Page 27 of My Disastrous Duchess (The Untamed Ladies #2)

“It wasn’t you,” Margaret said.

“No.”

“Then perhaps it was Carlisle. He arrived at Somerstead Hall before us. It’s entirely plausible he removed the painting before we arrived.”

“That would be most likely.” Alexander turned halfway toward Margaret.

“But Carlisle does not know the truth about that painting. He questioned me about it once, and yet I never revealed its importance to me. I suppose it is not unfathomable that he drew the correct connections himself. A strange thing to do, nonetheless.”

“We agreed that he did not seem well pleased by the existence of Isadore. He may be trying to hide any evidence of her. For what reason... Who can say?”

“Only Carlisle,” Alexander murmured. “But he is not here to be asked.”

A moment later, they caught the rumblings of a carriage arriving outside.

Or is he?

Alexander looked decisively at Margaret, who followed him wordlessly out of the library.

In the entrance hall, the grand doors yawned open, emitting a chilly breeze.

The butler stepped inside first, bowing for Alexander.

There was a flurry of activity on the steps, with a view of a busy courtyard.

Alexander braced himself for Carlisle’s return.

But it was not Carlisle who entered Somerstead Hall.

It was Isadore.

She grasped a small, lonely traveling trunk, pausing in the entryway as her eyes locked with Alexander’s. Dark crescents marked her undereyes. They had not been there the day before. Her clothes, however, were the same.

“You have come,” Alexander said, thunderstruck. “I had not expected you to arrive so soon.”

“When a woman like me receives an invitation from a duke like you, it seems unwise to ignore it.” Isadore glanced around, flinching as a footman walked past her with another, larger trunk. “I hope this is what you intended, me coming here.”

“Yes.” Alexander stepped forward to greet her, and she performed an awkward curtsy for him and Margaret. “Yes, of course. I am relieved to see you. There was little time for introductions yesterday. Allow me to introduce my wife, Margaret Pem— Margaret Somerton, Duchess of Langley.”

He was relieved when Margaret stepped forward and took Isadore’s free hand, looking far more collected than Alexander felt as she greeted their guest with a gracious smile.

“How strange it feels to be called that—the Duchess of Langley, I mean. You and I are both coming to terms with our new circumstances, Miss Bell. It is a pleasure to host you at Somerstead Hall.” She took Isadore’s trunk and handed it to the butler, then took her by the arm.

Margaret was a natural, moving so effortlessly, with so much charm, for the benefit of his sister, that it made him ache.

“I hope the journey was not too challenging for you. You would have been more than welcome to drive up with us from London.”

“I made my own arrangements. First, a coach up through Reading and Basingstoke, and then another to Salisbury,” Isadore replied, allowing herself to be led inside by Margaret.

They stopped before Alexander. “It was not the most pleasant day of my life... But I did not want to give the wrong impression by asking too much of you too early.”

“Does this mean that you are interested in an acquaintance?” Alexander asked.

“It seems a pity not to be,” Isadore answered.

“A very sage response,” Margaret said. “And from now on, Miss Bell, you may ask of us what you wish. Dinner will be served shortly. Are you hungry? Why yes, you must be ravenous after such lengthy travel.”

“I will not refuse a hot meal.” Isadore seemed genuinely at ease with Margaret, allowing a footman to take her coat on Margaret’s order. She said, once divested, “But do you not think we should wait for the other gentleman outdoors?”

“Whom do you mean?” Alexander asked.

“A young man.” Isadore pointed back the way she had come. “He arrived moments after I did on horseback with a carriage not far behind. These other trunks are not mine. I thought you knew.”

Margaret and Alexander shared a look. That did not sound like Carlisle. A moment later, another figure darkened their door.

“Such a large welcome party,” Bastian said, removing his top hat and exposing a shock of brown hair. “Surely not all of this is for my benefit?”

"Diana Dawson-Duff,” Margaret said, tapping her fingers against her wine glass. “I’m afraid I cannot recall any young lady by that name, Mr. Hawthorne. But you say she is quite lovely. Who is her father?”

“Viscount Blakely, Richard Dawson-Duff, though they mostly call him Dickie,” Bastian explained, finishing his hake with a grin.

He wiped his mouth on his serviette, sighing happily, and Margaret shot an amused smile Alexander’s way.

“They reside primarily in London, but the father spends most summers in Yorkshire. They have just returned there, for fact, since the mother is unwell. Country air, they said, does the woman wonders, sad though I am to be parted with my love.”

“I have a friend who has spent many summers in Yorkshire. I shall have to ask her whether she knows of these Dawson-Duffs once she returns to England.” Margaret took a sip of her wine, then turned to Isadore. “Have you traveled much, Miss Bell?”

Isadore had barely touched her meal, moving the fish around in its cream sauce.

She looked uncomfortable at the table, despite Margaret’s efforts to supply her with wine.

Alexander watched her discreetly, wanting to know more about his sister, though it felt strange to think of her in this way, this woman he had only met twice.

“Today was the furthest I have ever traveled in my life,” Isadore replied, her silverware chiming against her dish as she set them down.

Servants withdrew from the shadows to clear their plates, and Isadore’s face flashed with relief.

“With the exception of the journey from France to England, of course. But I was so young, I do not remember a thing about those days except the boat ride.”

“You do not enjoy being on the water?” Margaret asked.

“I remember feeling terribly sick.”

“Such a long journey for a child,” Bastian added, turning eagerly toward her.

They had clustered at one end of the large dining table, making for an intimate setting.

Bastian, as always, led the conversation.

“But your accent does not betray your heritage one bit. And you look perfectly English to my eye. A proper English rose.”

Margaret laughed. “Does His Grace look French, to your most discerning eye, Mr. Hawthorne?”

“Only when he furrows his brow, just like this,” Bastian said, pointing at the crease he had forced between his eyebrows. “Then he looks distinctly French to me.”

“What furrow?” Alexander protested, relaxing somewhat when Margaret laughed again. He knew his face intimately and had never seen the wrinkle with his own eyes. “Your opinions are baseless. You do not know the first thing about the French. Much like Miss Bell, you have scarcely left your hometown.”

“I was in London just now, was I not?” Bastian shrugged, taking another gulp of wine. “That is a different place than Salisbury.”

“Yes, you were in London.” Alexander leaned forward, curious.

“Now you are here, having come without even a note to herald your arrival. I take it you saw no need to remain in London town while Dickie Dawson-Duff led his clan northward without you. But you have yet to explain why you are taking up roost here with us, rather than with your mother in Laverstock, or better yet, your brother in Salisbury.”

“Mother reviles sharing her house. Yes, even with her own sons.” Bastian spoke as if this were a trivial thing, but Alexander knew his mother’s antics cut deep.

“And my dear brother is busy hosting his sister-in-law and her wretched band of children. There would not be room for me even if I did want to stay with them, which I do not. But say no more, Your Grace. I see that I am not welcome here.”

“You are giving Edmund Kean a run for his money,” Margaret protested, laughing. “And so are you,” she said to Alexander. “I can tell that you are the dearest friends. Of course, you should remain, Mr. Hawthorne.”

“Only if you insist, Your Grace,” Bastian replied magnanimously. “I could not deny a woman as lovely as you a thing.”

Alexander might have been jealous if Margaret showed any sign of taking Bastian seriously. She instead waved the compliment off, and his heart unclenched.

“You are too kind. But really, the more the merrier here in Wiltshire,” Margaret said.

The footman returned with the dessert course as she continued.

"There is so much I wish to do now that we have set anchor, and the two of you men know Salisbury much better than I do. But perhaps you have something in particular you would like to see, Miss Bell? Do you like walking or riding? There are so many magnificent paths nearby. What are your favorite pastimes?”

The question seemed to shock Isadore. She glanced away, thinking, and Alexander thought he understood why. A woman in Isadore’s position did not have time for leisure.

“I enjoy walking,” she said meekly. “But that is all I can think of for now.”

“Do you like music?” Bastian asked.

“Yes, I do... But I have not attended many shows.”

“They have a wonderful choir performing in Salisbury Cathedral next week. They posted a notice outside The Bishop’s Arms in town,” Bastian said, brightening.

“It’s a charity affair, so many of the locals will be in attendance.

An appearance from the duke and duchess would not be out of the question.

I’d be glad to arrange tickets if you would all like to go. ”

“Thank you. I think I would like that very much,” Isadore murmured, visibly startled by the offer. “But a public outing, so soon...”

“We needn’t tell anyone who you are,” Margaret said. “You can remain Miss Bell for as long as you wish. We will tell any nosy busybodies that you are a friend of mine—which would not be too far from the truth, in so far as our souls are concerned.”

Alexander studied Isadore. The quiet way she answered, the polite detachment in her voice. Were there similarities between them that he could not see? He cleared his throat lightly, wondering if her appreciation for music had been inherited from Celeste.

“Do you like to sing, Miss Bell?” he asked.

“Oh... I sometimes sing, and I do enjoy it, but I am no great songstress, so please do not ask me to sing for you now. At Mr. Graham’s public house, there is often music.

Patrons sing almost every evening, but it is rarely in tune.

And the songs, well... I should not repeat the lyrics at the dinner table.

” She hesitated, her gaze flitting toward him before returning to her suet pudding.

“What about you? Do you sing, Your Grace?”

“I’m afraid I was born without the slightest musical inclination.” He paused, wondering why it felt so unnatural to address their familial ties. “My mother—our mother—did not pass her gifts down to me.”

There was a long silence. Alexander worried he had said too much too soon. Quietly, Margaret reached out and discreetly stroked his arm, removing her hand once Alexander acknowledged her, as he had gone so soon that he couldn’t hold it and express his thanks.

“I imagine you both have finer voices than you let on,” Margaret said, picking up her spoon.

“I’d like to hear you sing sometime, Miss Bell.

Perhaps a duet is in order later. There must be a music room here somewhere.

Mr. Hawthorne and I can go first to break the ice.

Do you know ‘ The Last Rose of Summer’ ? That one is my sister’s favorite.”

Bastian grinned through mouthfuls of pudding, immediately exploring Margaret’s musical catalogue.

In the meantime, Isadore glanced at Alexander, properly meeting his eye for the first time since they’d sat down.

For a moment, the veneer she’d kept intact seemed to melt away.

There was something uncertain there, vulnerable, or afraid.

But before Alexander could question her, the dining room doors swung open...

And Carlisle strode in, his expression like thunder, eyes searching for Isadore and finding her.