When You Wish Upon a Duke by Charis Michaels

Jason valued society balls about as much as he valued farm inventory, but the event had seemed important to his mother and sisters, and so he’d agreed. Now it seemed predestined. Isobel had come to him, and the ball was an opportunity to make a demonstrative gesture in a very public way.

If his proposal had been too atypical—the two of them alone, together, in a heated pool—he’d declare for her in a crowded ballroom. Far less arousing but hopefully the sort of undeniable gesture that Isobel could accept.

He snatched the small jewel box and the special license from his dresser and paced his bedchamber, flexing his shoulders and tugging his sleeves. He was never comfortable in snug evening clothes. He passed the mirror and did a double take, seeing his father’s reflection in his own face. A day ago, he would not have been able to look Gerald Beckett in the eye. But tonight, his father would . . . if not approve of Jason, he would at least not fear for the survival of the family. Tonight his father, God rest him, would be able to see some way through.

He made a face at his reflection, a little unnerved by how much he looked like his papa. The beard was gone at least—and good riddance. What a relief to shake off his debilitating malaise and feel like himself again.

He could scarcely believe his two most pressing problems solved themselves in one day. The woman he loved had come to him, and his sister had revealed herself as savior of Syon Hall.

Knock, knock.

Jason looked to the door. “Oy,” he called, pulling on his gloves.

“Jason?” His sister Veronica stuck her head in the room.

And here she was, said savior. He heard a chorus of angels every time he saw her face.

“Ronnie, catch,” he said, taking up the gold ring bearing the Northumberland crest and flipping it to her.

Veronica yelped but caught the ring just before it thudded against her chest.

She frowned at the man’s large pinky ring. “I cannot wear this.”

“The devil you cannot,” he said.

They’d spent the afternoon talking about the degree to which she’d managed the dukedom since their brother James’s death. She revealed that she’d actually been trained in estate management since the earliest age. Their older brother, August, had taught her. By the time James inherited, she was able to manage the estate at his side.

“You’re the rightful Duke of Northumberland,” Jason had realized, slamming shut a folio of ledgers. He’d spent so much time abroad he hadn’t known.

“Only you would say something so irreverent,” Veronica had sighed. “Look—James didn’t want anyone to know how much I helped him. It made him feel a little inadequate, I think. When he died, Mama forbade me from burdening you with the notion, at least not right away. She believed you were saving the world and shouldn’t be bothered.”

“How right she was,” he’d mused, staring stoically into the distance.

Now Veronica studied their father’s ring and ultimately, Jason was gratified to see, tucked it into her pocket. He joined her in the corridor and they walked toward the sound of the musicians tuning up in the ballroom.

“Look, Ronnie,” he said, “Isobel has suggested that I speak to the lawyers about how you might inherit more of the estate when I—” He made a throat-slitting gesture against his neck. “It’s hardly fair for you to do the work of the duke and have one of my brats steal away with half of Middlesex in the end.”

Veronica chuckled. “Isobel is very progressive. It’s obvious that she is a businesswoman in her own right. I’m doubtful anything can be done, although I appreciate the gesture. Regardless of what happens ‘in the end,’ I enjoy being mistress of Syon Hall. The land and foundry, the tenants and property—they are a small but important orbit, my orbit, and I’m so very honored to be steward of our place in the larger world.”

Jason made a sad whistle. “I feel like the most derelict landowner who ever inherited. You humble me, Ronnie.”

“You’ve served the king and saved countless lives, not the least of all—Reggie’s. That said, it was difficult to have you turn up and take it all away. And then you behaved so strangely—lolling about, allowing the work to pile up.” They came to the top of the wide, curved stairwell that swept into the grand hall.

“Yes, well, that last bit was partly because of a woman,” he said.

Veronica paused on the stairs. “A woman?”

“Indeed. Miss Tinker, in fact. We’ve been betrothed since Iceland. Didn’t I mention it?” He beamed at her.

She made a scoffing noise, hurrying after him down the stairs. “No, you did not mention it. Jason!”

“The whole, sordid business wants only jewelry and a vicar.”

“Jason,” she said again, placing a hand on his sleeve.

He turned to give her a wink. “Could you really not see it?”

“Well,” she began, tears forming in her eyes.

“I don’t think I betray Isobel by saying that we were . . . rather thrown together on the mission. She preferred to wait until we returned and settled in before we announced it. And then I sort of . . . fell apart, didn’t I? And she came for me.”

He squinted into the grand hall, searching every head for the familiar yellow bun.

“But she will do beautifully,” Veronica said, thinking out loud. “She’s clever and confident, and look how smitten you are. Perhaps I did see it. I’ve been so focused on reclaiming my office. Mama said she’d taken you in hand and my only thought was, Please don’t wad up another document and toss it at your hats.”

“I’m sorry I was torturing you,” he said.

“We would have come to terms eventually, you and I.” She popped up and kissed him on the cheek. “But no real damage was done in four weeks. And now, a betrothal. This is wonderful news.”

They descended two more steps and Veronica paused, catching him by the arm. “Oh no,” she said. “You are aware that Susana and Margaret have invited half the debutantes in London tonight, hoping to distract you with a courtship.”

Jason shrugged, clipping down the steps. “I’m as good as married, Ronnie.” He patted the paperwork in his breast pocket. “Thanks for the warning about the debutantes. Isobel has known enough uncertainty without being thrust in the midst of a bride auction. She should be with the dowager. I’ll seek her out.”

“Actually, I think ‘Bride Auction’ was exactly the theme Sue and Meg had in mind . . .” Veronica called, but he was already weaving through the crowd.

The duke’s mother had asked to squire Isobel around the ball as her special guest. Isobel had been hesitant—so much, so soon—but what could she possibly say but, “I would be most honored, Your Grace.”

It was true, she had been honored. It was one thing to be seen on the arm of the duke, but such open approval from his mother was even more profound. And Lady Northumberland was lovely, a gentle soul who’d been navigating society balls since she was a girl and hosting them for half as long.

She was practical—“Let us stay clear of the torches; I’ve seen more than one lady catch flame”—and gracious—“Let us greet the dowagers first to make certain they are comfortable.” And she introduced Isobel to every guest they passed. Never once did she seem impatient to be rid of Isobel or chagrined that her introductions were so very spare. “And please allow me to introduce you to my friend, Miss Isobel Tinker, our new neighbor in Hammersmith.”

What else was there to say? Isobel had no title and no formal connection to the family. “Neighbor” was the truth, as bland as it was, but the dowager said it warmly, as if her favorite niece had moved to town.

Isobel floated beside her, trying to keep track of the names inside her head. The guests smiled politely at her. If their smiles were not wholly genuine, at least they were respectful to the dowager and keenly interested in who Isobel might be. Her seven years of travel service to society families meant that she actually knew some of the guests. They made no mention, but she could see questions on the tips of their tongues: But are you planning travel for the duchess? Or worse: What of the Rome opera tickets we’d hoped for in June?

No one dared to say more than, “Pleased to meet you, Miss Tinker.” “What a beautiful dress, Miss Tinker.” “How fortunate you are to enjoy the ball as the guest of the dowager duchess, Miss Tinker.”

Isobel smiled and dipped curtsies and returned compliments, and in her head, the same budding thought kept bumping up against the surface of her conscious: I’m approved.

This family loves the duke so very much they will validate even me.

“I see you looking for the duke,” the duchess whispered, leaning toward Isobel. “He’ll be along shortly. Thanks to you, he’s actually made some effort toward his comportment and grooming—and just in time. This ball may prove largely unnecessary for its intended purpose, but it never hurts for a man to be seen out in society when the gossips have painted him a lost cause.”

Isobel laughed. She was laughing too much; she made a mental note to control the excessive laughing. Without thinking, she asked, “But what was the intended purpose of the ball?”

“Oh, two of my daughters felt a pretty girl from among London’s debutantes might snap Northumberland out of his gloom.” She saw a friend across the ballroom and waved.

Isobel nodded, only half-comprehending. She rolled the dowager’s words around in her head, unprepared for such honesty.

“Do not fret, my dear,” assured the dowager, back in motion, tugging Isobel around hopping dancers. “I couldn’t be more delighted in the young woman my son so very clearly wants for his duchess.”

“Me?” Isobel heard herself ask.

The dowager chuckled. “Of course you, darling. An adventurer! A true wit! A woman who knows every language—”

“Well, perhaps not every langu—”

“—who saw his suffering and came to him. My daughters are ambitious and will look for any excuse to host a ball, but I told them from the beginning that not just any girl would do. And you’re not just any girl, are you?”

“No,” said Isobel, the word out before she could think of a more erudite answer.

Tears swam in her eyes and she looked away, blinking. She pressed a green-gloved hand to her throat, hoping her skin was not splotchy.

How had something so difficult become so very easy? Would everything for which she hoped now fall into her lap? Did things like this happen? She floated in a tingly numbness of gratitude and disbelief.

The dowager led them around the dancing to the buffet, waving to friends as she went. A footman passed and the dowager signaled to him, whispering instructions. Isobel bit her lip to keep a wild, beaming grin off her face. She glanced about, taking in the glittering ballroom, illuminated by hundreds of candles and rapidly filling with fancily dressed guests. A page at the doorway announced their names and titles as they arrived. Music soared from a stage at the front. Never in her life had Isobel been to such a beautifully lavish affair, not in her years with the Lost Boys, nor as a part of her aunt and uncle’s family. It was like a scene from a fairy tale.

And then she caught sight of the duke, and her heart stopped. He was taller than most guests, his beard gone, his handsome face heart-stopping in the candlelight. He walked beside his sister, Lady Veronica, greeting guests.

Isobel was plunged into a pool of shimmers so deep it stole her breath. Her belly and chest swam in sparkling lights. She loved him so very much. The pretty party trussed up the experience, perhaps, and the lovely family made her hopeful and grateful, but she would have loved him despite all of this—she had loved him despite it. And now, it seemed, they would share it. Or at least the bits that suited them.

She was just about to raise her hand to wave to him—a small, elegant, future-duchess arc of her fingers—when the first of two very tenuous events began to unfold.

First: her mother arrived.

Isobel had been waiting for Georgiana when the dowager had taken her under her wing, and that experience had been so overwhelming Isobel had forgotten to watch for Mama.

Now Isobel’s eye caught on a flutter of indigo and magenta, far more vibrant than the subtle tones of whispering silk in the ballroom. One glimpse and she knew.

Isobel followed the flutter, her breath held in anticipation and also the smallest measure of wariness, and the colors materialized into the shape and form of renowned actress Georgiana Tinker. Her gown was exponentially fuller and brighter and sprouted more sparkles and clackety, quivery things than any other gown in the room. Her blond hair was piled high in the front and hung unfashionably low down her back. Her cheeks had been rouged and her eyes lined with kohl. She was a breathtaking sight in a room that clearly preferred to keep its breath gainfully under control. Heads turned; every eye followed Georgiana as she cut a hurried path across the ballroom.

Isobel had known it would be like this. Her mother relished nothing more than making an entrance, and tonight would be no different. Tonight, in fact, just might be the boldest and most striking entrance she’d ever made.

Isobel glanced to Jason, checking for some reaction. If he’d wanted her to come to him, well—why not arrive with every part of her? Including her radiant actress mother.

But of course this was the bold confidence she’d felt before his lovely mother had taken her into her safekeeping and introduced her to all of her friends. It was before the dowager had approved her.

And how had Isobel responded? She’d seen Lady Northumberland’s approval and raised her by the force of nature that was Georgiana Tinker.

Before Isobel could make some statement that sufficiently prepared the dowager to meet her mother, the second heart-stopping event of the night burst into the room.

“Lady Wendy Bask, daughter to the late Earl of Cranford,” announced the page at the doorway to the ballroom. “And the Dowager Countess, Lady Cranford.”

Isobel lost all powers of self-possession and spun at the sound of the names.

The sight in the doorway was this: her half sister, Wendy, bustled into the ballroom with her mother, Lady Cranford, the pair of them gazing about with looks of seasoned outdoorsmen on the first day of hunting season.