When You Wish Upon a Duke Read online

  He flushed. “She had no choice, Charlotte. She was a base-born wench. You’re a Wylder, from an ancient and honorable family, and your father was an earl.”

  “Which only means I have no choices, either.” She couldn’t keep the despair from creeping into her voice. “You want me to be your own precious, fragile version of a duchess, bound so tightly by—by respectability that I can scarce breathe.”

  “But I wish you to be happy, Charlotte,” he insisted. “Without respectability and honor and regard, no lady can be truly happy.”

  She shook her head, wishing more than anything that she could make him understand. He could talk all the day long of being happy, but she was positive that he was no happier than she. Now that his anger had faded, his dark eyes were full of sorrow and confusion. She wished that they could return to that afternoon when they’d been together in the tree, when he’d been gallant and she hadn’t had a care beyond rescuing Fig.

  She thought again of her mother, and how, whenever Charlotte and her sisters had quarreled, Mama had always insisted that they pretend they were one another, and see the quarrel through the others’ eyes.

  Perhaps that was her difficulty with March. Perhaps she had become so wrapped in her own unhappiness that she hadn’t bothered to see his.

  She shifted the mare closer to his horse, both so her hat’s plume would stop blowing and tickling her cheek and so she could reach across to lay her hand lightly on his arm.

  “My own husband,” she said softly, though there were no others within hearing. “I’ve never been a duchess, and neither, for that matter, have you. Yet between us lies this saintly, noble ideal of a lady that I doubt I’ll ever match. Was your own mother like that, March? You’ve never spoken of her. Is that whom you wish me to be more like?”

  She thought she couldn’t have phrased her question with more gentleness. It was true, too. March had never spoken of his mother, and all Charlotte knew of the previous duchess was how she’d decorated the rooms that now belonged to her.

  But while she’d hoped that her question might help her better to understand her husband, it was clear from the stricken look on his face that she’d asked too much.

  “My mother was far from anyone’s ideal, Charlotte,” he said, each word clipped sharp by sorrow, “nor was she happy in her married life, not for a day, not for a minute. I would never wish you to be like her. I would never wish that lot on anyone.”

  Though surprised, Charlotte didn’t back away, nor did she lift her hand from his arm.

  “I’m sorry, March,” she said. “For her, and for you, too.”

  He looked away, down at her hand on his sleeve. “I am sorry, too,” he said. “For her. For her.”

  Awkwardly he placed his own hand over Charlotte’s—only for a moment, but long enough. Then he turned his horse and began back toward the house.

  It was not exactly the answer Charlotte had looked for, but at least it was a beginning, and a beginning was always better than an end.

  Later that afternoon, March sat on a narrow, uncomfortable chair in the drawing room of Lady Barbara Finnister, barely listening as Lady Finnister offered an interminable telling of how her husband, Sir Henry, had won five hundred pounds on the turn of a single card at the faro table. The room was stuffy and close with the windows shut, and made stuffier still by the enormous amount of French scent that wafted from Lady Finnister’s person.

  The baronet was an old acquaintance and popular at court as well, but this was the first time March had met this particular Lady Finnister. She was the third wife of twice-widowed Sir Henry, who, to complete the mathematical equation, must be at least three times his young wife’s age. But Lady Finnister was very close in age to Charlotte, which was likely why the two of them were chattering away so freely.

  March couldn’t think that they’d have much in common besides their youth, for where Charlotte was as fresh as country cream from Dorset, Lady Finnister was London bred, and so thickly painted and powdered that March couldn’t begin to guess her true colors. He much preferred his Charlotte, and as if sensing his approval, she glanced at him and smiled.

  After this morning, he should be thankful that she’d ever smile at him again. When she’d raced away from him in the park, he’d thought the worst he could imagine was finding her lifeless in the grass. Then he’d come across Andover grinning at her like some rakehell wolf with a lamb, and he’d realized that the worst was beyond imagining. To find her with another man, even innocently, had not only shocked him but also wounded him to the core.

  No: if he was honest, it had wounded his heart. Because though he’d yet to admit it to Charlotte herself, he was slowly realizing he was falling in love with his wife. He could think of no place he’d rather be than in her company, and when they were apart, all he thought of was how swiftly he could be with her again. When she smiled, he smiled. When she was sad, he felt her unhappiness as keenly as if it were his own. In a few short days, she’d become the centerpiece of his world.

  And then he had found her beside Andover. But instead of calmly listening to his wife’s explanation, then gathering her and escorting her away, the way a proper husband should, he’d raged like a madman, first at Andover and then at Charlotte herself. Pure and simple, he’d been jealous. He hadn’t recognized it for what it was at first, jealousy being a rare emotion for dukes who’d been given everything. He knew that concern and affection for her had made him behave so, but that was still no excuse. He’d made exactly the kind of public scene that he’d always wished to avoid. If that hadn’t been bad enough, in the middle of his raging he’d been acutely aware of how desirable Charlotte had looked, her hair disheveled beneath her hat, her face flushed from riding, and that wickedly close-fitting red habit accentuating every curve of her figure.

  And in return, she’d proved herself the better spouse and behaved exactly as a lady should. She’d apologized for worrying him. She hadn’t thrown her hat or stamped her foot, the way some women would have. The few sharp words she’d said had made sense, while his had not, and she’d managed to ease his temper with understanding and kindness.

  She’d said she’d never be the perfect duchess he wanted. After this morning, he wondered if it was the other way around, and that he might never be the duke or husband that she deserved.

  It was a sobering thought, and he’d had plenty of time to think it again and again during today’s round of visits. Inwardly he’d resolved—again—to do better by her. She might require his guidance in certain matters, yes, but he didn’t need to order her every move. It once again came down to learning to trust her, and he’d have to admit he was having a devil of a time doing it. He’d still been in school when he’d come into his title, and from that day everything in his life had been done because he wished it so.

  But Charlotte was his wife, not a servant or tradesman. He shouldn’t expect her to oblige him in every tiny matter. She should be free to make her own decisions, as a duchess should, and it was up to him to trust her and give her that freedom.

  Which was why he was still sitting in Lady Finnister’s drawing room, long after the usual fifteen minutes that a wedding call was required to take. This was their last call of the afternoon, and if Charlotte was enjoying herself, then for her sake he would bear with it. She should have friends of her own in London, other ladies whom she could call upon for tea. Then she’d be happier and stop brooding over grim subjects such as his poor mother.

  “Isn’t that so, Your Grace?” Lady Finnister smiled brightly at him, her face somehow too small beneath her enormously frizzed and powdered hair. “Would you not agree?”

  March smiled weakly, unwilling to agree to an unknown question, but also not wishing her to know he’d stopped listening at least five minutes before.

  But Charlotte, bless her, jumped in to rescue him.

  “You’ll have to answer for me, March,” she said, smiling charmingly at him over the top of her fan. “Having never so much as seen a roulette wh
eel, let alone wagered against one, I can’t venture if such a game of chance is truly the most excitement one can have in London.”

  “Ah, games of chance.” He smiled his thanks to her, and thought what a useful marvel a wife could be. “I must confess I do not often play myself, Lady Finnister.”

  “Oh, but you must!” she exclaimed, bouncing on the edge of her chair. “You and the duchess both. To watch the wheel spin, to see the ball bounce, to feel one’s heart leap with excitement—ah, there is nothing more thrilling in London, no, no, in the entire world!”

  “Lady Finnister and Sir Henry are having a small entertainment here tonight, March,” Charlotte said, sounding like the voice of rational sanity compared to Lady Finnister’s silliness. “There will be music and gaming and a supper, and she has kindly invited us to return later and join them.”

  “You must join us, Your Grace, you must!” Lady Finnister begged, her clasped hands raised in supplication. “Oh, please, you simply must!”

  Instantly he decided he must do no such thing, not when this squealing woman demanded it of him. Gaming had never held much allure for him personally, nor did he enjoy the company of those in the grip of feverish play, squandering vast fortunes on the turn of a pasteboard card. Besides, he’d been counting on a quiet evening at home with Charlotte, culminating in a visit to her bedchamber. He prayed tonight she wouldn’t cry, but would instead find some measure of pleasure in his attentions.

  He watched her now, leaning forward to set her teacup down on the table before her, and offering him a splendid glimpse of her breasts, round and plump and framed by lacy white ruffles. What mere game of cards or dice could rival that?

  With her chin still lowered, she smiled up at him from beneath her lashes, displaying her dimples to devastating effect.

  “If it pleases you, March,” she said, “I should like to attend.”

  That was all she asked, and it was enough. That visit to her bedchamber would not be denied, but simply be postponed until later this night. He’d give her anything, anything at all, when she looked at him like that.

  “If it pleases you, Charlotte, then of course,” he said. “Lady Finnister, we are honored.”

  Eagerly Charlotte gazed from the carriage window as it crept toward the house of Sir Henry Finnister. When Lady Finnister had said she’d invited a few friends, she’d clearly been being modest. To Charlotte it seemed that there were more hackneys and private carriages clogging this street than had been in Drury Lane before the theater.

  “I cannot believe this crush,” she marveled. “Lady Finnister made it sound as if only her closest friends were coming tonight.”

  “That may well be true,” March said. “Likely she only has a few thousand or so in that category.”

  “March, be serious,” she said, dropping back onto the seat across from him with a little whoosh of silk. Her gown, a robe à la française of peach-colored French brocade with a swirling pattern of peacock feathers, had been delivered earlier that day, and Polly had assured her it was exactly what was required for such an evening. It was cut very low in the bodice, so low that even the lace kerchief Polly had tied over her shoulders seemed to veil her breasts more for provocation than for modesty. That, too, Polly assured her was in the best French taste. What had mattered more to Charlotte, however, was how March’s eyes had lit when she’d joined him, and how now his gaze was wandering freely over the gown, and her in it.

  “I’m perfectly serious,” he said. “Finnister’s a man with many fingers in many political pies, and most of those clamoring to attend his wife’s gatherings have more interest in currying his favor than in her hospitality.”

  “Politics,” Charlotte repeated with dismay. “Oh, March, I know nothing of politics, nothing at all. And here I’d thought we’d be playing games.”

  For the first time that evening he laughed, and Charlotte was glad to hear it. He’d been quiet all day, subdued, as if his earlier strong words in the park had exhausted him. But he had also clearly been striving to be especially agreeable, and he’d surprised her by agreeing to return to the Finnisters’ house this evening. Perhaps it was his way of apologizing, or at least trying to make things better between them.

  She did worry, however, that she’d have to fight to keep the other ladies away from him tonight. His quietness only made him more attractive, at least to her. Sitting across from her in the half-light, he was unfathomably handsome, dressed in dark wine-colored silk with cut-steel buttons that sparkled like stars. He wore her favorite jewel, too, an elegant small heart-shaped shirt buckle, studded with rubies, that nestled in the snowy linen ruffles on the breast of his shirt. She hoped that any other ladies who might see the ruby heart would know that the gentleman who wore it belonged to her alone.

  “Some would say politics are no more than gaming,” he was saying, fortunately unaware of her thoughts. “Anyone who has sat in either house would agree. But I doubt you’ll be disappointed by Lady Finnister’s offerings. I’ve heard she prides herself on having more games than a Venetian casino. But take care, Charlotte. Have your fun, but choose a game such as whist or backgammon, where there’s more skill than chance. There’ll be plenty playing for deep stakes, too, and I don’t want you washed away.”

  “Or swept off in one of those Venetian canals,” Charlotte said cheerfully, clapping her palms lightly together with anticipation. At Ransom, they’d played hands of whist for seashells from the beach, all that Mama had permitted, and in the stables they’d learned put from the grooms—which, of course, Mama had never known about. As exciting as that had been, she couldn’t wait to try these new, fashionable games. “I’ll do well enough, March. I’m as skilled as any gamester I’ll find in a drawing room. I won’t shame you.”

  “I am serious, Charlotte.”

  “So am I,” she promised. She felt as if this were the ride in the park all over again, with him worrying too protectively over her, which of course only made her more determined to prove her ability, and to earn his trust, too.

  But he looked so doleful that she laughed and leaned across to kiss him, a quick brush of her lips across his.

  “Thank you,” she said softly. “I know this isn’t your choice of diversion, and that you agreed for my sake alone.”

  He smiled crookedly. “I only pray that we don’t both expire from a surfeit of Lady Finnister’s gaiety.”

  She laughed again, unable to imagine such a thing. Yet when at last they entered the Finnisters’ house, Charlotte realized at once that a surfeit of gaiety was no exaggeration, but a very possible danger.

  The same rooms that she and March had visited this afternoon were now packed with elegant folk, drinking and laughing and flirting and conversing as loudly as possible, each striving to outdo the other. Crowds clustered around the tables set for cards, with the spectators every bit as excited as the players themselves. In the next room, both gentlemen and ladies sat at a long green-covered faro table, leaning forward and anxiously waiting with open mouths for the dealer to announce each new card.

  But the crowd around the roulette wheel in the last room was the loudest of all, craning their necks and pressing against one another to watch the little ball bounce and jostle around the spinning wheel until it finally settled into a numbered slot. Then they threw their hands in the air with either despair or delight, shrieking and swearing and hopping in place, for all the world like people who’d lost their wits entirely.

  “I told you they raved like the lunatics in Bedlam Hospital,” March said, leaning close to Charlotte’s ear so his words could be heard over the din. “Rational, respectable people to meet by day on the street, but you see how gaming reduces them to this sorry state.”

  Charlotte glanced up at him, her hand holding tightly to his arm. He seemed bemused by the sights around him, nothing more, and it was strange to think that these raving folk could be fine lords and ladies. Despite March at her side and Nan Lilly’s pearl-and-diamond earrings hanging from her lobes, she f
elt like an insignificant country mouse in this loud, brittle company, and in truth she was more than a little intimidated both by the crush and by the ferocity with which the ladies and gentlemen played.

  “We can leave if you wish,” she said. “We needn’t stay.”

  “No reason for us to sound the retreat just yet,” he said. “I’d like them to see my beautiful wife.”

  “And I for them to see my handsome husband,” she answered promptly, relaxing a bit. She’d liked that “us” he’d used, showing they’d face this together. She liked it very much. Besides, he was right. She liked to think of herself as brave, even daring, and she would not retreat just yet. Resolutely she raised her chin and squared her shoulders, so obviously that March noticed.

  “Preparing for battle, are we?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “I am. I won’t have it said that the Duchess of Marchbourne is a coward.”

  “No one who has ever seen you ride would say that of you,” he said wryly. “Ah, here’s our hostess, ready to make a prize of us.”

  “Oh, Your Grace, Your Grace!” Like an eager spaniel, Lady Finnister bounded and pushed her way through the crowd, her hoops bouncing around her. She was lavishly dressed with her hair piled high, dusted with lavender powder, and decorated with brilliants and nodding ostrich plumes in the French fashion. She came to a lurching stop to curtsey far too deeply than was correct, though it did serve to make all around them at the gaming tables take belated notice and bow or curtsey as well. “Oh, I am so, so honored!”

  “Thank you for including us, Lady Finnister,” March said. “Lady Marchbourne was particularly delighted by your invitation.”

  “Then you must play, Lady Marchbourne,” Lady Finnister said, popping her eyes for emphasis. “You will play! But before we find you a place at the table, you must admire my new picture. It was brought and hung this very afternoon. Quite divine, I vow.”