Page 5 of The Duke's Golden Belle
ChapterThree
The next day
“Your Grace, your bath is drawn,” his valet said, pulling open the dark green curtains to his room. “You asked me to get you stirring early. Additionally, I have something uncomfortable to discuss.”
“Out with it, Conners,” Michael said into his pillow, refusing to look up.
“You won’t like this, but there’s little I can do about it. Your wet boots from your fishing trip . . . they were taken,” Conners replied.
“What do you mean . . .taken?My wet Hessians? Where were they when they were . . . taken,” he muttered, almost inaudibly into the pillow.
“They were outside the kitchen door, drying—where I usually place your boots that have come home in similar condition. And before you ask, they vanished yesterday, Your Grace,” the valet quipped.
“They were my favorite boots, as you know. They were the ones from my commission.” Michael groaned and pulled a pillow over his head. “Conners, you sound too pleased,” he groaned.
“I will admit to mild satisfaction, Your Grace,” Conners said.
“Argh. I am getting up. I should not have to remind you, you are being too familiar,” Michael said, pulling the sheet from the bed and wrapping it around his waist. “I’m up and ready for my bath. You know, just because you were my batman doesn’t mean you cannot be sacked.”
“I understand, Your Grace.” Conners cleared his throat. “Today is a chilly day and your water is hot. I’ll make sure your horse is saddled and brought around. And I have secured a small bouquet for your visit to Lady Isabelle Griffith’s, Your Grace.”
“Thank you, Conners. I appreciate your foresight.”
The man gave a small nod. “I shall return in twenty minutes, Your Grace.” The valet gave a quick bow before leaving the room.
Michael walked into his dressing room and eased himself into the copper tub filled with sudsy hot water. He closed his eyes, looking forward to his day. His entire attitude had shifted with last evening’s dinner—no doubt exactly what his mother had hoped, although he would not admit such a thing. The lady’s beauty had startled him. While he had thought her lovely when he had seen her after falling into the stream, last evening she had been devastatingly beautiful. And after spending time together in the garden, he found himself less opposed to the betrothal. Isabelle was no empty-headed woman interested in weather and frippery. Instead, her interests appealed to his own and they had found much in common besides the requisite betrothal.
Daniel would not have bothered to know Isabelle. Instead, he would have done the minimum to become betrothed, with no plans to set his mistress free. Michael knew this because Daniel’s mistress, Victoria Vice, had shown up at his door shortly after his brother’s death, distraught over losing her protector. The woman had worn black to impress him, he supposed, which only sickened him once she offered her services. “Your brother had no complaints,” she had said, looking him up and down. “It would be my pleasure to become your mistress, Your Grace.”
Repulsed, he had sent the woman away and instructed his man of business, Mr. Wilkins, to offer her a take-it-or-leave-it five hundred pounds, with notice that the house she lived in would be sold in precisely three months. Daniel had purchased it, but left it in his name, allowing her to live there. Daniel had made no plans for the maintenance or purchase of a residence for his ladybird, verbal or otherwise. Michael had no interest in a mistress, much less his brother’s cloying one.
Michael loved his brother and missed him. Losing him was a hurt he’d not soon heal from, but his brother had never taken his role seriously. Had he done so, he would have resisted the offer of a madcap horse race and realized the duchy relied on him. Mother relied on him. Hell, Michael relied on him to perform his role so that stepping into the role of a duke would never be necessary. Michael had enjoyed his military career and had settled into his Crown responsibilities. Instead, he now had to give it up and step into a role he was ill-prepared to fill. Although Wellington had assured him he would adjust. “Delegate, Ballard. Surround yourself with competent people who know their job,” the duke had told him. “And let them do their job. You’ll have plenty to do.” Keeping Thomas Conners had been a smart decision. Despite his impertinence, Michael would not sack him. The man had proven invaluable.
If only I had some way to delegate this betrothal mess. Although he could not deny an attraction. The petite blonde with wide green eyes had shown herself to be intelligent and interested in a variety of topics, many of which he enjoyed as well. Isabelle was a delightful companion. But, unless he missed his guess, Lady Isabelle Griffith would rather marry a baker than marry a duke. He snorted. “She’s terrified of being a duchess,” he muttered out loud. “Because of the attention.”
He should release her immediately, doing whatever he needed to do to maintain her reputation before making the ton aware of the betrothal. But a selfish part of him told him not to do that. He’d never find another one quite like her and he would need to marry . . . someday. Michael realized he wanted to court her. He wanted to know her. Last evening, when he had touched her briefly, an odd pulse of warmth had shot through him. Although he refused to acknowledge it as desire, he realized it differed from any sensation he had experienced with other women. Michael would uphold his promise to her. If they didn’t suit, he would break the contract without scathing her. Michael would take on Society’s displeasure.
Hurrying, he finished his bath and dressed. Conners assured him his horse would be ready. He hurried downstairs to break his fast, still thinking about the day ahead and how best to organize their outing. He grabbed the small bouquet of white roses Conners had secured for him to take, making a mental note to thank the man for his thoughtfulness. Michael had forgotten to ask. His valet had always been that way, even as a batman. The close bond between them made it difficult to ever take the man’s impertinence seriously. Thomas Conners provided a necessary centering for Michael, keeping him from taking himself too seriously. As a new duke, he probably needed that as much now as he had needed it when he had been one of Wellington’s right-hand men, although he would never admit to such a thing. The thought made him snort. Conners needed no further reminders of his importance.
Arriving at Griffith House, he handed his horse to the footman out front and dashed up the steps to the door.
“Lady Isabelle is in the parlor, Your Grace. She is expecting you. Shall I take the flowers?” the butler asked.
“No, I would like to present them to her.”
“Very good, Your Grace,” the retainer said. “This way, please.”
* * *
The duke should be here soon, Isabelle thought, as she glanced around her mother’s parlor. Seeing her maid take a seat in the corner, it occurred to her the woman dreaded chaperoning if horses were involved. “Beatrice, you will not have to accompany me. I have asked a footman to ride behind me and the duke. I know how much you loathe riding a horse.” She glanced down at her riding habit, thrilled with the beautiful emerald color. A cape trimmed in white fur complimented it and would keep her warm while riding.
Her maid looked up from the basket of darning she had on her lap and gave a grateful smile. “Thank you, my lady. It jitters the nerves, some. I heard Peter tell Cook he was heading to the stables about half an hour ago. He should have your horse ready.” Her maid always made herself as inconspicuous as possible, which made her an affable chaperone. Isabelle had never used a footman before, but at her mother’s suggestion, she had asked Peter.
The clock on the small fireplace mantle chimed at the same time Withers entered the room. “My lady, the Duke of Clarence has arrived.” Withers gave a sidestep, and the duke entered the room. A small shiver of excitement raced across her shoulders, down to her fingertips—such a difference from the usual sense of dread she had experienced when the former duke had visited. Isabelle clung to the feeling of hope His Grace had given her last evening. If they found they didn’t suit, he would see her freed from the betrothal without damaging her reputation. He was very handsome—as had been his brother. But Michael had a kindness about him that calmed her immediately. It had been so the other day when she stumbled upon him fishing, making the interlude more like old friends seeing each other than her running into a self-aggrandizing duke, which had been her impression of her previous intended.
“I brought you flowers,” Michael said, extending the elegant bouquet of white roses toward her.
“Oh, your . . . Michael, they are beautiful. And white roses are a particular favorite. How did you know?” she asked, burying her nose in the floral arrangement. Even with the familiar smell of roses, she could smell him and he smelled delicious—like fresh air, leather, and sandalwood. Without being conspicuous, she allowed herself to draw a deep breath.
