A Summons From the Duke (8 page)

“
Lovely ceremony, don’t you think?” Lockwell appeared at her side, his top hat in place upon his head.

“
You look ridiculous in a hat,” she said to him.

“
I’ll try not to take that personally, seeing as your sister was just married and I’m more than certain you’re torn up inside.”

Isabel wanted nothing more than to lambaste Lockwell for being so astute. How did he know so much about what she was thinking? No one ever knew what she was thinking—or maybe it was that no one had ever
cared
to know.

“
I’m very happy for my sister,” she replied, shoving her nose in the air, partly to look self-righteous, but mostly to make it easier to swallow down the lump that was in her throat.

“
That doesn’t mean you can’t be sad, Lady Isabel.” Lockwell’s voice was quieter now, and when she looked up at him, his eyes held a great deal of understanding. And compassion. And all other manner of kind expressions that one would never expect from a man like Mr. Lockwell.

Isabel was spared having to respond as a caravan of coaches pulled up before them. They all piled in and traveled back to the estate for the reception. Several other cousins had arrived that morning, so it would be a bigger celebration than they’d planned. Isabel wished she could escape to her room until after Christmas, but Mother would never allow it. And besides, if she were in her room, she wouldn’t be able to see Lockwell.

She took a deep breath. What had happened to her in the last day to turn her into the sort of girl who actually
wanted
to be in the company of that sort of man. If she were being completely honest, she would admit to herself that there was more to it than simply wanting to be in his company. But she wasn’t about to openly admit that she wanted to be in his arms again. That just sounded ridiculous.

Once inside, Isabel followed the fold into the smaller of the castle’s ballrooms. The large one was being decorated for the Danby Yule Ball that would be held on Christmas Eve. The smaller one was already decorated with garlands and bows and dangling mistletoe. No doubt the servants had done that for this particular occasion.

Breakfast had been laid out on the buffet, but the last thing Isabel wanted to think about was food with her stomach so unsettled.

Emma flitted about the room, greeting cousins and aunts and uncles, introducing them to her new husband, and looking every bit the blushing bride. Isabel tried to smile at her sister’s good fortune, but the harder she tried, the more difficult it became to look happy.

When the small orchestra started up, announcing that the dancing was about to begin, Isabel sank even further into her despair. There was no avoiding dancing at her sister’s wedding.

“
Are you feeling all right? You look slightly green about the gills.” Lockwell appeared beside her, looking calm and unflappable as always.

She swallowed the panic that clenched her throat. “No, I’m not. All right, I mean,” she clarified. “Do you think anyone would notice if I left?”

Lockwell gave her a look that clearly said she was out of her mind. “Ah, yes. I think everyone would notice. Good God, are you perspiring?”

“
Don’t poke fun at me,” she said, hating the petulant sound of her voice.

“
I’m not poking fun.” Lockwell procured a handkerchief and held it out to her. “Just being observant. Come now, wipe your brow and dance with me.”

“
At the same time?”

“
Preferably not.”

Isabel took the handkerchief and blotted her forehead, though she secretly wished she could apply it to her underarms. Lud, but they were getting sticky.

Once she’d thoroughly dried her brow, she handed the kerchief back to Lockwell. He tucked it away and then held out his hand to her. Isabel stared down at it.

“
Something the matter?”

She looked up at Lockwell. “You don’t want to dance with me,” she said.

“
Oh, but I do. Come. Take my hand.”

Isabel shook her head.

Lockwell leaned closer and whispered in her ear. “I don’t care if you’re not a great dancer, Lady Isabel. I just need an excuse to hold you in my arms again.”

Isabel stared back at Lockwell, resisting the urge to quickly clean out her ears and ask him to repeat himself. But he didn’t give her the chance. Apparently, he was tired of waiting on her. His hand clamped down on hers in a tight grip and he whisked her out to the middle of the floor, where Emma and Heathfield were already weaving in and out of a complicated pattern with one another.

Oh, heavens. This was not good. Isabel could recite sections of encyclopedias, she could speak eloquently for hours on Ancient Egyptian civilization, she could rattle off the anatomy of any number of mammals and reptiles—and fish, too, for that matter—but she’d never, for the life of her, been able to remember the steps of an English country dance. She was about to ruin her sister’s wedding dance.

~*~

Good God above, Isabel was a positively dreadful dancer. She looked like a frightened deer moving about the floor with all the grace and elegance of hippopotamus. Damien wanted to laugh. No, that wasn’t adequate enough. He wanted to collapse on the floor and roll about, letting this image get the better of him. Never had he seen such a sight. And never had he imagined that such a woman would enamor him. To add to her list of qualities that no man would or should ever desire, she was a most horrific dancer.

It was just her luck, though, that
he,
her partner in this morning’s dance, was an excellent dancer—excellent enough to guide her through the set without letting on to the bystanders.

“
Relax your forehead,” he whispered when they came together. “Smile. Not like that.”

“
But that’s how I smile,” she replied through clenched teeth.

He put his hand to the small of her back and gently pushed her to the other side of the floor, where she was forced to partner with Heathfield for a moment.

When they met again, he said, “I’ve seen you smile. That is
not
your smile.” She turned under his arm. “No, no,” he muttered, spinning her in the opposite direction. “This way.”

“
This is hopeless.” Her tone held defeat. “I’m just going to leave.”

Isabel tried to go, but Damien held onto her hand and dragged her back into the dance. “You’re doing fine.”

“
But I’m not—”

“
Do you trust me?”

“
It’s not that—”

“
Isabel.” They were joined by their hands, moving in a circle around themselves now. “Do you trust me?”

~ 11 ~

Isabel contemplated his question for a moment, which led to her downfall. She lost her footing and tripped over Heathfield’s boot. She stumbled a bit and would have gone headfirst into the marble floor, if not for Lockwell. Never once did he let go of her hand. He yanked her upright and she was back in the dance before she’d even had time to register what had happened.

Lockwell gave her a challenging look. How could she deny her trust in him now?

She didn’t answer, but she didn’t go. She assumed that would be answer enough. Several minutes later, the set finally came to an end, and much to Isabel’s surprise, no one had landed on their backside.

“
Oh, Izzy, when did you learn to dance?” Emma said, rushing to her side. “Everyone’s toes are still miraculously intact.”

Isabel smiled at her sister. “I—I don’t know. I suppose I owe it to my partner.”

Emma’s eyes drifted to Lockwell, then back to Isabel. “Izzy,” she whispered. “Do you fancy Mr. Lockwell?” Her eyes lit with excitement.

“
Emma, of course not! Besides, it’s your wedding day. You shouldn’t be thinking about me.” She gave her sister a little shove towards Heathfield. “Go, be with your husband.”

Once Emma’s eyes found Heathfield, she didn’t even spare another glance for Isabel. Isabel couldn’t blame her; it was possible she was starting to understand how Emma felt about her Heathfield.

She turned to look at Lockwell. He stood nearby, a smug expression on his face, his hair ruffled, his cravat slightly askew…and all Isabel could think about was kissing the smugness off his face, ruffling his hair even more and tearing the cravat from his neck altogether. However, they were still at her sister’s wedding, in a room full of her kin. Not to mention, Grandpapa was headed right their way.

“
Isabel,” he said, placing a kiss upon her cheek. “How are you holding up, dear?”

She gave her grandfather a slight smile. “I’ll be all right, Grandpapa. It was just a bit sudden, that’s all.”

“
Yes, I know, dear.” He smiled warmly at her, and Isabel knew it was a smile that not too many people got to see. “But you can’t stand in the way of true love.”

Isabel nodded, and then her grandfather shifted his focus to Lockwell.

“
I’ll see you in my study, Lockwell.”

~*~

Damien resisted the urge to shout, “Now?” at the old duke, but instead, he simply nodded his head, winked at Isabel and then followed the man from the room. They were silent as they walked down the corridor together and Damien remained slightly behind Danby.

Eventually they came to a stop, and Danby led him into a study that was very typical of a man of his stature. Dark wood, dark furniture, strategically placed bottle of brandy and scotch.

“
Sit down,” the duke instructed.

Damien sat.

“
Scotch?”

“
Please.”

“
Do you care for my granddaughter?”

“
Eh, that depends. Which one, my lord? You do have a great many of them.”

“
Ah, so you’re a clever one, aren’t you?” Danby handed over a tumbler of scotch and then sat in the towering leather chair behind the desk.

“
I do endeavor to be, Your Grace.”

“
Do you endeavor to be in my granddaughter’s bed?”

Damien was taken aback by the blunt nature of the question. “I—I…”

“
You will marry her first, will you not?”

Damien sputtered and stuttered some more. He hadn’t realize the duke had been watching him, though when he thought about it, he and Isabel had been thick as thieves the last day or so. He just couldn’t help it—if she was in the room, he wanted to be near her. It was
her
conversation he longed for.
Her
smile,
her
laugh…

Damn it, he’d really gotten himself in a pickle now, hadn’t he?

“
Yes, Your Grace,” he said, admitting defeat. “I will marry her first.”

~*~

That afternoon, Isabel was able to finally escape to her room. She needed some time to think—to reflect on the night before, that morning, and her feelings in general, which were spinning out of control. She wished she could talk to Emma about all of it, but obviously, the days of running to Emma with her problems were behind her.

There were a good many cousins in the castle now, many of them female and of her approximate age, but none that she knew well enough to trust with her deepest, innermost thoughts.

Isabel sighed and plopped onto her bed, wondering what it was that Grandpapa had wanted to speak with Lockwell about.

She bolted upright. Oh, no. Hadn’t Grandfather insisted on a meeting with Heathfield just last night? And now Emma and Heathfield were married, mere hours later.

Bugger. There were those blasted mixed feelings again. Part of her thought it might not be so bad to be wed to Lockwell. All right,
most
of her actually thought it would be more than pleasant to have him for a husband.

However, the rest of her—the parts of her that had ruled her life since she could read and speak and think for herself—realized what a hideously ridiculous idea it was to fall in love and marry.

She cocked her head to the side, staring blankly out the window.
Why
did she think that? Two days ago, she was sure she would have had an answer, but now…

A scratch came at her door. “Enter.”

Nancy poked her head through. “Your mother wishes to see you, Lady Isabel. Says you ought to be hosting your cousins, not hiding away in your room.”

Isabel rolled her eyes. “I knew it was too good to be true, Nancy.”

“
Sorry, miss.”

“
Is it too much to ask that I get a few moments of peace this week?” She stood from the bed and smoothed her now rumpled skirts.

“
I think so, miss. Best to just accept that so you don’t get your hopes up.”

Isabel nodded. “You’re right, Nancy. There is nothing worse than false hope.” Which was exactly why she needed to reassess her feelings and expectations regarding Lockwell. Of course they weren’t going to get married. They hardly knew each other. It was one thing for Emma to marry Heathfield—they’d known each other for years. Heathfield was a long-time friend of the family, and Emma had pined for him for years. It was only natural that it ended up as it did.