When You Wish Upon a Duke Read online

  One-two, one-two-three, one-two, one. She’d never danced a minuet before, and the steps were wickedly complex, without any comforting pattern or reason. Monsieur La Farge had patiently explained that she must try her best because minuets were always danced by one couple at a time, while the rest of the company stood by to watch with respect. More shocking still was learning that the lady of highest rank in a room traditionally opened a ball by dancing the first minuet, and in many cases that would mean her as Duchess of Marchbourne.

  As difficult as the dance might be, she was determined that March would be proud of her, not shamed by a clumsy, awkward wife before his friends. The one saving grace was that their wedding was still months away, and for that time she’d only be an earl’s lowly daughter, safe from minuets. But still, here she was, practicing alone in the garden and trying to recall all the niceties of Monsieur La Farge’s lesson.

  She turned to her right and smiled, imagining March beside her. She remembered how he’d looked at her when they’d been together at the mantua-maker’s, and how his expression had appeared almost bewitched, as if she’d cast some sort of magical spell over his wits: a thoroughly lovely moment.

  “What in blazes are you doing, Charlotte?” Diana called as she and Lizzie came bounding through the garden from the house. With them was Fig, miserably tugging and nipping at her new leash of pink braided leather.

  The leash wasn’t the only alteration. Just as Charlotte herself had changed, her two sisters were now dressed neatly to follow London fashion (and Aunt Sophronia’s expectations), Lizzie in a yellow-striped gown with a wide green sash at the waist and Diana in nearly the same gown except with blue stripes and a yellow sash. Instead of the haphazard plaits that they’d usually worn in Dorset, they now had their dark hair brushed and pinned neatly beneath ruffled linen caps.

  But while their appearance might have changed for town, their manners clearly reflected what they’d left behind on the Dorset beach.

  “Is this what Aunt Sophronia’s French fop has taught you?” Lizzie said. She began taking tiny mincing steps with her back at an exaggerated arch to mimic Monsieur La Farge, while Diana waved her handkerchief like a flag and giggled. “Are you practicing how to shake your hands about and talk to yourself like a madwoman from Bedlam?”

  “You hush, Lizzie,” Charlotte said, crossing her arms over her chest. “You too, Di. Before long, Aunt Sophronia will find husbands for you, or at least she’ll try to. If you’d any sense, you’d be joining me in Monsieur La Farge’s lessons, so you’ll be prepared when it’s your turn.”

  “Why in blazes would I wish to do that?” Lizzie flapped her arms at her sides in a mockery of Charlotte’s minuet. “We’re only staying in London until you’re married.”

  “That will likely be weeks and weeks,” Charlotte said. “Aunt Sophronia thinks it won’t be until autumn at the earliest. Plenty of time.”

  But Lizzie was too occupied in flapping her arms to care. “Look, Charlotte, I’m a flying Frog!”

  “In London ladies don’t say ‘Frog’ for French people,” Charlotte said with exasperation, “and they don’t say ‘in blazes,’ either. That’s close to swearing, and gentlemen don’t like ladies who swear like fishermen.”

  “You used to swear the worst of any of us.” Diana gathered Fig up into her arms, trying to untangle the unwanted leash from the little cat’s leg. “You used to hate lessons, too, and you were the one who behaved the worst with governesses, so they’d leave.”

  “Perhaps I’ve found a reason to pay heed,” Charlotte said. She sat on one of the white-painted benches, taking care to keep her back straight and to arrange her skirts so they’d fall becomingly over her legs. At the last she remembered to cross her ankles, too, so the tips of her shoes peeped from her petticoats at a pleasing angle. These were more suggestions from Monsieur Le Farge, and every bit as frustrating to remember as the minuet. “Perhaps I’ve now an inclination, one that I didn’t have before, to behave as becomes our rank.”

  “Because of your duke,” Lizzie said, not bothering to hide her disgust. “You think because you’re going to marry him and have people curtseying to you because you’re a duchess that you’re better than Diana and me, and Mama, too.”

  “I don’t think of myself as any better at all,” Charlotte said defensively. What she did think was how much older she suddenly felt than her sisters. “But becoming His Grace’s wife is like any other task that I must learn. You wouldn’t go off to sea without first learning to follow the currents and steer a course and trim the sails to match the wind, would you?”

  “I suppose not,” Lizzie said grudgingly. “Unless I were in a rowboat, and then all you’d need to do was fit the oars to the locks and row, which I can already do perfectly well.”

  Charlotte sighed, wishing this new life before her could be that uncomplicated. “His Grace isn’t a dinghy, Lizzie, and learning to be an acceptable duchess is going to be much more difficult than keeping the oarlocks straight. If I am to be of any use to His Grace and not an embarrassment, I have a great deal of things to learn before our wedding.”

  Diana’s expression remained stubbornly skeptical as she petted the cat in her lap. “I wish you didn’t have to marry anyone, Charlotte. I wish you were coming back to Ransom with us, where you belong.”

  “Oh, Di.” Charlotte sat on the bench beside Diana and hugged her close, striving to keep back the tears that suddenly stung her eyes. As exciting as these last days had been, part of her couldn’t help but agree with Diana, and long to be returning to her familiar old life with her mother and sisters. “You know how much I’ll miss you once you leave with Mama, but my place now will be with the duke. It will be the same for you one day, too, once you’re married.”

  Lizzie wriggled in beside her on the bench, and Charlotte pulled her close, too.

  “My two little geese,” she whispered, overwhelmed. “You must promise to visit me at Marchbourne House, or Greenwood.”

  “Mama says we’ll visit you as soon as you have a baby,” Diana said. “Then we’ll be aunts.”

  “You can be godmothers, too,” Charlotte said. She knew that an heir was the main reason the duke was marrying her, and that everyone else knew it, too, but it somehow was disconcerting to hear her younger sister speaking so blithely of her producing a baby, as if it were not more involved than baking a cake. “You can come for the christening.”

  “Babies,” said Lizzie with unrepentant disgust. “I’d rather come see the duke’s stables and his horses than any baby.”

  Charlotte smiled. Not everything was changing, at least not where her sisters were concerned. “I expect His Grace has many, many horses, Lizzie, and likely a few ponies as well. He seems to have a great deal of everything.”

  Diana frowned. “You’re having to learn so many new things to please the duke, Charlotte. But what is he learning that will make him any use to you?”

  “I don’t know,” Charlotte confessed, surprised by the question. She’d been so busy worrying about her own preparations that she really hadn’t considered what he might be doing for their wedding. “I expect because His Grace is older and has been a duke since he was a boy, he doesn’t have much to learn. I doubt he’s half so worried about blundering and shaming me.”

  “Then likely he won’t care to see this.” Lizzie pulled a crumpled scrap of newspaper from her pocket, smoothing it over her knee. “I saw it right away in one of the news sheets on the sideboard this morning. I tore it out so Aunt Sophronia wouldn’t see it, leastways before you did.”

  Charlotte frowned as she took the raggedy paper. She gasped as she began to read it, and gasped again at its conclusion. Aunt Sophronia had warned her of the consequences of her encounter with March at Mrs. Cartwright’s shop, but Charlotte hadn’t expected the gossip to be printed in the papers like this, for all of England to read.

  What would Aunt Sophronia say?

  More important, what would March say?

  “I’d say
it’s vastly impressive, Charlotte,” Diana said with admiration, leaning over her shoulder to read it again. “To think that you’re so notorious that the papers would make a puzzle out of your name, with initials!”

  “Has Aunt Sophronia left her bedchamber?” Charlotte asked, rising from the bench. “Have you seen her yet this day?”

  “Mama said they were going to take their tea together in the front parlor.” Diana slipped from the bench, too, the cat cradled in her arms and her eyes bright with excitement, and Lizzie instantly followed.

  “What are you going to do, Charlotte?” she demanded. “You’re not going to show that to Aunt Sophronia, are you? Ooh, you’ll be in so much trouble once she reads it!”

  “I may be in trouble enough already,” Charlotte said, her heels clicking on the paving stones as she hurried toward the house.

  “We’ll come with you,” Diana said, trotting along beside her. “You’ll need supporters. Besides, I want to see Aunt Sophronia’s face turn red like a turnip when she reads the part about the sweet promise of your hymeneal bower.”

  “No, you won’t,” Charlotte said. “I don’t want either of you there. This is something I must face by myself.”

  She ran up the stairs, her skirts bunched in one hand and the damning column in the other. She didn’t wait for a footman to announce her to her aunt, but charged into the parlor on her own. Her aunt and her mother were sitting together at the table near the window, with tea, jam, and sweet buns before them and the fluffy white dogs sprawled on the carpet at their feet.

  Yet the two women did not look happy as they sat there. They looked concerned and more than a little upset, and Charlotte’s spirits sank even lower. One of the footmen stood beside the table with his flat silver salver in his hands, obviously waiting for some reply or order. Surely whatever Charlotte said next couldn’t make matters worse, and without preamble she held the wrinkled scrap of newspaper out to her aunt.

  “Diana discovered this in one of the papers,” she said, her voice trembling. “They’ve pretended to disguise my name and His Grace’s, but any fool could decipher it. Oh, Aunt, you were so right!”

  But Aunt Sophronia only glanced at the article, not bothering to take it from Charlotte.

  “That must be from the Daily Courant,” she said. “I wondered where it had gone. Never to be outdone, the Inquisitor has its own version, too, and of an equally panting tone. It is, sorrowfully, to be expected, considering the lack of regard and respect in the modern world today.”

  Confused, Charlotte gave her head a small anxious shake. “Then—then you are not concerned by this?”

  “Of course I am concerned,” the countess said indignantly. “How could I not be? Isn’t this exactly as I’d predicted?”

  “Yes, Aunt,” Charlotte said, tears stinging her eyes. “I can only guess what His Grace must be thinking, to see his name dragged into the papers like this.”

  “I would wager a guinea that His Grace isn’t giving these tawdry words a single thought, or at least not the same thoughts that you are,” Aunt Sophronia said. “Gentlemen perceive these things differently than we ladies do. In fact, I would wager a thousand guineas, if I could find a taker.”

  Only then did Charlotte notice the letter in her mother’s hands, heavy white stock with a gold imprint at the top. Slowly Mama refolded the letter and placed it on the table, giving a small pat with her open palm.

  “You aunt is so sure, Charlotte,” she said softly, “because His Grace has already written to us.”

  Mama was trying to smile, but her mouth crumpled, and instead she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes and bowed her head.

  Charlotte stared at the folded letter, the bright green wax wafer marked with the Marchbourne arms stuck unbroken to the edge. She recognized the bold, masculine penmanship from the note that had come last week with the roses, the strongly drawn letters without any frills or flourishes, much like March himself.

  She probably could have read the letter for herself, especially since the contents seemed to be in regard to her. But to touch the letter, to read it, would make whatever awful message it bore undeniably real.

  “Has he broken with me?” she asked, so washed with disappointment that she could scarce stand. “Is that it? Has he called off our betrothal because of the scandal I have caused?”

  “Broken with you, my dear?” Aunt Sophronia tipped back her head and laughed, a throaty laugh that Charlotte did not want to hear. “That is what you believe he has done? Broken the match?”

  “Yes, I do,” Charlotte said, her hands clutched tight at her sides. “And if you were not so—so cruel, Aunt, you would tell me now, and spare me more misery.”

  “Silly girl,” her aunt said. “The duke doesn’t want to break with you. Far from it. He wishes there to be no betrothal, because he cannot wait. He wishes to marry you at once, Charlotte. At once.”

  Charlotte stared at her aunt, focusing on how the countess’s amber and diamond earring swung gently against her powdered cheek, a tiny detail that she could concentrate upon and keep the room from spinning away. “You are not jesting? The duke still wishes to marry me?”

  “He most certainly does,” her aunt said, laughing again. “I do believe he’d marry you this day before dinner if it could be arranged. You’ve won His Grace so completely, Charlotte, that I do believe nothing would drive him off.”

  Still Charlotte could not make sense of it. “But you are not serious about me marrying at once, are you, Aunt Sophronia?”

  Her aunt smiled and tapped the table with a teaspoon for emphasis. “I am quite serious, niece, and so is His Grace. We had already agreed to the plans for a small ceremony to mark your betrothal later this week. His Grace suggests that this be transformed into your wedding instead. A simple affair, to be sure, before a handful of witnesses, but it will accomplish the same business, and you’ll be man and wife as definitely as if you were wed at Westminster.”

  In three days—and forever after—who she was would no longer matter compared to who she’d become. Oh, preserve her, it was all happening so very fast!

  Charlotte groped for the nearest chair, sinking into it. “How can it be possible? What of the banns?”

  “Charlotte, he is a duke with royal blood,” Aunt Sophronia said, “and the archbishop himself will do whatever needs to be done in order to oblige him.”

  “And me?” Charlotte asked. “What of obliging me?”

  “What obligation could there be?” Aunt Sophronia asked, genuinely surprised. “This suggestion of his could not be a greater triumph for you. A betrothal is well enough in its way, but the sooner you and the duke are joined before God, the better for everyone.”

  Until now, Mama had said almost nothing, letting Aunt Sophronia speak, but now she could keep silent no longer.

  “If you please, Sophronia,” she said. “I should like to speak to my daughter alone.”

  “To plan, no doubt.” The countess smiled, gathering up a dog beneath each arm. She paused before Charlotte and bent to kiss her lightly on the forehead. “Congratulations, Charlotte. I’m thoroughly proud of you.”

  But as soon as she left, Charlotte dropped to her knees and rested her head on her mother’s lap. “Oh, Mama, forgive me, but this is all happening so fast!”

  “My own baby,” Mama murmured, smoothing Charlotte’s hair back from her face. “Don’t be sad, sweet. Be brave, and try to think with a clear head. Your father planned this for you to make you happy, and in time I pray it will.”

  “But three days, Mama,” Charlotte protested, her words choked with emotion. “Only three days, and then everything in my life will change!”

  “It will, yes,” Mama said, her voice gentle, but firm, too. “But it will change whether you marry His Grace or not. Nothing stays the same, Charlotte, no matter how much we might wish otherwise. At first I felt bad for not having given you more warning, but now I believe it was for the best, not to have had this wedding looming in your thoughts.”


  “You and Di and Lizzie will leave,” Charlotte said, her words muffled by Mama’s skirts, “and I’ll be left behind and alone.”

  “You won’t be alone, Charlotte,” Mama said firmly. “You’ll be with your husband, as is proper for a wife. You must learn to rely upon him, and he on you. If you have a real need or emergency, you’ll also have your aunt here in town with you.”

  “But I don’t know the duke, not at all!”

  “He doesn’t know you, either, Charlotte,” Mama said. “That is how all marriages begin, with the two of you discovering each other.”

  “But Mama, I—”

  Suddenly Mama’s face clouded with concern. “Unless there is something about His Grace that has made you wary of him? Is there, Charlotte? Because if you fear him, or believe he might harm you—”

  Charlotte raised her head, her hands still resting on Mama’s lap. “Oh, no, not at all. It’s not that.”

  Mama nodded, clearly relieved. “I’ve scarcely seen His Grace to form any impression of him, but he is a handsome gentleman, with a pleasing manner. A bit solemn, perhaps, but then he is a duke.”

  “He is handsome, Mama,” Charlotte agreed quickly. “He has lovely dark eyes that speak his kindness, and his smile, though rare, is as pleasing as can be, and he is very gallant, that is, he can be gallant when—”

  “Shhh, Charlotte, please,” Mama said. “Speak more slowly, and with more care for the words you choose.” Charlotte nodded and took a deep breath. “When the duke and I are alone, he hasn’t been solemn at all.”

  “That he isn’t solemn with you is in his favor,” Mama said. “But that he has contrived to be alone with you is not. You are an earl’s daughter, Charlotte, and both my family and your father’s are a good deal older and more noble than his. You must take care that he always treats you with the respect you are due as a lady, even when you are alone together. Especially when you are alone.”