When You Wish Upon a Duke by Charis Michaels

The Dowager Duchess of Northumberland had a gentle face. Grief had hollowed her beauty, age had creased it, but her smile was genuine.

“He’s not allowed staff to tidy the library,” Lady Northumberland said, leading Isobel down a wide corridor. Servants passed swiftly around them like salmon swimming upstream. “Even I have not been allowed inside. There’s no hope for it tonight; the door will have to be locked to hide the mess.”

“Tonight?” asked Isobel.

“Oh yes, the ball,” said the dowager dismissively. “My daughters insisted. I put it off as long as I could, hoping the duke could get on his feet. But it’s been a month. The girls believe some social interaction may help matters.”

A ball, thought Isobel. The palace-related crisis was not a crisis at all, it was a party.

If the duke was as bad as gossip suggested, a crisis was still highly likely.

Isobel ventured, “It has come to my attention that the duke is . . . at an impasse.”

“Yes, well,” tsked the dowager, “there’s nothing for it, is there? He is who he is. The girls and I have not been able to rouse him. I blame the unresolved deaths of his brothers. He never reckoned with the loss. Here at home, we were forced to carry on, but he was always working, doing his duty for the country, running about—always running. Since he was a boy, the notion of rest or stillness tortured him. And now here we are. There is nowhere else to run. There is quite a bit of stillness, I’m afraid, when one is a duke.”

They came to a stop before a closed door.

“Quite,” said Isobel. “I . . . I am grateful that you have allowed me to look in on him.”

“I’ve kept his uncles away; they are circling like vultures naturally. But he’s spoken so fondly of you. And to have returned poor Reggie to his parents? My brother was overwhelmed with gratitude and relief. But how can I make your visit more pleasant?” She made a scoffing noise. “When you see him, you’ll acknowledge the futility of this question. There is nothing pleasant about his current . . . state. We are grasping at straws, I’m afraid. But tea never hurt. Perhaps you can coax him to eat. What do you think?”

Isobel had no idea what to think. Her theory that he was being tortured by an unfeeling family was entirely wrong obviously. The notion that the estate was in penury or ruin had been, if true, very well disguised.

She smiled at the dowager. “Thank you, Your Grace. If you could be so kind as to see my assistant settled somewhere that will not disrupt the household?”

“Do not give it another thought,” she said. “I’ve put the two of you in a suite of rooms on the third floor, dear. I’ll send up tea. It is our great hope that you will stay with us a day or so, if you believe there’s any good for it.”

“Thank you,” was all Isobel could say.

“Lovely,” said the dowager. “And the ball tonight—of course you must attend. Reggie and his parents have traveled from Lincolnshire, and they’ll wish to thank you. I know we must keep the nasty business of the smuggling and the pirates a secret, but a handful of family members are aware of what happened and how very brave you were.”

“Ah,” began Isobel.

“Think on it,” she urged, reaching for the knob of a giant door.

“Yes, Your Grace,” said Isobel, staring at the door as if it opened to the edge of a sharp cliff.

“Very well, I will leave you to it,” said the duchess.

She turned the knob and pushed the heavy door open. “Northumberland?” she called.

Silence.

“You’ve a visitor . . .”

The dowager rolled her eyes and gave her head a shake. “He’s in there,” she whispered, backing away. “Good luck.”

Isobel nodded her thanks and leaned to peer inside the dim interior of the library. For a long moment, she hovered. She listened. She sniffed.

The feeling of almost seeing him, of knowing he was just beyond the open door, was burning her up from the outside in. Her skin tingled, her chest felt molten. She wiggled her fingers, trying to release nervous energy.

Oh for God’s sake, she thought, pushing the door open. She was anxious, but she was not a coward. She’d come all this way for a reason.

To her great shock, the scene inside the Syon Hall library was almost exactly as the baron’s daughters had described.

The duke, dressed only in a linen shirt, buckskins and boots, lay facedown on a vibrant Persian rug. The opulent library was in shambles. A giant desk was awash with papers, open books were scattered on the floor, a globe had been turned on its side. Furniture was strewn with discarded coats and unfurled cravats. Hats had been lined up in a row, brim-up. Balls of wadded-up paper surrounded them as if they’d been thrown. Some wads filled the upturned hats, but most had missed their mark.

While Isobel took it all in, a gust of wind from an open window swept through, launching papers into the air, blowing cravats. A cat leapt inside the window from the garden and picked his way over the inert duke to the desk. Leaping, he made himself at home on the blotter and began grooming, one white paw pointed to the ceiling.

Isobel looked again to the prone duke. Her first instinct was to go to him, to crouch and gently prod and ascertain, but something held her back.

Instead, she crossed her arms over her chest.

“Get up,” she said, her voice brisk.

She watched the familiar lines of his broad shoulders for any sign of life.

Nothing.

“Northumberland,” she said sharply.

Unless she was mistaken, she discerned the tiniest twitch, a tensing about the bicep.

Her heart skipped like a stone on the surface of a pond. She said it again. “Northumberland. Get up.”

He turned his head, keeping his face averted. He had not shaved. His hair was long. He pressed his cheek to the rug.

“You,” he said. His voice was level—not loud, not soft, not hoarse. He did not sound ill. He did not sound mad.

“Yes,” she continued carefully, leaning a hip against the desk. “It is me. Get up. This library is a disgrace. Your family is beside themselves with worry. Gossip is rampant in London about what has become of you. Get up and tell me what has happened.”

She waited, holding her breath. Finally, the duke rolled his body from back to front.

And there he was. His glorious body sprawled on the floor, blinking at the ceiling.

He looked . . . not unwell, but certainly not happy. He had a full beard, and he was pale. His clothes and hair were disheveled.

Well, she thought, if nothing else, his handsomeness had endured. It took all of her willpower not to go to him. In her mind’s eye, she saw her spreading herself on top of him, taking his face into her hands. She imagined the feel of his mouth.

But she didn’t dare.

She shoved off the desk and crossed to the window, closing it with a slam. The cat meowed and slunk from the room.

“You’re scaring the animals,” he said.

“Why are you on the floor?” she asked. She began to pick up papers, one by one, stacking them in the crook of her arm.

“I’m resting.”

“What of your bedroom?”

“My bedroom is where I sleep. This is where I rest.”

“What of all of these papers?”

“God only knows,” he groaned, rolling to sit. He leaned against a towering bookshelf and propped one leg on his knee. “Ledgers, accounts, deeds to property, taxes, taxes, taxes, regulations, correspondence.”

He ran his hands down his face like he was rubbing his features away. “I cannot make sense of it. I’ve tried, and I cannot.”

“No,” she corrected, “you don’t want to.”

“And I don’t want to.”

One piece of paper led to the next, and the next, and the next. She moved without thinking, grateful for the task. He had not even said hello.

“It’s as bad as you thought?” she asked.

“It is so much worse, Isobel,” he said. “So much worse.”

“You must determine some way to manage it, North, you must.”

“North?” he repeated, a challenge.

Isobel missed a step. The familiar rain of shimmers set her insides alight. She glanced at him.

He looked back. Ever so slowly, he cocked an eyebrow. Handsomeness and boyish charm rolled from him in waves. He was attractive and commanding despite being unshaven, despite his . . . his . . .

She looked at the mess around her.

Despite whatever had happened in his life.

She glanced to him again. She couldn’t resist. He gazed back, and they locked eyes. Unless she was mistaken, he gave her the smallest quirk of a one-sided smile.

The shimmers exploded again, and Isobel looked away, trying to catch her breath.

“Come to your desk,” she said, “and help me sort these papers.”

“What will you give me if I do?” he asked.

“What will I give you?” She was confused. Did he tease her?

“If I come to the desk . . . if I sort the papers?”

“I’ll give you the first very small step toward a functioning dukedom?” she tried.

He laughed and rolled to his feet.

Isobel unearthed a stool from beneath cast-off clothing and dragged it beside the desk. The duke collapsed into the leather wingback and ran a hand through his hair.

“Lovely,” she said with forced brightness. The inside-out burning had gone from a sizzle to licking, jumping flames. She was jittery and twitchy. The shimmers inside her chest flew about like his paperwork.

Through sheer force of will, she blocked out his gaze, his smell, his leg, which touched her skirts. She bit off her gloves. With trembling fingers, she held up the first piece of paper.

She read the title at the top of the page. “ ‘Tenant-Lodging Repairs before Winter.’ Very good. Now, we shall make stacks. You’ll want files for each of these. I’ll keep a tally here of divisions we’ll need. Make a space, that’s it. Down it goes. My God, Northumberland, there’s cat hair everywhere. Alright, on to the next.”

She picked up the next sheet. She read the title. He mumbled some explanation about what it might mean and she created a new stack.

She took up the next recovered paper, and the next. As interactions went, it was strange, a bit mechanical, but not difficult. It was nothing like she’d imagined, but perhaps it was what he needed.

One small step toward solvency. Progress by force.

Because she loved him. She loved him more than she loved her own need to be with him.

She loved him too much to allow him to fail.

She would set him to rights, help him hire stewards and foremen and overseers, and then she would go.

That was how much she loved him.

After ten minutes, Jason began to wager with himself.

Could he continue in this manner for an hour? For two? How long would he slouch beside her, not a foot away, and not touch her?

How long would she resist touching so that instead she could organize his files?

Would she do more than march him around? He’d never minded her bossing, for all that. It was arousing in a way. He was aroused now.

He wet his lips and glanced at her profile. “Isobel?” he said lowly.

“You’re right,” she said, leaning to drop a paper into one of her many neat stacks, “best file it with the taxes and ask a solicitor to look it over. There may be an exemption.”

“Isobel,” he repeated his voice a growl.

“No,” she said, a senseless answer. She dabbed a pen in the inkwell, refusing to look at him.

He called her name a third time. “Isobel.” A whisper.

She paused, her fingers frozen over a stack of papers; she looked to him. Her face was tight. If he wasn’t mistaken, she held her breath.

“North?” she asked.

“Yes?”

“Are you . . . ?” She studied him with narrowed, searching eyes.

He scratched his beard. He began slowly shaking his head.

Whatever she meant to accuse, it wasn’t—he wasn’t.

He hadn’t.

She’d not come to him as she said she would.

The estate was every intolerable thing he thought and more.

He hadn’t planned to lure her here by going a little mad.

The air in the library, previously cold from the open window, had grown hot. He was sweating. It took every ounce of self-control not to reach for her.

She tried again. “Are you teasing me?” A whisper.

He continued to slowly shake his head. Their eyes remained locked. She looked at him as if she was trying to find a hidden lever, to see beyond a ruse or a lie, like she was trying to see the real him.

It’s me, he wanted to say. And then he did say it. “It’s me, S’bell,” he said.

“You’re not overwhelmed,” she realized, her voice rising. She dropped the papers in her hand.

“The devil I’m not,” he breathed, leaning back. He glared at the library in disgust. He was overwhelmed and miserable and desperate for her. He was also terrified of how he would manage it all for the rest of his life.

“Perhaps, but you aren’t . . . immobilized.” She shoved up from the stool and took a step back from the desk. “You don’t need me.”

“Isobel,” he said loudly, firmly, “I need you more than I need my next breath.” He would perish, he thought, if she left now.

“Do not,” she ordered coldly, rounding the desk. She held up one angry finger.

He gave in and reached for her, but she darted away.

“Why didn’t you come for me?” she demanded. Her voice broke.

“Do not cry,” he said. “I cannot bear it.”

“Do not sprawl on the floor and pretend you’re out of your depth. I was worried for you. I was beside myself with worry.”

“I am out of my depth and you should be worried,” he said, raising his own voice. He stood up. “Did I exaggerate my distress, creating some incentive for you to come? Perhaps. Do I regret it? No. Not when I was actually immobilized. Do not deceive yourself about how miserable I have been. And news of it did work. Clearly. You’re here. You’ve finally come.”

“Why, in God’s name, would you wait for me to come to you?” she asked. “You know my insecurities. You are rich, and handsome, and dashing, and a bloody duke. The burden to come wasonyou.”

She pressed her hands to her chest in the most heartbreaking gesture of self-preservation. It killed him to see her so upset, but this was always going to be a difficult conversation.

“S’bell,” he began.

“No,” she said. “Do not. Does your family know you’ve been . . . been pretending to be incapacitated?”

“They know what you know. That I’m stupefied. Miserable. That I’ve made no progress on taking the dukedom in hand. It cannot be said enough: I’m not pretending to struggle with the bloody estate!”

“You are,” she insisted.

“I deplore this tedious, mind-numbing, body-atrophying drivel. I cannot look at it for more than a quarter hour without hoping I catch yellow fever like my brother and die.”

“Do not say that.”

“It’s true. That is how much I hate it. Can I manage it? Probably. Will I be miserable doing it? Always.

“Look, Isobel,” he continued. “Is my mother worried? Probably. Are my sisters afraid for my sanity? Probably not. Are people in London talking about me and my inabilities and my failings as a duke? Certainly. I don’t care.

“That said,” he countered, “I’ve cared very much about when you might come to me. Now, did I think you might hear of my distress and be motivated to come more quickly, to overcome your own insecurities and . . . bloody . . . look in on me? Yes. The thought did cross my mind.”

“So you . . .” she began, “you encouraged the gossip because you thought I’d hear about it and come here?” Her voice was high and searching. Her expression was creased with confusion.

“No, I did not encourage the gossip. But servants talk and I didn’t prevent it. My sisters have guests to the house and I did not care what they saw or what they said. And yes, Isobel, I hoped you’d come for me. It’s part of the terrible secrecy you forced me to keep within moments of our betrothal—”

She let out a breathy sob when he said the word.

“Not to mention,” he continued, “the blind sprint in which you left the brigantine the moment we reached London. Not even a good-bye, Isobel! Not even a moment to say when I might see you next. One moment you were locked in your room, the next you were winding your way through dockworkers and sailors to flee the scene.”

“I was very ill on the return trip.”

“You were afraid,” he said.

“I was—”

“You were afraid to meet my family, or you were afraid that you would not meet my family. Either way, you were running scared. I understand why, and I am sorry for the circumstances of your life that cultivated this fear. However, I know you to be a brave woman and I believed you when you said you loved me.”

“I do love you,” she said softly.

His chest clenched. “Well, God forgive me. Because I know that my struggles here forced you to face your fear to come to me.”

He dug a coin from his pocket and flicked it. “Do I misremember,” he pleaded, snatching the coin from the air, “that you swore me to secrecy about our betrothal? Did you or did you not flee the brigantine without saying good-bye?”

“Yes. The silence was meant to give you a clear head and no other obligations as you eased into the dukedom.”

“It didn’t work.”

“And yes, I fled—because the ship was met with cheering relatives whose priorities were reclaiming your cousin and welcoming you. It was the wrong time and place for introducing me. I . . . I was green. My skin was actually greenish-grayish-tannish in color at the time.”

“I’ll admit that Reggie’s parents and my mother and sisters complicated the arrival, but never would I have simply . . . left it—left us. Not without a plan, a good-bye, nothing. But you sprinted away. I could hardly chase you through the docks while my family watched. Green or not, how would that have improved your introduction? What choice did I have but to let you go? You made me let you go.”

“I do not mean the docks,” she said in a small voice. “I meant afterward. You were meant to come for me.”

“To what end, Isobel?” he asked in frustration. “So you could relive your insecurity again and again with every new relative to whom I introduced you? No. I’ve wanted you to want me enough to put your fear aside and face my family.”

“Wanting you was never the problem,” she said, louder now.

“What was the problem?” he begged.

“Feeling . . . worthy of you,” she shot back.

“Meanwhile,” he said, his voice now raised, “I’m the one who cannot do my own filing. Who is unworthy now? I wanted you to see this. I wanted you to forget your alleged lack of worth and see that we are both simply human!”

“So you admit you lay in wait for me to come here,” she demanded.

“I will not admit it. I have not had a moment’s clarity, Isobel, until you walked through the door. I understand that you feel . . . uncollected by me—”

“Try ‘rejected’—I felt, I feel, rejected by you.”

“I see now that you feel rejected, and I regret this, but I beg you to consider that I had no intention of upsetting you. There was no grand scheme. I was here, struggling. You were in Hammersmith, waiting. I was waiting too. I waited every day for you to come. Yes, I could have rescued you, Isobel, but you seem to enjoy rescuing yourself.”

He spun away and walked to his desk. His heart was pounding; he wanted her so badly he felt physical pain. It wasn’t meant to play out this way. When she came. If she came. He made a sound of frustration and ran a hand through his hair. He looked at the stacks of parchment on the desk and wanted to scoop them to the floor in an angry sweep. But then where would he be? Faced with sorting it all again.

He chuckled bitterly to himself. “Although I have no aversion to you rescuing me. Obviously.”

Across the room, Isobel was silent. He did not look at her. He did not need to look at her; as always, he felt her presence, her flickering energy. He smelled her.

After a tense moment, he asked, “Has Drummond Hooke, your former employer, harassed you in any way?”

“What?” She stared at him as if he might burst into flames.

“The illustrious Mr. Hooke. Has he harassed you in the new shop?”

“Well, he sent a letter the first week. I responded but heard nothing back.”

“Good. I hope you don’t mind my paying him a visit. Rest assured, he understands now that it’s in his best interest to not bother you again.”

“I . . . I did not know,” she said softly.

Jason nodded, watching his coin spin upward. In his peripheral vision, he saw her drift in his direction. He held his breath.

“But have you,” she ventured softly, “told your family about . . . about your offer?”

Jason exhaled. He smiled to himself. If she raised the topic of “his offer,” surely she was conceding. She wanted him still. They were nearly there.

He propped his hip on the corner of the desk. “Which offer would that be?”

“You wouldn’t make me say it,” she said.

“I would make you say it. I made you come for me, didn’t I?”

“You’ve just claimed—” She stopped herself. She narrowed her eyes. “Answer the question.”

Her voice was sharp but she’d taken another step in his direction. His muscles twitched to reach her, but he remained calmly, coolly, on the edge of his desk.

“No,” he answered, enunciating his words flatly, “my mother and sisters do not know that we are betrothed. You forbade me from telling anyone, remember? No one knows. You’ll have to endure that particular revelation in front of everyone—assuming you’ll still have me. But see? How much easier will it be now that you’ve enjoyed this lovely foray into a typical day at Syon Hall? Now that you’ve met my harmless mother and sisters, all of whom couldn’t care less who I marry? They believe you’ve come to take me in hand. Which you have. In one sense at least. That alone will win you approval.”

“You could have managed,” she tried, still a little confused. She took another step. Jason licked his lips.

“The hell I could’ve.”

“I thought you weren’t coming for me,” she whispered, her voice breaking again.

Jason’s teasing bravado fell away. He shoved off the desk. He met her where she stood. He dropped to his knees before her.

“I was always coming, S’bell. If you never made it here—and I was praying every day that you would—I would’ve come for you. I love you. I want you to be my duchess, if you will have me.”

Isobel’s face had gone the most charming shade of pink. Her mouth was half-open. Tears dropped down her cheeks. She had just extended her small, shaking hand when the door behind them made a loud, slow, creaking sound.

Jason closed his eyes.

“Oh lovely!” said his sister Veronica from the doorway, her voice light with genuine pleasure. “You’ve finally begun sorting the ledgers. And the tax bills. Well done—”

Jason swore.

A stray wad of paper lay on the floor beside him and he took it up and pivoted on one knee.

“Out, Ronnie,” he sang, pitching the ball of paper at the door. His sister made a yelp and hopped back, slamming the door.

The room fell silent. Jason took a deep breath. He closed his eyes. He turned back to Isobel.

“Sorry,” he said, gazing up at her. “Where was I?”

While he watched her, Isobel’s tearful, silent sobs made the most inelegant transformation to giggling. She shook her head and pressed her hands to her mouth, unable to stop the happy, excited sound. Her face was lit with delight. She leapt at him and he caught her up.

His mouth found hers in the first moment, kissing her with the passion and possession wrought of four weeks of waiting. Within moments, they were a clawing, pawing tangle of arms and lips, tongue and breath.

They were just about to tip sideways when a knock sounded at the door.

Jason ignored it but Isobel paused.

“Tell them to go away,” he mumbled.

In the direction of the door, he shouted, “Whoever you are, go—”

Isobel placed her hand over his mouth and craned up to stare at the door. The knock sounded again. Through the door, his sister Veronica could be heard calling to them.

“Just a note that the tax on the foundry should actually read half of the listed sum because we supply swords to the Royal Marines . . .” Her voice was muffled through the wood.

Isobel looked at him, looked at the door, and then shoved up.

Jason slapped the floor with his hand in frustration.

He heard the door creak again, and then he heard Isobel say, “Hello.”

“Sorry to disturb,” apologized Ronnie, “but Mama said you were helping Jason sort out the filing?”

“I was endeavoring to do it,” Isobel said. “I . . . I don’t believe we’ve met. I am Miss Isobel Tinker.”

“Oh yes, I know who you are,” said Ronnie cheerfully. “Jason has told us how you saved our cousin from pirates. Well done. But I hope you’ll forgive my very obsessive need to make a few suggestions about the filing.” Ronnie drifted into the room with the cat.

“But do you have some . . . interest or expertise in the management of the estate, Lady Veronica?” asked Isobel. “Er, may I call you Lady Veronica?”

“Oh, please call me Ronnie,” his sister said, brushing past, making her way to the desk. “It’s just that I’ve been managing the correspondence and figuring the ledgers since our brother died, and I could share a few things with Jason—when he’s ready.”

“Is that right?” said Isobel, sounding inspired. “But do you . . . enjoy the work of managing the estate, Ronnie? That is, does it disrupt or postpone your other pursuits?”

“Oh no,” assured Ronnie. “I’m loath to give it over to him, honestly. And not only because he will cock it up almost immediately.”

She plopped down in Jason’s chair and spilled the cat on the desktop. “I was just beginning to have everything sorted when Jason returned home. He’s made quick work of turning everything upside down. Naturally.”

She took up where Isobel left off, stacking papers into piles.

Isobel came up behind her, her arms crossed over her chest, and watched appreciatively as Veronica sifted through his tangle of papers, setting things to rights.

“I think perhaps you’ve found an answer to your problem, Your Grace,” Isobel said. “You have a capable sister right here at Syon Hall who not only wants to do your job, she’s already been doing it.”

Jason was shaking his head. “I won’t allow the dukedom to ruin her life too. She deserves to marry, start a family.”

“Actually,” said Veronica, not looking up, “I’ve no aspiration to either of those pursuits. I’d much rather remain in my own beautiful home and play the duke instead. Given the chance.”

“Lovely,” said Isobel, beaming at him. She was so beautiful his heart ached.

“Ronnie,” he said, “why didn’t you tell me you could help? Couldn’t you see me struggling?”

His sister shrugged. “You seemed so very determined. You were behaving so strangely. I was afraid my interference would make you more hysterical, honestly.”

“Quite so,” he said, scratching his beard. “Well, the hysteria is over, you’ll be happy to know. And I would be forever grateful for any estate business that you wish to manage. I’m rubbish at it, as you’ve suggested. I’ve solicited potential stewards to interview. Outsiders who could take things in hand, but it makes far more sense for you to do it. You were always smarter than the three of us boys combined.”

She winked at him but said nothing, pointing out some tabulation on an invoice to Isobel.

Jason wondered how he’d gone from kissing his betrothed to watching her do sums with his sister.

“Ronnie?” Jason called. “Is this business of a ball still happening?”

“Yes, of course,” said Ronnie.

“When is it?”

“Tonight, Jason. We’ve said this again and again.”

“Right,” said Jason. “But has anyone thought to invite Isobel?”

The younger woman finally looked up. She spun in her seat to beam up at Isobel. “But you must come, Miss Tinker. Reggie will be there—and all of us, of course. A small crowd from London. It’s meant to be great fun, and how much more fun now that you appear to have fixed whatever was wrong with Jason.”

“Yes, Isobel,” said Jason sardonically. “You must come. Especially now that you’ve ‘fixed’ me.”

Isobel blinked up at him, her heart in her eyes. “Alright, Your Grace,” she said. “I should be delighted to attend.”