lined with doors into clusters of bedchambers. It seemed the entire passage was bedchambers.

The room they were finally left in was draped in sumptuous, gold-colored fabrics. Pale yellow silk covered the walls, while a deep-gold brocade nestled behind gilded hooks on either side of the large window. Sheer curtains surrounded the bed, and paintings of angels covered the ceiling.

Frederica collapsed facedown onto the bed, her deep green traveling skirt billowing halfway up to her knees. “I hate traveling.”

“You love traveling.” Isabella crossed to the window and threw it open. The short burst of fresh country air she’d gotten between the carriage and the front door hadn’t been enough. “You hate leaving Arthur.”

Freddie propped her head on her fist. “You speak the truth.”

Isabella leaned out the window and took a deep breath. “It’s lovely. Isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Frederica looked around the room. “But are you really going to stay in here all week? Won’t you get bored?”

Her cousin had a valid point. Isabella was going to see much too much of these golden walls over the next few days to stay cooped up here when it wasn’t absolutely necessary. “I believe I shall see a bit of the house now, before the party truly starts. The duke is occupied and the other women will be resting in their rooms, so I won’t run into anyone.”

Freddie cupped one hand across her mouth to cover a large yawn. “Do you want me to come with you?”

The offer made Isabella smile. “No. You rest. I’ll retire early tonight, whereas you will have the responsibility of keeping the duke well in hand.”

The frown that accompanied Frederica’s stuck-out tongue was refreshing. Bella had missed the old Freddie—before she’d become worried and maudlin over the situation with Arthur.

Isabella left the room and made her way quietly down the passage. The house was beautiful. No matter where she turned, she saw another place where careful attention had been paid to details. A bird carved into the underside of a banister. A table angled into a corner so that the gilded vase caught the sun from a nearby window.

Whenever she heard voices, she turned the other way. She hadn’t been alone in nearly a month. Hadn’t been able to move without thinking about how her expression looked to other people, how flattering her posture was, whether the appropriate people were positioned to notice her. Her uncle’s demand that she make herself scarce had, in truth, been a blessing, giving her permission to do as she wanted and hide away from everyone for a few days.

She turned the corner and gasped at the long gallery before her. Windows draped with sheer fabric lined one wall, letting the sunlight in without making the long room too bright and harsh to enjoy. Artwork covered the other walls. Brilliant tapestries flanked the doors on either end of the room. A glance at the one nearest her showed a large cross surrounded by blue-robed saints and holy artifacts. She’d have to find her way back here later in the week to examine it more closely, because it didn’t come close to holding her attention right then.

Not considering the large figure standing perfectly still halfway down the room.

“I thought you were greeting guests,” she said as she walked slowly toward him. She should leave. Not only because he’d obviously come seeking solitude but because he was the one man she’d met who made it hard to remember her goal. And here, away from the noise and pollution, it was even harder.

“We have people watching the road from London. They’ll let us know when someone is coming.” The duke stood with his legs braced and his hands at his back. In the large, high-ceilinged room he looked almost normal. The undeniable but understated elegance of the room seemed to suit him. Despite the simplicity of his outfit, he looked polished, dignified. It made her wish she’d taken the time to clean up and change out of her dust-covered light-brown traveling clothes.

When she was still more than an arm’s length away from him, Isabella turned to see what he was looking at. Portraits marched across the middle section of the gallery wall. Large and powerful men dominated the settings they’d been put in. One stood in front of a glorious brown steed, his foot propped on a tree stump. Another sat in a throne-like chair, a chessboard at his right elbow. On and on it went, with enough remarkable family resemblance that there was no doubt she was looking at the previous Dukes of Riverton.

The painting in front of the current duke was different. It was a family portrait. A man with a Bible tucked against his side stood behind a younger version of Lady Blackstone, sitting on a swing with a small child in her lap. At her feet sat a young boy and a dog, while behind her other shoulder stood an older boy, one who was undoubtedly the current duke. He couldn’t have been ten years old yet, but he already stood tall and proud.

“We have a portrait of him alone,” the duke said. “It’s hanging in the study. He had this one commissioned at the same time for this space, saying he’d rather leave this as his legacy than anything else.”

Isabella thought of her own father, of the farm he’d worked so hard to make successful, of the way no matter what troubles the day had brought, the evening was always about family and faith. “It’s a lovely family.”

They stood for a few moments. The silence was pressing but not uncomfortable. Like a blanket that makes one feel protected on a cold night. Isabella nodded in the direction of the wall beyond the painting, where intricate scrollwork and large, ornate carvings took up space. “And is there a portrait of you somewhere?”

His eyes cut in her direction and one side of his mouth quirked upward. “A small one. In the study alongside my father. I’ve promised my mother I’ll stand for a larger one when I reach the age of thirty.”

Isabella took a step closer. The conversation felt too private, too intimate to have such a large space between them. “And will you do as your father did? Include your family in the painting?”

The question brought her an unexpected pang of hurt. She didn’t know the duke that well, but what she did know was that he was a good man. A man she could respect. The kind of man she really hadn’t expected to meet in London. She would never have thought that an aristocrat could draw her like he did, and it caught her off guard, leaving her vulnerable but unable to resist the pull.

“No.” His voice was quiet but resigned. “Family is important, and I will pass that legacy along to my children. Perhaps my father had an idea that he would die young, that my mother would have to teach me everything he could not. But one thing I learned at an early age, that I will make sure my son understands, is that at the end of the day the duke stands alone.”

Before she could stop herself, one hand lifted and rested against his elbow. “That sounds lonely.”

He glanced at her and then her hand before turning back to the portrait. “It can be. But that doesn’t change how it is.”

“Perhaps it will change when you marry.” Isabella flushed at the whispered words. Would he think she was flirting? That she was asking for the position?

He turned to face her, the movement forcing her to drop the hand she should have pulled back to her side ages ago. “I hadn’t thought it would, but now . . .”

Their eyes met as his words drifted into nothing, their implications floating on the air if she wanted to reach for them.

She didn’t. If she did, she might start to think things she couldn’t afford to think.

“It should, I think.” She swallowed and nodded toward the portrait. “Your father thought it did.”

The duke turned his head to look at the painting again. “So he did.”

His green eyes slid back in her direction. “And what about you?”

“Me?” Was he asking what kept her from feeling alone? Asking her to stop his loneliness? Neither were topics she could risk, so she fell back into the light teasing that always managed to distract her father. A grin tipped her lips, and she tilted her head to the side. “I’m not a duke.”

A flash of an answering grin fed her triumph. “No, but are you lonely? Here without your family?”

“I have Frederica.”

His brows drew together, leaving him looking a little lost. “Is it the same? A cousin?”

Emotion threatened to choke Isabella at the full implications of the statement he’d made about the duke standing alone. Beyond his siblings, was there anyone who didn’t want something from him? Anyone who wasn’t intimidated by him or even scared of him? Was there any time he got to simply be himself instead of the duke?

She could give him one of those times now. Turning her body so that she was fully facing the family portrait, she scrunched her nose. “You can’t tell me there weren’t times you’d have traded the annoyance of younger siblings for a playmate your own age.”

He was silent long enough that she turned her head to look at him, only to find one eyebrow raised and his attention on her instead of the painting. “But Miss St. Claire is older than you.”

Air hissed through Isabella’s teeth. This was what happened when one let her guard down in the middle of a sea of lies.

His other eyebrow lifted as well. “Isn’t she?”

“I have to go.” Isabella ran suddenly sweaty palms down her skirt. “I should take this time to rest before dinner.”

She spun and walked quickly back down the gallery, reminding herself constantly not to look back and see if he was watching her or not, making herself walk away. Alone.