Page 4 of The Duke's Golden Belle
Then he moved to Isabelle. “Lady Isabelle. It is a privilege to see you this evening. Allow me.” He offered his arm, and the two walked to the drawing-room, where his mother awaited her guests.
“Lady Isabelle, I’m thrilled to see you,” the duchess said.
“Thank you, Your Grace. It was kind of you to invite us,” Isabelle returned.Why do I feel like I’m walking into an awkward situation?As dinner progressed and nothing happened, Isabelle relaxed.Perhaps I read too much into this evening.
“Lady Isabelle, would you like to take a stroll around the garden?” the duke asked.
Isabelle glanced around and noticed the duchess and her parents were looking away, making conversation that sounded more mumbled than anything else.I suppose it is hard to keep one’s ears on a conversation across the table and make small talk.
“I’d love to, Your Grace,” Isabelle said, glad he couldn’t see her knees knocking into the chair as she stood.
“Mother, perhaps your guests would be more comfortable in the drawing room,” he suggested. The duchess stood and gave a quick nod, but not before Isabelle noticed her look of irritation. Standing, she suggested Isabelle’s parents accompany her to the drawing room.
As they walked down the curved stairwell into a walled garden, Isabelle snuggled into her pelisse, taking notice of the gaslights and the fragrant roses lining the walls. She also noticed His Grace didn’t make her feel nervous. However, the prospect of marrying him terrified her.
He stopped at a well-lit alcove with a wooden bench, surrounded by yellow roses, and he motioned for her to sit. He sat beside her, but with a foot of space between them. “You must realize by now, there is a betrothal agreement in place,” he began, staring in front of him. “I was surprised—no shocked—to discover its existence. He turned to face her. “Are you aware of it?”
The very thought of becoming a duchess made her nauseous. Bile rose in her throat, and she struggled to speak. “I have heard,” she murmured.
“I detect hesitancy in your voice. My mother will make my life miserable if I don’t do this. Although, it is not what I want—not because of you. I had no desire to marry in my life, and this is forced. Talk to me, Lady Isabelle,” he urged. “Can you tell me your feelings?”
“I . . . I am afraid, Your Grace.”
“Of me?”
“No. Of being a duchess,” she stammered. “The thought of having attention on me makes me weak . . . sick.”
“I see,” he replied and then remained silent for a long moment. “Would you give me a chance to get to know you? Let us get to know each other. I want to understand. And if we decide this cannot work for us, we will take steps to end it.”
“Does this mean we will go through with the betrothal?” she asked, fighting to control the bile in her throat and balling her fists in her skirts. Her left hand found her small rock and rubbed it feverishly.
“Would you give me permission to court you?” he asked. “There is a contract, and our parents signed this . . . contract. And I realize you have already had one betrothal—to my brother. Many women would find this . . . arrangement . . . in their favor and would welcome becoming a duchess. This must seem harsh to you, for so many reasons. But I understand that people—both men and women—have situations that cause them stress.”
She swallowed. Her father labeled her nervousness as hysteria and was unkind in his regard for it. If Isabelle could convince His Grace she would not be a good duchess, maybe he would look elsewhere for a wife. Her father would still blame her if he broke the contract. “And if you decide we are not suited?” she asked.
“Let us think in terms of a more positive outcome,” he suggested. “But . . . if this doesn’t suit, I will break the contract.”
Her father and mother would be extremely unhappy. But she had been a sacrificial lamb once. She could do this. “This seems an easier approach, Your Grace.” She managed a tight smile.
“Do you ride?” he asked, picking up her gloved hand and abruptly changing the direction of the conversation.
She smiled. “I love to ride. Occasionally, it becomes torment for our groom because my rides are often very long. This crisp winter weather is my favorite time of year to ride.”
“Would you permit me to call on you tomorrow, Lady Isabelle? If the weather is like today’s, we can ride to the ruins at the edge of my property.”
“That sounds lovely, Your Grace. I would love to.”
“So, we agree?” He stroked the inside of her wrist with his thumb. “We will see where this goes.”
“Are we to be betrothed?” she asked, feeling slightly confused.
“I think that would be the best course,” he replied. “It would be less pressure from our families and Society if we are betrothed. My mother will leave me alone, and there could be less pressure from your family. We should give it a respectable amount of time.”
“I can agree with that, Your Grace,” she replied, trying to squelch nervous tension.
He picked up her other hand and held both in his warm ones. “There is one thing I would ask. Please call me Michael when we are alone. Do you mind if I call you Isabelle?”
“Yes, your . . . Michael,” she said with a grin. “I would like that very much.” She didn’t want to be betrothed, but she trusted Michael. It was a good start.
