When You Wish Upon a Duke by Charis Michaels

Jason struggled to comprehend something as complex as words.

Also in question: walking and breathing.

As a rule, he drifted through life with a casual manner and a carefree sort of easiness, but underneath it all, he prided himself on self-control. The casualness and the carefree prevailed because, at the end of the day, he wasin control.

Today had felt like the ultimate test. Today, he clung to the splintering timber of self-control like a raft at sea. He was veritably drowning in desire. She was, without question, the most sensual woman he’d ever known. He wanted to swallow her whole.

“So, my father. The earl . . .” she was saying, walking beside him through the shallow river, the rushing water flashing hot and cold.

He forced himself to focus.

“The earl,” he repeated. He cleared his throat and rolled his shoulders.

“His lack of guidance or protection wasn’t his greatest fault,” she said, “not really. I can be a . . . challenge to guide.”

“I’ve noticed this about you,” he said.

He concentrated on the searing water rushing in gusts over his feet and ankles, willing the fog of lust in his brain to clear.

“To explain it, I must go further back than the compass. Honestly, I don’t even remember when he gave the bauble to me. He was a constant presence in our lives for years, and he brought frequent gifts.”

“When you were a child?”

“From infancy, really. Until I was about ten years of age. He did not live with us obviously, but he visited us often. Once a month? More when parliament was in session.”

“Oh yes, he was an outspoken member of the Lords.” Jason’s voice took on the flat, resigned tone.

Isobel glanced at him. “You did not agree with his politics?”

“I am indifferent to his politics.” Jason was shaking his head. “Forgive me, I’m spinning the conversation around to myself. Rude, I know. It’s only that your comment made me think of my own seat in the House of Lords. Another expectation of the dukedom.”

“It does not interest you?”

“Parliament is more interesting to me than farming, I suppose,” he sighed, “but to do it properly, one is expected to research taxation and write opinions and loll about in smoky clubs, convincing other researchers and writers that your view is superior. It’s so . . .”

“Established?” she guessed.

“Sedentary,” he said on a breath. “Established, certainly. It’s simply that I thrive on doing things, not . . . considering them.”

“Was school a great chore for you?”

“You have no idea.”

“If only you’d had my education,” she said.

“Indeed. I hope you do not regret that part of your history. You were very fortunate, in my view. I did more damage to Oxford, I believe, than the school did good for me.”

She chuckled. “I don’t regret my cobbled education. But I would’ve also enjoyed traditional school, I think—or at least the traditional schooling afforded to girls. I meet girls in the travel shop almost weekly. Some of them know so very little of life beyond England. Others are knowledgeable but have been taught to be afraid of the outside world. These sorts of restrictions were never part of my experience.”

“I could tell this about you from the start,” he said. “I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I can see now it was a lack of fear and an open mind.”

“So transparently fierce, was I?” she asked.

“So exciting,” he corrected. “To me. But I digress. Will you finish your story?”

She made a noise that was half sigh, half moan. “Far less exciting—that.”

“I would hear it,” he said. “If you are willing.”

“Right.” She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “Cranford. Well. He was a fixture in our lives, and honestly? A jolly, doting father. He was clever and sweet and full of surprises. I adored him—loved him like any girl loves her papa, I assume.

“And my mother? Goodness. His presence brought immediate delight, which is saying quite a lot. She is prone to moodiness and petulance on a good day, but not in his company. She loved him so very much. We both did.”

Jason nodded. “My parents enjoyed a love match. As a boy, I took it for granted, but as a man, I can see the foundational benefit of their harmony on my life. And I remember my shock upon witnessing the unhappy marriages of my friends’ parents. My mates from school were equally as shocked when they witnessed my father’s open affection to my mother.”

They came to a giant bolder and worked their way around it, walking their hands along the cold, damp stone.

Jason added, “Their love is one of the many reasons I must return to Syon Hall and look after things properly. My father would be outraged, knowing how I have left his duchess adrift these last eighteen months.”

“You will go when we finish here,” she assured him.

“Yes,” he said bleakly. “I will go.”

“I cannot say for certain,” Isobel said, “but I assume my father’s actual marriage to Lady Cranford was not a love match. He was happy when he was with us, but it was more than that. Even as a child, I could see he regarded our flat as a refuge. His secret sanctuary. Of course, I was unaware of what—or from whom—exactly he was taking refuge. Well, until I became aware.”

“Isobel,” he said sadly. He was already so very sorry for whatever she would tell him.

She shot him a wan smile. “When I would ask my mother why ‘Papa’ did not stay with us always, why he did not live with us, she simply said that he was a very important man, a nobleman, and he did the important work of leading the country and advising the king, and all of this kept him terribly busy.”

“Advising the king is a stretch,” said Jason. He’d been indifferent to the Earl of Cranford before, but his opinion was rapidly sinking.

“When he visited our London flat,” she continued, “it was like Christmas morning. The best meal was prepared, Mama and I dressed in our most beautiful clothes, and the house was filled with flowers.

“Some months, he would send for us to join him in Brighton, near his seaside estate—a house that sat empty most of the year. We were never invited to this home, mind you, but he arranged for us to have a lovely suite of rooms in a hotel overlooking the sea, and he met us for meals and stayed overnight with my mother.”

Jason took her hand. He found he could not not touch her. She gathered her skirts in one hand and held to him with the other.

She said, “The only thing more delightful than receiving him in London was meeting him at the seaside.

“One day, when I was nine or ten, he’d sent for us to meet him in Brighton. We’d been there two days and he took us in his carriage to a beautiful café in the high street. He’d promised the chef did delectable lemon ices and peach tarts. Papa—”

She stopped herself, cleared her throat, and began again.

“The earl ordered a sampling of everything, the most extravagant tea, including champagne. The summer sun shone on a glistening sea, visitors milled in the street, and the three of us were enjoying the most delightful meal when, out of the blue, the earl caught sight of something out the café window.

“I’ll never forget,” she went on. “He was scooping up a dollop of cream, and he simply stopped, his spoon halfway to his mouth. His pink face went white; he dropped the spoon and splattered the cream all over his waistcoat. Mama was reaching for a napkin when he leapt up from the table. If my mother had not caught hold of his chair, it would have toppled.

“I remember laughing a little—he had an amusing manner, and his large gestures and wild stories delighted me—and I thought he was putting on a show. When I spun to see what he would do next, he’d turned his back. He was walking away—actually, he was bolting away—from our table.

“I opened my mouth to call him back, but my mother pounced and fastened her hand over my mouth.”

“Oh God,” Jason whispered under his breath.

“She was strong enough to keep me in my chair, but not to prevent me from craning around. And do you know what had happened?”

Jason did not want to guess.

“A family had entered the café. A fine lady, children, servants. Quality and money and manners emanated from the lot of them like the soft trill of a trumpet. Their movements were restrained but also smooth. I remember thinking they looked as if they rolled into the café on an invisible cart. There were three little boys, and they came to a stop before a glass counter of pastries and puddings. The café had beautiful confections; the display would’ve delighted any child. But these children simply stood near the glass, not touching or pointing.

“The lady was a substantial presence, tall and upright, with a subtle dress in a forgettable tone and a pursed frown. The servants stood on the periphery, fastidiously balancing armfuls of parasols and pails and toy boats. Beside the woman stood a little girl who looked to be five or six. She wore a white dress and a frown just like her mother’s.

“Cranford hurried to the group,” she went on. “At first I thought this family had displeased him—the café was small and their sheer number would overwhelm the room. If nothing else, we’d been having the most delightful tea and they all looked miserable.

“But Cranford was not displeased. He was scrambling to exonerate himself from the illusion—nay, the reality—of taking a meal, in public, with his mistress and his bastard daughter.”

“Bloody hell, Isobel,” Jason exclaimed, his voice echoing off the canyon wall. The lingering heat in his blood began to percolate with a new passion: loathing for the Earl of Cranford.

“The family that entered was his own,” Isobel went on, ignoring his outburst. “His real family. The woman was the Countess of Cranford. The oldest boy was his heir, the next—now current—earl.

“And the little girl was his daughter. His actual, legitimate daughter. Lady Wendy Bask.”

“No,” said Jason, as if he could refuse the story. He stopped walking and turned to face her. He caught her other hand and pulled their joined hands to his chest, hiking her skirt.

“I struggled,” she said, speaking to their hands, “trying to break free of my mother, but Georgiana kept her hand sealed firmly over my mouth and didn’t budge.”

Isobel looked up. “Was she restraining me to save my pride, or her pride, or his neck?” A shrug. “I don’t know. She leaned down and whispered in my ear. ‘Papa does not belong to us, Bell. He has another family. These people are his family and he belongs to them. We must allow him to go.’ ”

“Isobel,” Jason hissed.

“I didn’t understand,” she said, “but at the same time, perhaps I did. Maybe I had always known but hadn’t reckoned with it. Certainly I was unprepared to face the reality in that moment. This had been our time. Our holiday. And he was my papa.”

“This story is unbearable,” Jason said. “I can’t believe you never pounced on the earl in a dark alley and choked him with the bloody compass.”

It was a joke, but she didn’t laugh. She stared up at him.

“How did it end?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No, no, it is an unbearable story.”

“It’s not obviously, because you have survived. You have borne it.”

“Well, I have not perished. Yet. Is this surviving?”

“Yes. Indeed it is. And anyway, you’ve done more than ‘not perish.’ You are thriving, Isobel. You are a businesswoman in your own right. You are clever and beautiful and afraid of nothing apparently. Besides, the Story of Isobel Tinker is not yet finished. And perhaps I know how it ends.”

She cocked her head, gazing at him. “You don’t.”

He gave a shrug. He wasn’t sure why he’d said it, but it didn’t have to be untrue. The tragedy that had marked Isobel’s life would not follow her forever. Not if he had any power over it. He was, after all, a bloody duke.

She stared at him warily and then continued, dropping one hand and walking on.

“The next terrible bit is that we couldn’t leave the café. The arrangement of our table, the door, the smallness of the dining room, prevented it. Georgiana could not rely on me to cooperate; I was in the throes of a temper fit, and the sheer commotion and pardon-me’s of maneuvering to the door in the cramped space would have caused a scene.

“In hindsight, I’m certain the countess was suspicious of the earl’s proximity to us. My mother is remarkably beautiful, as you may remember. She causes a scene wherever she goes. We were both lavishly dressed. Georgiana Tinker loves a costume.

“Considering this,” she sighed, “we were forced to sit, as heaps of uneaten delights congealed on the table before us, and watch as the earl welcomed his family in the same booming voice with which he always greeted us. We watched him indulge them with treats, and then we watched him dine with them just steps from us. He regaled them with clever stories and made spirited inquiries about their days since he’d been away.

“His family believed him to be in London, I think. Meanwhile, he’d not known they would sojourn to their seaside home. It was a chance meeting. And it destroyed me for a very long time.”

“Of course it did,” said Jason. He tipped his head to the sky and closed his eyes.

“Most people,” she said, “would think me and my mother should expect nothing more than what happened that day.”

“I am not one of those people.”

“I know you are not,” she said. “I would not have revealed it if I did not think you would somehow . . . understand.”

“What is there to understand? Your father abandoned you to maintain harmony with people he prioritized over you. It was a selfish cruelty that neither you nor your mother deserved. Even his ‘other family’ did not deserve the duplicity. You’ve been remarkably resilient, Isobel. There are many girls who would not recover from this sort of betrayal.”

Isobel nodded, and he was glad he’d said the correct thing. He’d meant it, every word, but bald honesty could cause fresh hurt. He did not want to add to her pain.

“Do you believe your father had no by-blows?” she wondered. “No kept mistress on the side?” Her tone was not accusing, simply curious.

“He did not,” Jason said. “I’d stake my life on it. He was not necessarily a jolly man, not verbose—nothing like Cranford; he was serious and reflective. But he made no secret of his affection for my mother, or of any of us. And we were—we are, those of us who remain—a colorful bunch. My eldest brother vowed early on that he would never marry. My middle brother was an accomplished musician and studied music to the exclusion of almost anything else. I’ve been consumed by a restless sort of energy from the moment I could crawl. I was bollocks in school and descend into a sort of stupefied madness whenever I’m expected to remain in Middlesex for more than three days. He loved and accepted us all.”

“You miss him.”

“I do miss him,” said Jason. “If not for his memory, I would have foisted the whole bloody dukedom on an eager uncle and washed my hands of everything but my mother and sisters.”

“Perhaps grief is easier for you to bear,” she said, “than inactivity.”

He harrumphed. “Aye. But who would admit to that? ‘I’d rather be sad than bored.’ ”

“You cannot help how you feel.”

“One thing is certain,” he said. “Your story is a reminder that fathers can create far greater burdens than dying, and certainly greater burdens than saddling the new heir with a dukedom he doesn’t want. The misdeed done to you by Cranford is inexcusable.”

“It is not a contest,” she said sadly.

“No. But do not diminish what you have overcome. Will you tell me the rest?”

She took a deep breath and let it out on a contemplative sigh. “Well, ultimately my mother dragged me into her lap to restrain me; she could not lean across the table forever. Whenever she removed her hand from my mouth, I gasped and sputtered and sobbed. She begged me in my ear to be silent, and I would promise to do it, only to sob, ‘Pap—’ before she could clamp down her hand again.

“Eventually, the earl’s daughter, Wendy, said, ‘Father, whatever is the matter with the little girl sitting by the window?’ Cranford glanced at me—our eyes actually connected—and he looked away. He said to his daughter, ‘Do not look at her, Wendy darling, she may be touched in the head or affected in some way. Allow her mother to tend to her.’ ”

“My God, Isobel,” Jason hissed. “And you heard this?”

“We heard every word,” Isobel said. “We heard it all and we witnessed it all. Tears streamed from my eyes, soaking my mother’s glove. I could not believe the doting man I’d known as my papa would knowingly reject us.

“When, at last, his family finished their tea—it took nearly an hour—they drifted out. The earl did not look back, not once. Outside the window, I saw him take up Wendy’s hand and swing it between them as they walked. They disappeared into the crowd.

“When my mother finally released me, I fell onto the floor in a heap, sobbing. In hindsight, I’m sure I did appear affected. I was consumed with jealousy and hatred and a frustrated lack of understanding of how the world worked.

“Meanwhile, my mother was forced to deal with the staff, to apologize for my behavior and for the fact that we actually could notpay for the expensive tea ordered by the earl. She’d carried no money—we never required money when the earl was with us. She was forced to beg the owner to allow her to return later to settle up. We ate lean for a month to pay for the champagne.”

“But did he ever come back ’round? Did he have nothing to say for his behavior? My God, did he reimburse your mother for the abandoned bill?”

“Mama refused to see him after that, or to take his money. Ultimately he found a way to send money to me, which I spent on silly extravagances—sweets I gave to the street boys, rabbits for sale in the market I released into the park. We left England not long after and began traveling to the playhouses of Europe.

“The great irony is, if it hadn’t been for me, I think my mother would have continued the affair. She was not troubled by the fact that the earl was married nor that their relationship was a secret, open or otherwise. She adored him. But the stunt in the café outraged her on my behalf. She loves me, for all of her faults. And the pain of that day interrupted any future relations she would ever have with Cranford.” A deep breath. “And good riddance. In hindsight, I cannot believe I kept the compass as long as I did.”

They reached the bend in the river. Jason hadn’t noticed the rising sound of rushing water. A thick mist rose in the distance. Below it, a shimmering waterfall spilled down.

Isobel led him to the shore, and they picked their way beside the water until they could observe the cascade from a ledge. The tumbling water, swirling wind, and fine spray was quietly beautiful. He’d seen crashing, violent waterfalls in Scotland and Germany, thunderous shows of the power of nature, but this was a slower, gentler scene. The crystal water spilled and bounced.

Isobel pointed out the route of the river beyond the falls and the watermark on the ravine wall where the depth swelled from melted snow in late spring. She scratched green fuzz from a rock and told him that Iceland was home to more than a hundred types of moss and lichen.

Jason listened, trying to absorb the strange, mystic beauty of the place; even so, what he really wanted to know was her. How had she recovered from the rejection of that day, and how had she cultivated such a beautiful self-assuredness, despite society’s view on fatherless children? The taunts of Drummond Hooke sprang to mind, and Jason was alternately furious and also simply in awe of Isobel’s confidence.

Despite the beauty around them, the true marvel that day was Isobel Tinker. She’d been a marvel since the moment they met.

They returned to their possessions by walking along the riverbank, picking their way barefooted over warm, smooth rocks.

“I am sorry, Isobel,” he said softly. “For this terrible part of your life. I knew the old earl. He was as you described, jovial and verbose. I had no idea he had . . . another family.”

“Make no mistake,” she said, laughing, “the man was in possession of only one family. My mother and I were . . . afterthoughts. Amusements. Pretty little things that he admired when it was convenient. We held no lasting value. The value belongs to the legitimate. The chosen. The recognized.”

She shook her head so violently she had to pause and catch her balance. “Better to mean nothing to the man than to be an afterthought.”

“I would not argue,” he said.

“I’ll never be an afterthought,” she declared softly. “Not ever again.”

“Peter Boyd—” began Jason.

“I was not an afterthought to Peter,” she corrected. “No more than anyone else. Even AnaClara was second best to Peter’s own self-interest. When I was with him, I was included in the group, whether I had a place in his bed or not. The Lost Boys were a family. They were a wild and uneven family. But they were loyal. The reason I trailed him around Europe was, I longed so desperately to be part of a recognized family.”

“He left you,” insisted Jason, “carrying a baby, alone, here.” He gestured to the raw landscape around them.

“No,” she said. “I left him. I refused to go on. I could have gone if I’d wanted.”

“Isobel,” he began, although he had no idea what he wished to say. He wanted to recover her hand. He wanted to haul her against him. He wanted to pick her up and sink again into the warm water.

“She wasn’t even pretty,” said Isobel, jumping from rock to rock on the shore.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Wendy, the earl’s daughter,” she said. “My mother made our appearance such a priority when the earl called. Our best clothes. She sent for a special maid to dress our hair. She was a tyrant about pretty manners too. We were always to be cheerful and clever and agreeable. I’d been groomed to do everything to endear myself. But when his real family appeared, I saw the truth. None of it had mattered. Wendy Bask was sour and bland. Her mother, the countess, enjoyed a fraction of the beauty of my radiant mother. I realized then that even beauty, an illusion my mother has pursued her entire life, means nothing compared to approval. To being among the ‘sanctioned.’

“For years, I was angry that the circumstances of my birth situated me so far outside the realm of it—of approval. I became a Lost Boy because it was a thumb in the eye of who is approved and who is not.”

“And here I thought you enjoyed the travel,” he joked.

“I do enjoy travel. But travel for a young woman alone is hardly approved. That is why my work at Everland Travel feels important. It creates an ‘approved’ way for women to see things beyond their own gardens. I do not hate women of privilege,” she corrected.

She took a deep breath. “I don’t hate anyone, honestly. Even the ‘approved.’

“Raging at the world is no way to live,” she continued. “When I made the happy discovery that working in a travel shop could be acceptable, and that I was acceptable enough to pull it off, I knew I’d stumbled upon the very best chance of survival. I have found satisfaction in that.”

The hopelessness of that statement made Jason a little ill. And she’d said it to convey hope.

Speaking to the horizon, he said, “That is what I am aiming for in my life as duke. Survival.”

She made a noise of acknowledgment. “I suppose you see some great irony here. You have no wish to be duke, and I come off as wanting to be an earl’s daughter. But please do not misunderstand. I didn’t want to be an earl’s daughter. I would’ve been happy to be anyone’s daughter. Or no one’s daughter. I simply did not want to be deceived and then rejected by a . . . by a nonfather.”

“I see no irony,” Jason said. “Only selfish men who have mistreated you. They had the opportunity to experience the joy of knowing you and loving you—instead, they took advantage. No wonder you’ve asked me to . . . to stay back. But—”

He glanced at her, determined to address their intimacy in some way.

He said solemnly, “I’m not sorry we were together today. And as I look ahe—”

“Please do not make promises, North—please,” she said. “I know better than anyone the realities and responsibilities of a nobleman. You’ve barely scratched the surface of what your life will be like at Syon Hall.”

They’d reached the rock on which she’d stretched her clothes. They were damp but not dripping. She gathered up her purchases and folded them into his coat.

“Not everything will be mandated,” he predicted. “I would not survive it if it were so.”

“Your wife and heirs will be mandated,” she said, “trust me. And I will not be your mistress. I am no one’s mistress.”

She said it like a vow. It seemed important to say the words, and he did not contradict her. The topic was sensitive, clearly. He could not address some potential future for them in an afternoon, not when pirates and an ocean lay between now and when . . . and when he did return to Syon Hall and when he would marry whomever the bloody hell he pleased.

For now, he would allow their time together to marinate. Let her remember the happiness and understanding and passion.

He was glad he’d told her, I know how your story ends. He didn’t know exactly what it meant, but he knew the ending was happy.

He could wait.

She could not evade him forever. Middlesex was not so very large.

He would wait.