Chapter 2
Two
DECEMBER 1810
H e was dying.
She should feel something. Anything. Sorrow at least for the Duke who had taken in a fourteen-year-old orphan, but as she walked down the long corridor to his bedchamber, the only thing Iseabail felt was a dose of panic, making her mouth dry up as if she had eaten a handful of flour in one gulp. She knew that feeling well. A childhood dare by her sisters had left her gasping for air as a voluminous white cloud spewed from her lips. Her sisters’ laughter had echoed through their home. This, however, was not a childhood prank, and not one smirk of joy crossed the faces of the footmen she passed.
A Duke was dying.
Yet she could only stare at the massive doors to his bedchamber as if they were protecting her from the cruelty of fate. She twisted her clammy hands, feeling a sense of her future no longer being hers to control—as if history were repeating itself, and another Duke was stealing her destiny. This time, however, he would not live to see it. Nor was he doing it out of greed or a sense of entitlement, but rather death was taking him before he could deliver his promise.
Gone was her impending season. There would be no suitors to choose from. Or a dowry to speak of—unless the Duke of Nithesdale had bestowed a dowry upon her to save her family before he died. Or would she have to stand alone between the world and certain ruin once more? Fear of imminent doom caused a lump to form in her throat. It went down with a loud gulp.
Her mother would hate her display of fear. Her father would chide her for her weakness, and together they would show her the path to standing on her own two Blair feet … a path she had not been able to locate in the past eight years without them.
Why the Duke of Nithesdale had chosen to take her in eight years ago was a mystery … especially to her. He was her mother’s godfather, to be certain, but he owed the Blair sisters nothing. For years she’d written off his generosity as a guilty sense of duty. Now, it seemed his generosity would be another unfulfilled promise, leaving her with a cruel tempting taste of what her life could have been.
The first time she’d approached Caerlaverock Castle and witnessed its opulence, Iseabail should have told the footman to turn the Duke’s coach around and take her back to her nanny’s cramped little cottage. The Ton was not known for its generosity, or for their forgiveness of those who had been foolish enough to squander their wealth, like her father had done in his grief. Nor did they forget ladies who married beneath them. It didn’t matter her parents’ marriage was a love match. Lady Elizabeth Sinclair had scandalously eloped and married Mr. Duncan Blair, a man of commerce.
Even the servants knew of the scandal, and upon Iseabail’s arrival eight years ago, they had whispered in plain sight. “He’s grooming the little chit to be his whore,” one footman had said, as he leered at her in the most uncomfortable manner. Iseabail had learned his name before any other. Louis.
At the time she had no idea what his comment meant, but she knew by the look on his face he was someone to avoid. From that moment on, she did everything to avoid Louis and the few who’d nodded in agreement with his assessment of her character. He’s trouble of the worst kind , her mother would have warned—if she’d been alive.
“Lady Ishbel,” the housekeeper’s harsh voice startled her out of her memories. Mrs. Hagerty pronounced her name as if it weren’t Scottish at all.
For eight years it had nearly driven Iseabail mad, and she found herself whispering “Iseabail” with a Scottish brogue under her breath for the millionth time. “Yes, Mrs. Hagerty,” she said, loud enough for woman to hear. Yet still, her voice sounded as strangled to her own ears as it had the day she arrived.
“You mustn’t dawdle. His Grace doesn’t have much time left on this earth. His periods of wakefulness are few. Hurry along.” Mrs. Hagerty’s hands swept the air as if she were shooing a flock of chickens in the yard, not that Mrs. Hagerty would be caught anywhere near the chickens. Iseabail stared at the door, and Mrs. Hagerty’s tone hardened. “Go.”
The footman didn’t hesitate and gave Iseabail little opportunity to gather her courage before he opened the double doors to the grandest room she’d ever seen. Granted, the parlor at Caerlaverock was admirable, and the library was awe-inspiring. She’d always found the dining hall grandly cavernous, although if she hadn’t always dined alone, perhaps she wouldn’t find it so.
Iseabail took a fortifying breath as she walked across the threshold into His Grace’s rooms. Inside, she paused, and had to wonder what the old bugger had been thinking to create such a space. It was a golden room fit for the King himself.
Good heavens, even the bedposts appeared to be made of gold.
What kind of man slept in a golden bed? Did he believe himself to be the monarch of the castle? She supposed he was regent of his own domain. Caerlaverock was his—but was it necessary to have wall panels embroidered with golden thread to obtain a peaceful night’s rest? Did the royal-blue velvet draping on the bed and windows keep nightmares at bay? Iseabail’s gaze traveled up the cobalt canopy. Only then did she realize there were angels on the ceiling, blowing horns and escorting a horse-drawn chariot driven by a warrior who looked remarkably similar to the Duke—thirty years ago.
Caerlaverock castle was grand and well-furnished, but the Duke’s chambers … well, there was grand, and there was grand . These rooms compared to the galarie des glaces at Versailles. Not that Iseabail had ever laid eyes on the French court’s magnificence, but her mother had told her stories …
A moist, rattling cough came from the bed. “Is that her?” the Duke rasped.
Iseabail’s eyes stopped perusing the lavish decor. She stopped marveling at the large chandelier that glittered like a sky full of diamonds as it reflected the light of the crackling flames in the fireplace. Her gaze snapped to the large golden bed with the Duke’s family crest embroidered upon the deep-blue canopy.
His Grace wasn’t the only one seeking her out, the room was full of people looking at her. Assessing her.
“Yes, Your Grace.” The well-endowed woman dressed in a rich, garnet gown which displayed her décolletage advantageously, leaned over the Duke and wiped his brow. Iseabail had seen numerous women of questionable repute enter the house, but this woman was different. Under different circumstances, she would call her family. Under these, she was a mere stranger she had seen from time to time. Yet still, her beauty was mesmerizing. She wore her rich auburn hair piled high upon her head in graceful curls. The fabric of her gown was satin, and her face was beautiful and smooth. She held herself as a lady would, and her movements were the epitome of refinement. Lady Drake was grace personified.
“Come here, girl,” the Duke rasped.
Iseabail’s footsteps fell soundlessly on the plush carpet as she approached the massive bed swallowing up the considerable frame of the Duke. The Duke’s ragged attempts to breathe echoed throughout the palatial room, as the five individuals on the opposite side of a golden balustrade encircling his bed stared at her with varying degrees of judgement. She was quite certain three of the four men didn’t hold her in high regard by the scowls they wore. The Duke’s mistress, however, held her gaze, and smiled. She actually smiled. She always smiled and said kind words.
His mistress. Dear God, how was she supposed to address this woman? She was everything Iseabail had been instructed to ignore. Yet she was family, her mother’s younger cousin, and she looked so much like Iseabail they could be sisters.
Unsure of the proper protocol in a situation such as this, Iseabail returned the greeting with a slight incline of her head. One of the men coughed and her eyes immediately flew to see which one didn’t approve. It shouldn’t matter. It didn’t matter to Iseabail, but it would to society.
Because Dr. Wakefield would talk. Reverend Lacey, the local vicar, would preach about it on Sunday. She prayed the Duke’s solicitor, Mr. Forrester, wasn’t one to pass judgement. Despite his polite demeanor on every other occasion when she’d met him, today he seemed to distance himself. As if he wanted to deny any plausibility in a crime she was about to commit. She couldn’t help but notice his eyes darting toward the fourth man. She didn’t know for certain as to the man’s identity, but she could guess.
“Take my seat, Lady Iseabail,” the Duke’s mistress said.
Her name rolled off the lady’s tongue with a Scottish lilt. It was breathtaking in its beauty, and nearly brought tears to Iseabail’s eyes.
“Th-thank you.” It was all she could manage to blurt out and still not offend the gentlemen present. The woman stepped back and allowed her to approach the Duke from the left side of the bed. On the opposite side, the doctor appeared to be measuring out laudanum, an amount that was almost certain to put not just the Duke to sleep, but every last person in the room.
Standing at the Duke’s bedside, Iseabail realized she was shaking as she had at fourteen when she approached him in his study. The Duke had shown her mercy, and a modicum of fatherly affection through the years, yet she couldn’t help but wonder why she was requested to attend this small gathering at his deathbed. The fourth man, whom she guessed to be the Duke’s cousin and heir, Mr. Henry Jarvis, stood off to the side. Rounder than the Duke, with the same shock of ginger hair, Mr. Jarvis did not appear to be the type of person to show mercy. In fact, Iseabail was quite certain the gleam in his eyes was that of glee and greed, not grief for his dying relative.
He shouldn’t be the next Duke of Nithesdale, she thought. The current one was still young enough to marry and sire an heir. No one had expected him to die, yet here he lay—dying, and Mr. Jarvis was next in line for the title. He would become the next Duke of Nithesdale once her Duke was dead. If the man’s new clothing was any indication, the new Duke of Nithesdale was going to prance around town looking like a pregnant peacock. His stark white breeches displayed surprisingly scrawny legs, and his tight, claret-colored tailcoat and brightly stripped waistcoat did nothing but accentuate his fondness of food.
Iseabail gazed down at His Grace, who seemed to have deflated in size and stature since the last time she’d seen him two weeks earlier, during their monthly chess match. The doctor’s expression was grave, and the Duke’s solicitor refused to meet her gaze as the pastor flipped through the pages of his Bible, his lips moving as if he were reading the scriptures.
“Forrester.” The Duke’s voice commanded attention even in his weakened state, and his attorney with pleasant gray eyes surged forward.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Send for Mrs. Hagerty and Paddington,” the Duke wheezed. “It’s important they understand who is in charge upon my demise.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Forrester went for the door, even though the errand should have been done by the footman standing beside it.
The physician attempted to hold the laudanum to the Duke’s mouth, but he shook his head and pushed the doctor’s hand away before closing his eyes. The Duke opened his eyes and spoke. “I am dying … but not yet.” He glared at the doctor as he raised the laudanum once more. “I don’t want that odious concoction.”
“But Your Grace—” The Duke’s glare seemed to bore holes in the man’s head, and the doctor stepped back. “Of course, Your Grace. I am here to serve.”
Iseabail shook her head. “Everyone comes down with an ague from time to time,” she assured him. “I’m certain you will be hale and hearty in no time. Then you will be ready for all manner of trouble?—”
The housekeeper chose that moment to enter the room and gasped at Iseabail’s statement. Dr. Wakefield turned away. Mr. Forrester froze. Mr. Jarvis narrowed his eyes and looked at her in a new light—one Iseabail didn’t like in the least, and the Duke chuckled. Reverend Lacey’s face turned a brighter shade of pink than her own.
She really hadn’t meant it to sound as scandalous as all that. “I didn’t mean?—”
The Duke’s mirth turned into a coughing spell that drew everyone’s attention back to him. The doctor leaned over with the laudanum at hand, and the Duke slapped it away, choosing instead to take the handkerchief Iseabail offered.
“There’s a reason I asked for you to come, Jarvis,” the Duke finally said.
The man in question pressed forward from his position against the wall, eager to please the dying Duke. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“I’ve acquired a special license.”
Mr. Jarvis looked around as if one of the others present could explain what the Duke was speaking of … or perhaps he sought affirmation the Duke was out of his mind in his last moments on earth. Getting no reaction from anyone else, because Iseabail certainly had no earthly clue as to what the Duke was talking about, Mr. Jarvis looked back to the Duke. “Your Grace?”
“I’m afraid you won’t be the next Duke of Nithesdale upon my death.”
Mr. Jarvis laughed as if the Duke had told a joke. His mirth died when not a single person met his gaze. Then he sputtered, “But I—I—I’m your heir.”
The Duke raised his once beefy hand, which now looked feeble as it shook, and silenced any further protestations of Mr. Jarvis. “You know that Miss Iseabail Blair is my ward,” he breathed.
Mr. Jarvis’s gaze flew to Iseabail and then back to the Duke. “Surely you don’t think I’m going to marry your whore? I’m already married.”
The small intake of her breath was the only objection in the room.
The Duke ignored the insult. “What you don’t know, is that when my heart gave out, I was in the act of ruining her.”
Mr. Jarvis wasn’t the only one to gasp—there was a chorus in every tone on the musical scale. At least that’s what it sounded like to Iseabail’s ringing ears. The Duke coughed once more and pointed a shaky finger to warn off the doctor before the man could approached with laudanum, but the doctor's feet appeared glued to the floor. She looked to Lady Drake for salvation. Surely she would save her from this disaster.
The woman stared at the intricate stitchings on her kerchief, attempting to blend into the furniture, as if that were possible in her crimson gown.
The Duke regained his voice, weak as it was. “Today, Miss Iseabail Blair will become my duchess.” Mr. Jarvis sputtered again, but the Duke refused to be denied his declaration. “Obviously, we don’t know if she is with child or not, but if she is, my son will be the next Duke of Nithesdale.”
Mr. Jarvis turned on her and lunged, murder in his eyes. If it hadn’t been for Mr. Forrester stepping in front of her, spreading his arms wide as if to protect her … womb? Dear God, Mr. Forrester believed she had been with the Duke in … in that manner.
Iseabail took a step back, her hands going to her midsection as the roiling of her stomach threatened to cast up her breakfast. Every man, woman, and servant in the room noticed the gesture. She immediately dropped her hands to her sides and clung to the folds of her gown as if they were her lifeline.
This could not be happening.
Mr. Jarvis stormed from the room, delivering a parting shot along the way. “I will be watching, whore.”
It was exactly what her parents had wished to spare their daughters from hearing. Whore and bastard , yet it seemed the perceived sins of the mother were indeed going to be passed on to the daughters, despite their efforts. The insults were part of her destiny, thanks to the dying Duke in front of her.
“Come here, Iseabail,” the Duke commanded, and she found herself obeying. She should have stormed from his chambers before Mr. Jarvis had a chance to utter a word. Called out the Duke and his blasted heir on her own. She could shoot as well, if not better than the lot of them. Instead, she found herself standing next to the Duke of Nithesdale with one question upon her lips.
“Why?”
The Duke reached for her hand and she let him grasp it, despite her own desire to swat his hand away as he had done to the laudanum. Perhaps with Jarvis gone, he would recant his claim or at least explain why he would shame her in such a fashion.
“You may begin Reverend, and don’t fill the ceremony with fluff. I’ve not much time for this world.”
Startled, Iseabail attempted to pull away, but the vicar’s slapped hand down on top of hers, clamping it to the Duke’s, and held fast. Before Iseabail could object, the sham of a ceremony had begun and everyone was waiting for her to say something. She looked to the vicar, the doctor, the solicitor, and lastly the mistress. All patiently waited for her to say something.
“Say it lass. Say you do, or your future is gone.” Despite the shock of everything that had occurred in the past few minutes, Iseabail knew she had little choice. There was no escape. Her immediate future did not look promising without the utterance of two words. Two words that would give her a momentary reprieve—it was the only hope she had to save her sisters. Two words that were the most frightening thing she’d ever had to say in her life.
“I do.”
Only when the minister had pronounced them man and wife did he release their hands. It was then the Duke pulled her hand to his mouth and kissed the back as he would to any other lady of the Ton. To the onlookers, it probably looked endearing, but then he crooked his finger in a gesture for Iseabail to bend toward him. Her heart hammered as she bent down to hear his warning.
“Get yourself pregnant, Duchess, and your future is set, whether it’s a boy or a girl. Fail to do so, and in nine months’ time you’ll find yourself out in the cold, a ruined duchess the Ton will enjoy destroying.”
The smack on her backside was so utterly shocking she nearly fell forward onto the bed as she gasped at the Duke, who lay grinning with a devilish gleam in his eyes. He’d never shown a hint of impropriety. Yet he seemed determined to add one last notch in his belt of sins before he died.
“Now, dear, if you would kindly prepare my bride.” He waved a shaky hand at Lady Drake, who rushed forward. “I’d like to have a wedding night with my duchess.” He winked and grazed the top of Lady Drake’s breasts with his fingers.
Iseabail felt the blood drain from her face. The doctor sputtered.
“Y-Your Grace. You are not up?—”
“Don’t tell me what I’m up for, Wakefield.” The Duke grinned.
Lady Drake blushed all the way down to her nearly exposed nipples.
“Paddington,” the Duke called out.
“Yes, Your Grace.” Paddington’s face had been the only one to remain stoic throughout the entire scene. Iseabail wasn’t sure if his expression would change if the Duke suddenly rose up, murdered her on the spot, ordered two footmen to remove her body, and left the mess for Mrs. Hagerty to clean up.
The Duke continued giving instructions to the butler as if nothing were amiss. “Please escort the good doctor and Reverend Lacey to the blue parlor so Mr. Forrester can advise them of my wishes.” Although the Duke spoke slowly, not once did he struggle for a breath. If anything, he appeared invigorated. Whereas she’d been in a frozen state of shock since she was pronounced the Duchess of Nithesdale.
A duchess …
She didn’t feel like a duchess.
The Duke coughed and brought her thoughts back to the present. He cleared this throat, his breathing becoming labored once again. “Mrs. Hagerty, if you would see to tea.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Mrs. Hagerty murmured, and left the room.
The gentlemen began to leave the room, with Lady Drake following behind Mr. Forrester, who once again refused to meet Iseabail’s imploring gaze.
“Phoebe,” the Duke called out, and Lady Drake froze. “Stay. My new bride doesn’t have half the expertise in the art of pleasure as you, and I want to enjoy my wedding night.”
The Duke’s mistress paled. Iseabail grabbed hold of the golden bedside table as her legs nearly crumpled beneath her. Mr. Forrester glowered but continued out the door with a shocked Dr. Wakefield and a vicar who was vigorously wiping his brow.
The Duke was definitely going to hell, and he was taking Iseabail and Lady Drake along with him.