Page 29 of My Disastrous Duchess (The Untamed Ladies #2)

“ H ave you ever seen anything more excessively Gothic in your life?” Bastian asked Isadore, tipping his chin toward the arches overhead.

They walked a few paces behind Alexander and Margaret as they entered Salisbury Cathedral—speaking loudly enough to be overheard by them and most others.

“I used to come here as a boy for all sorts of affairs and would spend the following nights tossing and turning with bad dreams of the place. Allow me to show you the friezes later. And the gargoyles. Goodness, you won’t sleep either once you’ve seen the gargoyles. ”

Alexander turned and followed Bastian’s gaze. Great columns rose to the ceiling, vaults arching high above them. Candlelight flickered across the stone, casting long shadows across the nave. Somewhere ahead, the choir was preparing for their performance, speaking with the bishop.

He glimpsed Lady Dudley through the mass of attendants.

She cracked a smile when she saw him, then glanced away as she noticed Margaret by his side.

The county’s opinion of the Pembroke family had improved dramatically since Margaret had become the Duchess of Langley.

But some, like The Dudley, still had their concerns.

If Margaret noticed Lady Dudley’s impertinence, she gave no sign. She didn’t look remotely interested in the events of that afternoon, staring absently at the floor as Alexander led them to the correct pews.

“Remind me to introduce you to His Lordship the bishop once the singing is done,” he whispered to Margaret once they were seated. “Perhaps you are already acquainted with him? I do not know how often you have come to Salisbury Cathedral.”

Margaret blinked as though waking from a dream, then shook her head. “Not often,” she replied. “Mother and Father preferred the church in Amesbury and knew the parish vicar there. I have only ever seen the Bishop of Salisbury from afar.”

Alexander nodded. He looked down at Margaret’s hands, which were clasping a songbook tightly in her lap.

She sat close enough that he could feel the heat from her shoulder, but her presence was cold and distant.

They had not spent any private time together since their arrival in Wiltshire, too distracted by their guests and the demands of country society.

Was she upset with him over something? It seemed likely that she might have been.

And yet attempting to ask her about it seems a dangerous task.

He could not help himself.

“Is something troubling you?”

“I’m merely tired,” she replied.

“Hm."

Behind them, Isadore whispered a question to Bastian. Alexander listened over his shoulder, watching them from the corner of his eye. She tugged on Bastian’s sleeve and gestured toward the misericords.

A moment later, he heard from Isadore, “I had no idea charity events could be so lavish. Are they always like this?”

“It largely depends on the organizers,” Bastian replied, sounding amused. “You see Lady Dudley over there, threatening that young boy with the choirmaster’s stick? She has excessively high standards. Once, when we were young, she found His Grace and a friend of ours swimming in her pond, and...”

Alexander turned back toward Margaret. “You are more than tired. You have barely said three words to me since we departed home.”

She glanced at him, then looked away.

“I’ve been listening to you all,” she said. “That’s all.”

No, that is not all. You are hiding something , he thought.

The music began a few minutes later. A hush fell across the pews as the choir prepared its opening hymn. Alexander sat back, attempting to focus on the music instead of the perplexing knot of silence between him and his wife.

Alexander squinted against the wind as it swept in on that chilly March afternoon.

The attendants had gathered in the cathedral courtyard after the choir to be served hot drinks and cake.

He had just extricated himself from a conversation with Lady Dudley and her peers, stepping away now that he was free to reunite with Margaret, wherever she had gone.

But the duchess was nowhere to be seen. Concerned, he walked to the nearest cloister, hoping to find her there. A few stragglers had settled in the shade of the walkways. Among them was Isadore, rather than Margaret, sticking her nose through the colonnade and peering into the courtyard.

“Have you at last shrugged off Mr. Hawthorne?” Alexander called as he approached.

Isadore looked surprised to see him, turning quickly. She was dressed in a coat he assumed Margaret had given her, a dark emerald green with bronze buttons that was much finer than anything a charwoman could afford.

“Shrugged off?” Isadore asked.

“He has been your constant companion since you arrived, but you asked no such thing of him, and neither did I. You have received his attentions gracefully, but I must ask—have they been bothering you in secret?”

“Not at all,” she said. “I have enjoyed his company very much, Your Grace. He has such fascinating stories and a kind word to say about everyone. I could never be bothered by a gentleman like him.”

“And yet you have escaped here alone. Why?”

“I wanted a moment to myself. But not on account of being bothered,” she confessed, stepping back from the columns.

“I’m not used to this sort of society, and I don’t know the correct things to say to anyone.

The duchess makes it look so easy.” She paused, looking tentatively his way.

“It could not have been easy for you when they first brought you here and made a duke of you.”

It was Alexander’s turn to be surprised. “I was a child. Children are highly adaptable to change. Did you not feel the same way when you were taken from France to London? Though perhaps the circumstances are too different to compare. You were not entering an easy life.”

“Not easy, that’s true. I missed Calais very much when I first arrived in England. I did not have many friends in either place, but a familiar if cruel home is always more appealing than an unfamiliar one.”

“I see.” Alexander frowned. “But Calais?”

“Yes.” She blinked, confused, then her eyes went wide. “I meant Caen, of course. Calais is where the ferry departed. My apologies, yes. I meant Caen.”

Isadore was pale in the sunlight, her hands clutching her coat as though to ward off something colder than the wind. Alexander hated himself for his next thought—hated his uncle for planting the seed of doubt in his mind. Had Isadore tripped on a lie?

“I must admit,” he said carefully, “your French accent is nearly gone when you pronounce the word. Caen, I mean. That surprises me.”

Her nose wrinkled faintly. “Well, I worked hard to rid myself of it. That accent reminded of a past I preferred to forget. Mais nous pouvons parlez Francais si cela vous plait, Your Grace. A moins que vous ne parliez pas la langue de notre mère, bien entendu.”

She is teasing me, Alexander thought. Suggesting we can speak in French, unless I, unlike her, have neglected to learn our mother’s native tongue.

Alexander was bested. “I know enough French to know what you said. I have no desire to test you or to practice my language skills with you on the day. Your fluency in both languages is impressive. Let us leave it at that.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Her gaze darted to the floor.

“But if there are things you wish to know, you can always ask me. I will answer as honestly as I can. I am trying to be forthright with you, to give you what you want from me. If I seem reluctant, or rude... It is only because I am afraid of disappointing you.”

A cold weight settled in his stomach, a symptom of his shame. He thought for a moment, then asked, “Most of all, I must know what you desire for yourself. Is it your wish to remain Miss Isadore Bell? And if so, for how long?”

“That depends,” she replied. “Do you wish for me to become Isadore Somerton?”

He did not know whether that was his wish, nor did he know why it was. It should have been the obvious choice to accept Isadore as she was. Margaret and Bastian had endorsed her. Alexander had faith in Mr. Ripley’s investigative skills. He had seen her birth announcement, had heard her story...

But an uncertain silence settled between them in the absence of an answer.

Mercifully, a familiar voice called out, “There you are!” Bastian marched into the aisle, pulling on his gloves. Alexander stepped back, grateful for the interruption.

“Ruddy cold out here, isn’t it? I told Mrs. Abernathy I would retrieve you before she hunted you down herself,” he said to Isadore. “She plans to lead a tour round the cathedral. Assuming, of course, that you are still interested in those friezes.”

“Oh, definitely interested.” Isadore gave a tight smile and turned to Alexander. “Thank you for speaking with me, Your Grace.”

He nodded, having no desire to say anything more.

“Your duchess is over there,” Bastian said to Alexander, jerking his head toward the far side of the cathedral. “Chatting with Lady Jane about... Oh, Lord, who knows? I simply thought you might be looking for her.”

Alexander thanked him as he disappeared with Isadore down the cloister. He turned, heading in the vague direction of Margaret, the echo of his sister’s voice still ringing oddly in his ears.

Behind a hedge of early-flowering blackthorns, Margaret had clustered herself with Lady Jane and another young woman.

Alexander had seen the young lady before at the Salisbury Assembly Rooms and her wedding, and believed her to be Miss Helena Talbot.

However, Margaret had so many friends that it was difficult to differentiate them.

For her part, Margaret looked exasperated as she turned from Lady Jane, eyes widening when she saw Alexander.

She whispered a word to her companions, and soon they both turned too.