When You Wish Upon a Duke by Charis Michaels

The last thing that Isobel saw before her vision blurred was North. The duke. Jason.

He’d broken away from his sister and was making his way to her.

She blinked, trying to clear the fuzz. Panic tangled her brain. Likely, her skin had turned one of the many improbable colors of her mother’s dress. She was incinerating, burning alive.

She swung her gaze to the dowager. Lady Northumberland was oblivious, lecturing a footman.

She looked again to Lady Wendy. The younger woman was scanning the ballroom and caught sight of North. Making no effort to hide her scrutiny, the girl began sizing him up.

Georgiana had not yet reached Isobel—she was four feet away—but now she stopped, pivoted, and stared openly at Lady Cranford and Lady Wendy.

Isobel’s first instinct was simply to run. To dart from the ballroom and leave all the remaining players to do their worst.

Her mother harbored an impulsiveness and an instinct for drama that thrived on large crowds and pageantry. Lady Cranford surely knew of her late husband’s “other family” and would be vengefully bitter. Lady Wendy now watched Jason with the calculating purpose of a fox beneath the rabbit hutch.

Isobel’s head swam with all the accusations, the truths that were about to be revealed.

Isobel Tinker is the illegitimate daughter of an earl.

Georgiana Tinker is an ostentatious actress.

Isobel was raised in Europe and had lovers and lost a baby and now peddles holidays to wealthy girls.

Isobel sailed, unchaperoned, to Iceland in the company of the duke and then traded herself to pirates.

Not all of it would be revealed tonight, Isobel knew. But some of it would be. There was no way around it. The rest would follow.

Insecurity and defeat fell like an avalanche; she couldn’t breathe for the weight of it. What had she thought? That she could triumph at the ball of a duke? As his betrothed, for God’s sake? To earn the approval of the dowager?

Meanwhile the approval of Wendy Bask was guaranteed. The girl needed only sail through the door.

Isobel felt hollow inside, light enough to float away.

This—after the dowager duchess had been so lovely.

After she’d squired Isobel on her arm and introduced her to her guests.

Now, Lady Northumberland and her daughters would be part of the gossip mill for weeks.

Worst of all, Jason would be lost.

She looked back to her mother. Georgiana was staring at Isobel. Her expression showed such deep, painful regret it pierced Isobel’s heart. Isobel couldn’t remember her mother ever looking so diminished.

Georgiana mouthed the words, Oh God. I’m so sorry.

Tears clouded Isobel’s eyes. Slowly, she nodded. It occurred to her that Georgiana would not mount a confrontation. She was . . . she was . . .

. . . making her way to her.

Across the crowded ballroom, Wendy Bask and Lady Cranford had intercepted the duke. Wendy curtsied before him with the practiced grace of a dancer. Wendy’s mother looked on fondly while a uniformed man facilitated an introduction.

Isobel glanced again at Georgiana. Her mother held out a hand, low with open fingers. The gesture was so foreign—almost nothing Georgiana did was low or discreet—Isobel almost didn’t understand.

Without thinking, she reached for her mother. She could count on one hand the number of times that Georgiana had been present when she really needed her. But she was here now, and she wasn’t causing a scene, and she didn’t spoil for a fight. She was simply standing beside her, holding her hand.

Isobel felt a swell of love and gratitude for her mother. She was flushed with it; the hollowness inside began to fill.

“Proud smile,” Georgiana whispered in her ear. “Chin high. Tits out. Which one is the duke?”

Isobel looked across the ballroom, and they saw North, yards away, bowing over Wendy’s knuckles. The sight banished all thoughts of crying; now she wanted to shout. The outrage in Isobel’s head took the form of four words: He belongs to me.

She opened her mouth to say it, but then suddenly the dowager duchess returned. Two of Jason’s sisters joined her, and the three of them smiled in hopeful curiosity, their eyes darting back and forth between Isobel and Georgiana.

And now Isobel acknowledged that running had never been an option. It would only make matters worse and it wasn’t her style. She was a realist, not a coward.

She cleared her throat. She sucked in two silent breaths and envisioned each vertebra of her spine fortified with iron.

“Your Grace,” she said to the dowager, “I should like to make an introduction.”

“Lovely,” said the dowager, eyeing Georgiana Tinker’s eye-wateringly bright gown, feathered headdress, and beautiful face.

“May I present my mother, Miss Georgiana Tinker.”

The dowager blinked once, absorbing Georgiana’s vibrancy. When she recovered, her smile was warm. “How do you do, Miss Tinker. I was so pleased you accepted our invitation on such short notice. We are delighted to have you to Syon Hall. Your daughter is a delight. And if I might say so, what a magnificent gown.”

“Your Grace,” said Georgiana in hushed, respectful tones. One of the things that made Georgiana the consummate professional was her triumph in a supporting role. She sank into a curtsy and clung to Isobel’s arm.

After this, conversation dropped away. The moment took on an odd, expectant quality. Isobel and her mother turned in unison to track the movement of the Ladies Cranford.

“But have you seen a friend?” asked the dowager, following their gaze.

“Ah,” said Isobel in the same moment that her mother said, “Yes.”

Halfway across the room, Lady Cranford turned to stare directly, unerringly, at Georgiana and Isobel. The ice of her glare was like a snowball to the face.

“Oh no,” groused the dowager, “is that Lady Cranford?”

Isobel didn’t answer; she watched as her father’s widow began a slow, determined march in the direction of Georgiana.

My God, Isobel thought in horror, she’s coming directly to us.

Again Isobel felt the instinct to run. They could excuse themselves and slip away; they could cut their own path through the ballroom, marching to meet Lady Cranford halfway. She could whisper to her mother, Do your worst, Mama, and simply step back.

But then she looked at Jason. He was laughing at something his sister said, and looking pleasantly down at Lady Wendy. He appeared neither enchanted nor repelled; he was simply talking. Wendy related some anecdote with rapid movements of her small, gloved hands.

Without warning, he looked up and around, seeking out Isobel. If Lady Cranford’s gaze had been ice, his was the sun. He smiled and gave her a wink. Ever so subtly, he affected a slight eye roll and nodded to Lady Wendy’s flapping hands.

Isobel smiled, and the shimmers in her belly filled in all remaining hollowness.

She had the sudden thought, I will trytosalvage this.

He is worth it.

I am worth it.

“Your Grace,” Isobel said suddenly, turning to Jason’s mother. “Forgive me, but my mother and I have an uncomfortable—dare I say, indelicate—association with the dowager countess currently making her way to us. I assume she is in your acquaintance. Lady Cranford?”

“Oh,” sighed Lady Northumberland. “Lady Cranford.”

Isobel pressed on. “I beg your pardon for—I . . . I find myself at a loss for what else I might say. I beg your pardon for our history and I beg your pardon for imposing this moment on you. And your daughters. Whatever it may entail.”

She turned to Georgiana. “Shall we stay, or shall we go, Mama? I leave it up to you.”

“I should go,” said Georgiana quietly. “Salvage your future, Bell. I will perish if I ruin this for you.”

“My future and our past are linked, and I thank God for it,” Isobel replied. “No one will perish. Come what may. But hurry and decide. Stay or go?”

“Stay,” whispered Georgiana, her voice as soft as a kiss.

Isobel nodded. She squared her shoulders and raised her chin and stared at the rapidly approaching dowager countess.

By the time Lady Cranford reached them, Isobel had schooled her face into aloof serenity. At her side, she gripped her mother’s hand as if she meant to snap it off. She held her breath.

The dowager countess was prettier than Isobel had first thought. She was shockingly pale, but her features were delicate and her lashes long. She pinned Georgiana with a furious glare. She had the determined look of someone chopping off the head of a hysterical goose.

“Your Grace,” Lady Cranford began, speaking to the dowager duchess in tight, clipped tones. “I must beg a word with you in private. Immediately. The matter is very urgent.”

“Hello, Rosemary,” drawled Lady Northumberland. “How purposeful you look. Will you not take some champagne? ’Tis a ball; it’s meant to be a respite from ‘urgent matters.’ Surely you don’t mean to pull me away from my guests.”

“Your guests,” ground out Lady Cranford, “are precisely the urgent matter I wish to discuss. There are . . . personalities present of whom you’ve not been fully apprised. You would not wish dishonor to fall upon this ball or this house or your daught—”

“Careful, Rosemary,” cut in the dowager duchess, her voice calm but final, “before you invoke the names of my daughters—or any of my guests, for that matter. Not only do I eschew ‘urgent matters’ at my parties, I also forbid slander. I’ll not stand for name-calling. Unless someone is brandishing a saber, I’ve no interest.”

“But, Your Grace,” said Lady Cranford stonily, her eyes lancing Georgiana with a hateful look. “This wom—”

Before Lady Cranford could finish, the dowager duchess swept a collective arm around Isobel and Georgiana and pivoted, effectively turning her back.

The cut direct.

Isobel had heard of this phenomenon but never witnessed it. Certainly if ever she imagined it happening, she saw herself on the receiving end rather than the beneficiary.

“Ah, Count St. Claire, there you are,” called Lady Northumberland to a passing man. “Someone told me you’ve written a book. What is your passion? The history of . . .”

“The cistern, Your Grace,” provided the man, clearly delighted.

“Yes,” enthused the dowager. “I am fascinated. Will you tell us more?”

I love this family.It was Isobel’s next thought.

I love this family, and I love the duke, and I have as much right to be a part of their lives as anyone else.

I fought pirates, for God’s sake.

I speak seven languages.

I’ve traveled the world.

They see me.

I deserve to be seen and they see me.