Why Dukes Say I Do (8 page)

Isabella suppressed a laugh. “Why is that?”

“Because I don’t have to do grown-up things. Like dress for dinner and visit with those horrid ladies from the village. I’d much rather spend my time with Flossie and her kittens.”

“That’s because you are still a child, Belinda,” her sister said haughtily. “You’ll understand when you’re my age.”

“I doubt it,” Belinda said, spinning around on the vanity stool.

“Your brother is likely right about that particular gown,” Isabella said, indicating the deep blue silk that Eleanor was admiring. “But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t be able to try one of the others. Sanders is quite handy with a needle. I’m a good bit taller than you, but otherwise we are of a size, I think. She should be able to alter it to fit.”

Whirling, Eleanor stared at Isabella, her eyes wide. “Do you mean it? I should love that above all things! And do you suppose she would dress my hair for me?”

Feeling like a fairy godmother, Isabella grinned. “I think that could be arranged.”

“But what about our painting?” Belinda demanded. “I know precisely what vista I wish to capture.”

Both Eleanor and Isabella turned guiltily to the younger girl.

“What if I promise that we will spend tomorrow painting outdoors?” Isabella asked, seeing Eleanor’s guilty look. Clearly she’d forgotten about the original reason for going to Isabella’s rooms.

Belinda heaved a sigh. “I suppose that would be acceptable. But only if you both agree to the location I choose for our expedition.”

Suspecting that she would regret the promise, Isabella did so anyway. As did Eleanor.

“Thank you, Bel.” She gave her sister an impulsive hug. “You are a good sister.”

“I am an excellent sister,” the younger girl said with asperity. “Now, let’s look at these gowns.”

The three began sorting through Isabella’s wardrobe, searching for which gowns best suited Eleanor’s fair hair and skin. And more than once Isabella had to steer her away from gowns that were either far too immodest or far too daring in color for so young a lady. Isabella would hardly miss the gowns, given that she bought far more each season than she could ever wear, but even she knew that there were some risks that young ladies should steer clear of. Especially while buried in the country. What might pass for fashionable in London could sometimes be seen as inappropriate among the more sedate fashions of a country village.

Finally they settled on three dresses that were modest enough to keep from scandalizing the local ladies but fashionable enough to suit the inclinations of Eleanor to throw off her childhood frocks and dress her age. The first was a primrose muslin that Isabella had never quite felt right wearing. It seemed far too young for a widow, and when she saw Eleanor in it she knew that she’d been right. Its puffed sleeves and sweetheart neckline were perfection on the younger lady, and Isabella was pleased to note that it looked far better on Eleanor than it ever had on her.

“This one, definitely,” she pronounced as the girl spun before the mirror. “It needs only to be hemmed a bit and it will be just right for you.”

“You look like a fairy princess, Ellie!” Belinda, who had not been particularly interested in their quest for gowns, had slowly been won over as she saw her sister’s excitement over the clothes. Now Belinda clapped her hands with glee at Eleanor’s transformation. “You will have a dozen beaux before the week is out,” she pronounced, unconsciously mimicking
a ton
matron bent on marrying off her daughter.

“Perhaps not the week, oh ancient one,” Isabella said with a laugh, “but by the end of the summer, certainly.”

“Do you really think so?” Eleanor asked, her eyes alight with excitement.

Isabella remembered what it was like to be a motherless girl at this age, and she could only guess how difficult it was to have no female relatives about to guide Eleanor. She wished that she could do more in her short visit.

“I do think so,” she said aloud. “I predict you will have at least one beau. Now, let’s see what the pink sarcenet looks like. It was always a bit too short for me, so it may not need as much alteration.”

“Lady Wharton,” Belinda asked, “do you have any sisters of your own?”

Startled, Isabella turned to look at the girl. “I do indeed. How did you guess?”

To Isabella’s amusement, she shrugged. The child was as world-weary as an elderly matron. “I don’t know,” Belinda said, a tiny furrow between her brows. “You just seem sisterly.”

Helping Eleanor out of the sprig muslin, Isabella nodded. “I have one sister. She’s actually your cousin by marriage. She was married to the late duke.”

“Before he died?”

Thinking back to the disastrous night of the Ormonde ball, Isabella repressed a shudder. “Yes,” she said after a moment. “She’s a lovely person. I hope that one day you’ll be able to meet her.”

“Not likely,” Eleanor said, her ebullience at the gowns dampening slightly. “Trevor will never let us go to London. Certainly not while he’s still the duke. He hates London.”

“I hate it, too,” Belinda said, loyalty to her brother stiffening her backbone.

“You don’t even know what it’s like,” Eleanor argued. “You just hate it because you wouldn’t be able to run wild there like you do here.”

“I do not run wild,” Belinda retorted. “I am a free spirit.”

Eleanor rolled her eyes. “You’re a hoyden.”

“I am not!”

“Girls, girls!” Isabella held up a silencing hand. “Enough! This is not how well-bred young ladies behave. When we have a difference of opinion, we maintain our composure and discuss the matter like rational beings.”

Though they looked as if they’d like to argue, Eleanor and Belinda nodded and to Isabella’s surprise said, “Yes, Lady Wharton.”

Not wishing to look her gift horse in the mouth, Isabella nodded. “Thank you. Now, let’s fasten this gown and see how it looks.”

When it was secured, Eleanor twirled before the looking glass. As Isabella had predicted, the gown was only a little long, which would mean that it would need the least alteration.

“I think it looks quite well on you, Eleanor,” she pronounced. She handed the other two gowns to Sanders and instructed her to take them in and helped Eleanor to remove the pink gown so that she might wear it to dinner that evening.

“I can’t wait to see what Trevor says,” Belinda said with relish. “He’s going to be so surprised. I think you should wear your hair up, too, Ellie.”

But Isabella wasn’t so sure. “I do not wish to antagonize your brother,” she began. “If he’s going to be annoyed by this, then we shouldn’t do it.” She was a great proponent of the adage about catching more flies with honey than with vinegar. Lending gowns to Eleanor was honey. Helping her put up her hair—a style he disliked for her to wear—might be closer to vinegar than Isabella was willing to go.

The girls had no such problem, however.

“He needs to be made to see reason, Lady Wharton,” Eleanor said firmly. “If Trevor continues to hide me in the country and treat me as a schoolgirl he’ll never see me as the adult I am. And I am an adult. Almost.”

Sighing inwardly, Isabella couldn’t help but agree. Sometimes men needed to have their comfortable existence jostled a bit to see what was right in front of them. And like it or not, his sister was a young lady now and deserved to be treated as one.

Which meant allowing her to dress and behave like a young lady.

The very fact that she was allowed to have dinner outside the schoolroom was indication enough that he didn’t see her as being in the same cohort as Belinda. Perhaps seeing Eleanor dressed like a lady would give him the nudge he needed to start letting her move in society as a young lady and not a child.

“All right,” she told Eleanor, handing her the pink gown and a pair of slippers to match. “Now I suggest you lie down for a bit before dinner so that you’re rested for your family debut.”

Eleanor nodded and to Isabella’s surprise pulled her into an impulsive hug. “Thank you,” she told her. “It’s easy to see you have a sister. I hope she knows how lucky she is.”

Thinking of Perdita and what she might endure if Isabella did not succeed at her appointed task in Yorkshire, Isabella hugged the girl back. And prayed that the Duke of Ormonde would be better than his predecessor and do the right thing by her sister.

*   *   *

Trevor spent the rest of the afternoon going over the accounts, trying to figure out where he’d get the money for repairs to the tenant roofs before winter. It was times like this when he felt the pull of the dukedom … or at least the dukedom’s coffers. But he had promised his father that he would never use money from the Ormonde family at the Yorkshire farm. He had never until recently been tempted to do so. But a poor harvest last year had left him with less funding than he was accustomed to using at the home farm.

Even so, he was scrupulous about keeping the Ormonde funds and the Nettlefield funds separate. Unbeknownst to the dowager, he had been corresponding with the duke’s personal secretary for some months and had been making many of the decisions regarding the Ormonde House estates. Trevor might not wish to mix with the Ormonde family or take up his role as the duke, but he could hardly let the tenants and the army of servants employed by the Ormonde estate go to rack and ruin over a grudge they had nothing to do with. It wasn’t their fault his late grandparents had been so full of their own importance they’d cut Trevor’s family out of their lives.

No, he would do his best by the people of the estates, but as far as he was concerned the dowager and the rest of the upper-class hangers-on who flitted about the dukedom could go to the devil.

The memory of the frisson of attraction he’d felt when Lady Wharton had given him her hand that afternoon came unbidden to his mind’s eye. But ruthlessly he repressed the feeling the memory inspired in him. He had no obligation to Lady Wharton. The sooner she realized that, the better.

Thus it was that he dressed for dinner in a less than salubrious mood. Looking down at his coat of blue superfine and fawn breeches, he wondered when he’d paid more than a passing thought to his attire.

Fashion had never been one of his favorite subjects. Even in his salad days—though he did recall a time when his shirt points had been ridiculously high—he’d been more interested in horses than the cut of his coats. Allowing his valet to stab a pin into the froth of his neckcloth, Trevor bit back a sigh. Surely he was beyond all this fashion nonsense by now.

Wasn’t he?

The question dogged him as he headed downstairs to the drawing room.

It was only due to their current houseguest that they were even observing the custom of drinks before dinner. As a general rule, he and his sisters dined
en famille
with little ceremony. He knew that the girls should be dining in the nursery or the schoolroom, but it was one of the few times during the week that he actually saw them. The farms and estate kept him busy, and when there was a governess in residence the girls had their studies. But while he was willing to alter their normal routine because of their guest, he was not willing to send the girls back to the schoolroom. If Lady Wharton objected to his sisters’ presence at table, then she would simply have to endure her displeasure in silence.

When he reached the drawing room, he found that Lady Wharton was already there. She was at the window gazing out at the view of the back garden. He took a moment to watch her without interruption.

Tonight, she was wearing what he secretly referred to as a gut puncher, for the feeling it inspired in him. The gown was a bluish green, the shade of a robin’s egg. It was cool and elegant and hugged her every delicious curve. He might have resigned himself to her presence in his household for the next week or more, but he hadn’t quite managed to steel his body against its reaction to her. Perhaps he’d have done better to send her packing at once, he reflected. At least then he wouldn’t have to endure the constant state of arousal he’d suffered with since her arrival.

He knew the moment she realized he was behind her because her relaxed stance became deathly still.

Like a doe sensing a hunter.

“Your Grace,” she said before turning. Her gown was just as gut punching from the front as it was from the back. The fabric of her bodice revealed as much of her breasts as it concealed, and Trevor had to admit to himself that they were exquisite.

Her dark hair was arranged in a much looser style than the neat chignon she wore during the day. Tonight curly wisps hung down on either side of her face to caress the skin of her long neck, almost as if they’d come loose during some exerting activity. He longed to slip his hands into her silken locks and finish the job of tousling her coiffure completely.

If he didn’t expect his sisters any moment he might have tried his luck, but they were coming any moment, and besides that, he needed to get Lady Wharton on his side regarding the estate before anything could happen between them.

Which sounded, he thought to himself, as if he would allow something to happen after they went to London. Which was foolishness itself. The Lady Isabella Whartons of the world were not made for him. He might bear the title of Duke of Ormonde, but that was in name only. In person and spirit he was a country farmer who wished for nothing more than a life tending his crops and seeing to it that his tenants were well cared for. Someone like Lady Wharton could never understand that. And, in truth, she didn’t need to. Let her go back to London and find some fancy town lord to sweep her off her feet.

He must have been quiet for too long, because the object of his rumination said, “I don’t believe I’ve seen you dressed so formally before, Your Grace. It looks quite well on you.”

Trevor listened carefully for a tone of condescension in her words, but try as he might he could find none. Perhaps she was simply making conversation. Even so, he could not keep the edge of annoyance from his voice. “I am not a savage, madam,” he said, moving to stand with his shoulder against the mantle. He allowed himself to survey her from head to toe. “Nor are you, it would seem. I would mention the formality of your gown, but that would not be polite.”