When You Wish Upon a Duke Read online

  “You can go directly to Lady Sanborn, my lady, for she doesn’t like dawdling,” Polly said, giving Charlotte’s shoulder one final pat. “Lord knows Her Ladyship’s not so easy to please. And I hope His Grace is well, my lady. It’s worrisome when the one you love is ailing.”

  Charlotte nodded and smiled, but her thoughts were far from easy as she followed Polly through the house to Lady Sanborn’s rooms. She knew that Polly had intended only good wishes, but still it troubled her to hear the duke described as “the one you love.” She didn’t love him. She was betrothed to him. Truly, how could she love a gentleman that she scarcely knew?

  Remembering yesterday only made it worse. She had fallen not in love with the duke but onto him, which wasn’t the same thing at all. If she’d heard of this accident having happened to another lady, Charlotte knew, she would have laughed and laughed at the ridiculousness of it. But because she had been the one falling, and the poor Duke of Marchbourne had been the one fallen upon, it wasn’t amusing at all. It was … tragic.

  A footman showed her to her aunt’s bedchamber. The room was enormous, running across the entire front of the house, with windows that opened out onto St. James’s Square. There was much gilding on the walls, much crystal hanging from the chandeliers, and large looking glasses framed in gold to reflect it all a dozen times over. A thick French carpet covered the floor, and the furniture, too, was trimmed with more gold, with plump silk-covered cushions.

  Her aunt was sitting at a table in a distant corner before one of the fireplaces, breaking her fast. Several small white dogs lay near her on the carpet. She, too, was already dressed for the day, in a gown and jacket of mustard yellow silk edged with black lace. As soon as she saw Charlotte, she waved vigorously, like a passenger on a ship spotting an acquaintance on the shore.

  “Here, Charlotte, here!” she called. “Don’t hang back, child. You’re a Wylder, not some impossible little milkmaid come to market. Though given how shamefully your mother has hidden you away in the country, I suppose the assumption could be forgiven. Sit, Charlotte, sit. Fah! Must I tell you to do everything?”

  “No, Aunt Sophronia,” Charlotte said, sitting on the edge of the nearest chair. She had only come to know her great-aunt in the last week, and in that time she’d also come to realize why Mama had retreated as far away from Father’s family as she had.

  Aunt Sophronia was daunting. There was no other way to describe her. She spoke how she pleased, yet in turn did not listen, and she expected all others to hop to instant obedience. Even her appearance was sharp, all bony angles and pointed lace and sharp-edged jewels that poked when she offered a perfunctory hug.

  Yet Mama had assured Charlotte that Aunt Sophronia intended to be kind to her, and that her sharpness was only her way of showing favor toward Charlotte. More importantly, Mama had said that Aunt Sophronia was a special friend of the duke’s, and that she could in time be an excellent ally in smoothing Charlotte’s way both in London society and in her future marriage. Secretly Charlotte had her doubts about such an alliance. But after yesterday’s disaster, she knew she would need every advantage she could muster—even if it came in the prickly form of Aunt Sophronia.

  “You have eaten, Charlotte?” she asked, tearing apart a piece of toast to toss to one of the dogs. “You must eat, now. No missish notions of not eating. We have a long morning before us, and I won’t have you turning faint in a public street.”

  “No, Aunt,” Charlotte said. “But I thought I’d wait for Mama and the others.”

  “You’ll wait until supper, then, for we won’t be seeing them sooner. Aren’t you the best, best doggie!” She smiled at the dog who’d caught the toast, not Charlotte. “You will be in my company alone for the entire day, Charlotte, while your mother and your sisters will be doing whatever it is that they do.”

  “Yes, Aunt.” Quickly Charlotte reached for the last piece of toast from the tines of the silver rack before it, too, could go to the dogs.

  “More toast can be brought, my dear,” said Aunt Sophronia. “I believe we do have at least another crumb or two in the kitchen.”

  Charlotte flushed. This was going to be a long, long day, perhaps the longest in her entire life. “Thank you, Aunt. This—this will suffice. Aunt Sophronia, if you please, has there been any word of importance? That is, have there been any words in reference to yesterday? Words from the duke?”

  The older woman raised her painted brows. “By which I must infer you mean His Grace the Duke of Marchbourne? I say, Charlotte, you do have difficulty expressing yourself with clarity. Do you mean have I had any message from the duke who you unceremoniously crushed yesterday?”

  “Yes.” Charlotte’s cheeks grew warmer still. “His Grace the Duke of Marchbourne. Has there been any word from Greenwood?”

  “Nary a syllable.” Magically a footman appeared with more toast, which the countess at once began preparing for the dogs. “But I believe His Grace must not have expired in the night, else the bailiff would have come to carry you off to the Tower. Murdering a peer is a most serious offense, Charlotte.”

  “Please, Aunt Sophronia, I didn’t mean to fall from the tree, on him or otherwise!”

  “You didn’t mean to, no, but you did.” She stirred more sugar into her tea, then pointed the spoon at Charlotte like a schoolmaster’s rod. “What you did yesterday could have ruined your future and your prospects. No gentleman wishes to discover his future wife in a tree, clambering about like some half-mad hoyden.”

  “He didn’t mind,” Charlotte protested. “He climbed the tree to join me.”

  “He climbed to rescue you, as any gentleman might when a lady is in peril. He had no choice, really.” She shook the teaspoon again, flicking drops of tea on the cloth. “By your impulsiveness, you put his very life in jeopardy—and him still without an heir, too. It was shamefully selfish of you, Charlotte.”

  “But you said he wasn’t grievously hurt!” Again the horrible memory returned to her, with him sprawled on the grass and surrounded by his servants while she was being hauled back to the coach.

  “Oh, I don’t believe he was,” Aunt Sophronia said. “Likely he has a fuddled head this morn, and there seemed to be some complaint about his shoulder, but I’m certain he’ll survive. He is young and hearty. But what I fear is that as he lies there, moaning over his aching head, he’ll have time to question what manner of lady you may be.”

  “He should know exactly what manner of lady I am,” Charlotte said defensively. “I’m a Wylder, and the eldest daughter of an earl.”

  “I meant your character, Charlotte, not your bloodlines.” Aunt Sophronia sighed and tapped the spoon against the cup for emphasis, the porcelain softly ringing with each tap. “The Duke of Marchbourne famously holds himself to an exceedingly high moral standard. Unlike most young gentlemen who come into their titles at an early age, his name has never been linked to any unsavory women, nor has he ever appeared as a scandal in the papers, peeking from behind a mask of asterisks.”

  “But that can’t be true, Aunt,” Charlotte said. “He tried to kiss me while we were in the tree.”

  “He did?” asked Aunt Sophronia, appalled. “Fah! It cannot be so!”

  Charlotte was remembering every last pleasurable second before they’d lost their balance. When she had first seen him on his horse, she couldn’t tell if he was as handsome as the painted miniature. The portrait wasn’t really a fair likeness: in person, the duke had been younger-looking, and much more pleasing to her eye and tastes. His complexion was darker, as if he spent his days out of doors, and his features were stronger and less refined. His hair wasn’t brown, either, but almost black, and once he’d climbed the tree it had begun to pull free from the black ribbon queue into unruly waves that Charlotte had longed to touch. Though, of course, if she had, she would have fallen much sooner, and missed the lovely feeling of his arm around her waist. Oh, if only he’d been content to hold her with one arm instead of two!

  “He did kiss
me, Aunt,” she said wistfully, “or rather, he tried to. If we hadn’t fallen, he would have, and I would have let him.”

  “Well, then, there you are.” The dowager countess sat back in her chair with grim satisfaction, as if Charlotte had just explained every mystery of the world. “You must have enticed him.”

  “No!” Charlotte cried indignantly. “I wouldn’t even know how to begin to entice him, or any other man!”

  “Hrmph.” Aunt Sophronia did not look convinced. “I suppose that’s likely true. From what I’ve heard, Ransom Manor was as safe from men as any Dutch nunnery. But that is much in your favor where the duke is concerned. You see, although he is a duke, his blood is not quite as virtuous as it might be. His great-grandfather was king, as everyone knows, but his great-grandmother was only the king’s mistress, some wicked little baggage of an actress. Of course, a dukedom is a dukedom, however it is got, or begotten, in this case. A dukedom eases everything, which is why your father was so proud of making this alliance for you. But they say this duke feels the shame of his family’s beginnings, and tries his utmost to be a better man than that randy old goat of a grandfather.”

  This was intriguing. Mama hadn’t told her a word about the wicked baggage of an actress, and she found the notion of a touch of roguery much more interesting than the saintly version of the duke that had been presented to her. Charlotte remembered how he’d looked at her when he’d leaned close to her, how his expression hadn’t been saintly in the least.

  “Perhaps that was it, Aunt,” she said. “Perhaps it was being the great-grandson of the goatish old king that made him try to kiss me.”

  “Perhaps it was,” Aunt Sophronia admitted. “Though you must never, never say so to him. In all other ways he is a paragon. He neither drinks nor plays to excess, he devotes much of his time to tending his estates, and he always takes his seat in the House when it is in session. He will expect that his duchess will be equally unsullied by tattle or ill behavior, and if he hears any of you, I’ve no doubt—no doubt at all!—that he will reconsider the match, and break it.”

  Charlotte caught her breath. When she had first learned she was to be married, the news had shocked her, and she’d wept alone at the unfairness of having to wed a stranger. Ever since they’d left Ransom Manor a fortnight ago, she’d felt like a leaf tossed into a running stream, carried this way and that and helpless to fight against the course that had been chosen for her. She had assumed—quite logically, she’d thought—that the duke must feel the same inevitability of the situation. She hadn’t imagined him reconsidering, not even for a moment.

  “But he can’t change his mind, can he?” she asked. “Mama and Mr. Carter said the betrothal was a legal agreement between our fathers that could not be broken.”

  “Oh, child, child, matches have been broken over much less cause than this.” With a dramatic clatter, Aunt Sophronia dropped the spoon into her now empty cup and pushed them both away from her. “There are no guarantees until the proper words are said over your head. That is the reason I wished to keep you and the duke apart until the wedding, you see, to make certain there were no accidents. Now we must simply pray to the heavens for a swift wedding date—the end of September, or early October, perhaps—and that yesterday’s foolishness will not cause the duke to have a change of heart.”

  Abruptly Charlotte rose and went to stand before the nearest window, her back to Aunt Sophronia. The last thing she wished was for her aunt to see the disappointment that she was certain must be on her face—disappointment that she seemed to have inadvertently brought on to herself.

  A week ago, if she had been told she might escape this wedding, she would have rejoiced. A week, hah: even a day, and her response would have been the same. But now that she had met the duke, everything had changed. Yes, he was handsome, titled, rich, and all those other things that gentlemen were supposed to be for ladies like her.

  But what she remembered most of yesterday was how he’d smiled, and how they’d laughed together. She didn’t love him, no. But laughing together like that seemed as good a start to love as she could imagine.

  And now, if Aunt Sophronia was to be believed, it could all be done before it had fair begun.

  She stared forlornly out at St. James’s Square, thinking how its dreary emptiness suited her tattered prospects. To be sure, it was an excellent address—Aunt Sophronia would not reside here if it weren’t—but the centerpiece of the square was a desultory pool of water, surrounded by a stone walkway and an iron fence, without a scrap of flower, lawn, or hedge to soften it. At least as long as she stayed at this house, she wouldn’t be climbing any more trees. There wasn’t a one to climb.

  “What have you brought, John?” asked Aunt Sophronia suspiciously. “That’s nothing I’ve ordered.”

  “Forgive me, my lady, but it’s come for Lady Charlotte,” the footman said. “The man who brought it said it must be given to her directly, my lady, and since he wore Marchbourne livery—”

  “Charlotte!” Aunt Sophronia called. “Stop drooping by that window and come here.”

  But Charlotte was already hurrying across the room. The footman held an oversized willow hamper, which he gingerly set on the carpet before her. She unfastened the top and peered inside.

  “A basket of straw?” asked Aunt Sophronia, mystified. “The duke has sent you straw? Whatever could be the meaning of that?”

  “I’ll wager there’s something buried within,” Charlotte said, plunging her hand deep into the straw. Immediately she touched something cool and round, something glass. She thrust her other hand into the straw and carefully drew the object out.

  And sighed with awe.

  In her hands was a glass globe, fastened to a squat vase of Chinese porcelain. Rising from the vase was a rounded arrangement of the most exquisite white roses she’d ever seen, the buds just begun to open.

  Carefully she set the vase on the table and lifted away the globe. The heady scent of the roses filled the air, sweeter than any perfume, and Charlotte leaned over it, breathing deeply. She saw the card then, tucked among the blossoms, and drew it free. The pasteboard was heavy and cream-colored, and marked with a ducal coronet. But all she saw was his writing, an elegant dash across the card:

  For my fair forest nymph,

  Until I might show you these roses as they bloom in our garden at Greenwood.

  Your servant,

  M.

  Charlotte read it, read it again, and then pressed the card to her breast with delight. She was his fair forest nymph, and the roses had come from their garden: oh, had any gentleman ever sent a more pleasing gift, or written a more perfect missive?

  “I could ask you to read that aloud, Charlotte,” Aunt Sophronia said dryly. “It is not proper for you to receive correspondence from a gentleman without my permission.”

  “Oh, please, no, Aunt!” Charlotte cried, dancing backward with the note clutched tight in her hands. To share it would be to lessen its magic; the words were from him, for her, and no one else. “But I promise you that His Grace has no wish to end our betrothal, none at all.”

  “That is agreeable news, I suppose.” Aunt Sophronia bent over the flowers, giving them a perfunctory sniff. “But I still maintain that the sooner the wedding, the better.”

  Three days later, March sat in his carriage and cursed the snarl of wagons, coaches, and other conveyances that blocked his path to Bond Street. Ordinarily he would not be in such haste to reach a mantua-maker’s shop, and in general he avoided similar nests of swarming females as if they harbored the plague itself. Yet because he’d been told that one particular female was inside this particular shop, he could think of little else, to the point that he almost—almost—threw aside propriety and expectations and jumped from his carriage to walk the remainder of his journey.

  But then, patience had never been one of his virtues, and these last three days had tested him greatly. The wrench to his shoulder when he’d fallen from the tree with Lady Charlotte had be
en nothing: an uncomfortable sprain, no worse than others he’d suffered before falling from a horse. The blow to his head, however, had been deemed sufficiently dangerous that he’d been confined to his bed with the curtains drawn and doctors hovering like vultures in his bedchamber.

  So much idle time for reflection had been dangerous, too. Lying there in the dark, he’d played his first disastrous meeting with Lady Charlotte over and over in his mind, wincing at every inane word he’d uttered and every false step he’d literally taken. He’d even worried that the roses he’d sent from the Greenwood garden—and the trial of writing the card with his aching head—was another blunder, an old-fashioned gesture that a girl such as Lady Charlotte would dismiss. He hadn’t been able to tell her true feelings from the note of thanks she’d sent the next day, the formal words so clearly dictated by her aunt.

  In fact, his greatest fear had been that she’d dismiss him. Ever since his father had announced his betrothal, Lady Charlotte Wylder had been a comforting, convenient nonentity. When he was a boy, a distant mother and a lack of siblings had limited his opportunities to learn of female mysteries, and he hadn’t really trusted the women whose company, however pleasurable, had been purchased. It had all made him uncomfortably shy among ladies, and Lady Charlotte had become his protection.

  Because of her, he didn’t have to hear how, even as a duke, he was an unsuitable match for young ladies from older, more noble families because his great-grandmother had been Nan Lilly, an actress and a whore. Lady Charlotte’s impeccable name had protected him against the less discerning women, too. It had spared him from dancing with his friends’ sisters on school holidays, and delivered him from having to make the dreary bachelor rounds of balls and routs in London and Bath. Ambitious mothers with daughters to marry off avoided him, and the daughters themselves ignored him. He owed a sizable debt of gratitude to Lady Charlotte for this, and had always considered himself fortunate to have such a useful phantom in his life.