When You Wish Upon a Duke by Charis Michaels

Within moments of the stupefying description of the cistern book, Jason appeared at Isobel’s side.

Isobel, still shaky and breathless from the near miss with Lady Cranford, had the extreme pleasure of introducing the Duke of Northumberland to her mother.

Jason said all the correct things, praising Georgiana’s work as an actress and Isobel’s skill as a cultural attaché. If he made no mention of their relationship, the possessive hand he settled on her lower back said more than words. And not simply to Georgiana. Bystanders craned to examine the duke’s proximity to Isobel, his attention to her every comment, his possessive touch.

To her credit, Georgiana was careful not to upstage Isobel or flirt. Her radiant face was awash with love, and also with hopefulness. She was rapt, an audience member for once, desperate to see what delightful thing would happen next.

Ultimately, that thing was Jason pulling Isobel away.

“We’ve things of dire importance to discuss,” he told their mothers and his sisters. “If you’ll excuse us.”

“Such an epidemic of dire discussions and urgent conversations at this ball,” observed the dowager duchess. But she was already turning away, taking Georgiana by the arm to introduce her to a passing group.

Jason looped Isobel’s arm beneath his and led her from the ballroom. The closer they got to the doors, the faster he walked. They were nearly running by the time he pulled her into a wide, shadowy corridor, vacant except for some distant guests.

Isobel laughed at his haste, looking behind her to see if the crowd had noticed their flight. When she looked back, Jason was reaching for her. Without breaking stride, he picked her up and whirled her into an embrace, burying his face in her neck.

“Is the ball over?” he breathed.

“Yes,” she teased, “it is over and the house is deserted and now you and I and your sister may resume our work in your library.”

“On second thought, it cannot end.” He gave her a smacking kiss and set her down, recovering her arm. “Not yet. Not until I’ve made the announcement.” He resumed their march down the corridor.

“What announcement?”

“Our betrothal. What else?”

Isobel missed a step. “Our—”

“Do not test me on this, Isobel. I’ve waited bloody long enough. I’ve a special license in my pocket. Calling on the archbishop was one of the few things I actually achieved in these last many weeks. If the vicar is still in attendance, we’ll do the thing tonight.”

“Do what ‘thing’?” Isobel rasped, stopping in the middle of the hall.

Jason kept walking. “Prepare yourself, S’bell. My patience has run its course.”

He turned to walk backward, facing her. From inside his coat, he pulled a tiny box. He flipped it in the air like one of his coins. Then he pitched it to her. Isobel was unprepared but caught it on reflex.

“But what is—?” She stared at the box in her hands.

“Jason?!” A head popped through a ballroom door. His sister Susana, her voice winded, like someone was chasing her.

“Not now, Sue,” he ground out, not looking at her.

“It cannot wait,” said his sister. “It’s Reggie. He’s delved into a political debate and offended someone’s French relation. The man is threatening to call Reggie out. He’s thrown his drink in Reggie’s face. Mama is furious. She’ll not have dueling at Syon Hall.”

Jason closed his eyes and swore under his breath. He stared at the ceiling. “I swear, Reginald Pelham,” he vowed, “for once could you imperil yourself without inconveniencing so many other people? Most of all, me?”

He pointed to Isobel. “Stay right here. Do not move. This will take ten minutes, no more.” He strode in the direction of his sister.

“Are you certain I shouldn’t come?” Isobel asked after him.

He was shaking his head. “Reggie’s debt to you already extends two lifetimes.”

Isobel watched Jason and his sister disappear into the ballroom.

She looked down at the small, leather box in her hands.

With trembling fingers, she slid the ebony latch and popped the lid. Nestled inside a froth of ivory velvet was a ring. The simple gold band was set with a swirl of stones in three shades of green—emeralds, peridots, and jade—interspersed with fiery white diamonds.

She looked up, staring through tears at the empty doorway. Her body pulsed from the inside with shimmering light. She sucked in a tearful breath.

“What a pretty ring,” said a voice behind her.

Isobel turned.

Lady Wendy Bask trailed in from the ballroom, shoulders slumped, silk wrap sagging halfway down her back.

Isobel snapped the box shut.

“Oh,” said Lady Wendy, “you’re crying too. Excellent.” A dramatic sniff. “I’ve reached the designated spot for weeping.”

When the younger woman moved closer, Isobel could see splotchy cheeks and spiky lashes. Her eyes were red. But why would Lady Wendy Bask be crying? Had her mother harangued her and demanded they leave? Lady Cranford had vanished from the ballroom after she’d been cut by the dowager duchess. Or perhaps Wendy was upset because she’d seen Isobel disappear with the duke. Did the girl feel proprietary after only an introduction?

Even as Isobel tried to guess the source of the girl’s tears, she found herself increasingly distracted by the close-up vision of her half sister. Here. Before her.

She had a small nose and bow lips that looked so very much like Isobel’s. The resemblance was undeniable. Her hair was blond, darker than Isobel’s by a shade. She was taller than Isobel (everyone was taller than Isobel), but something about the way she held herself was very familiar. Far too much about Wendy Bask felt eerily familiar.

Now the younger woman flapped a kerchief and blew her nose, watching Isobel over the top of the linen.

“I beg your pardon, my lady,” Isobel began, dropping the ring box into her pocket. “I was waiting for—” She wasn’t certain how to finish.

What honesty or civility did she owe this girl?

Could Wendy Bask truly have no idea who Isobel was? She appeared clueless. Young and distressed and a little bit self-involved. But clueless.

Isobel thought of that terrible day in the café, their only previous encounter. She had the vague memory of a sour child who’d stolen her father. In other words, her sworn enemy.

Isobel glanced at her again. The younger woman stared back with red eyes and an open, curious expression.

Isobel sighed and opened her mouth, trying to whip up that old resentment and envy. Instead, she felt . . . nothing.

Isobel was so very weary of being jealous and resentful, and Wendy Bask was innocent of their father’s crimes. Honestly, she looked like any number of Isobel’s fresh-faced clients—girls Isobel adored, girls for whom Isobel loved planning the holidays that would delight and enrich them.

“Was I weeping?” Isobel heard herself ask. “Forgive me. They were not unhappy tears. I’m . . . I’m waiting to be introduced to the duke’s family and the guests . . . as . . . as the future duchess.”

Resentful or not, Isobel wanted to make her attachment to the duke perfectly clear.

And it couldn’t hurt to practice saying these words.

“Are you?” gasped Wendy, stepping closer. “But this is wonderful news.”

It is?thought Isobel.

“Actually?” added Wendy. “I’ll say it: thank God!” She clenched her fists before her like a boxer and then jumped up and down.

Isobel watched this, totally disarmed. With every hop, the skirt on Lady Wendy’s dress filled with air and expanded like an onion.

“Now perhaps my mother,” sang Wendy, “can stop hounding me about the duke. And I can stop all the preening and pawing like a mare.” She made a rather unladylike gagging noise and grabbed her own throat. “He’s so old—”

Now the girl gasped, slapping a hand over her mouth. “Oh, do forgive me. I’m certain he is the perfect age for . . . you.”

“Quite,” managed Isobel.

“I am Lady Wendy Bask, by the way, and one thing you should know—”

“How do you do,” said Isobel, her voice a little breathless.

“Oh yes, how do you do.” Wendy bobbed a curtsy. “One thing you should know about me is that I have no desire to be married—not to anyone. But especially not to an aging duke who lives with his mother and fifty sisters.”

And now Isobel was given no choice but to feel affection for the girl. The universe would allow nothing else.

“Have you,” Isobel ventured, “another gentleman in mind, perhaps?”

Lady Wendy shook her head. “Not a man, a vocation.” She lifted her hands like an archbishop on Easter. “Thestage. I’m destined to be an actress. It is my only dream, and I intend to realize it. I don’t care what my mother thinks.”

Isobel blinked at her, trying to swallow the irony of this revelation. Lady Wendy began to smooth the lines of her dress.

“The great unfairness is that my late father would have allowed it,” Wendy declared, speaking to her skirt. “I am certain of this. But we lost him to a weak heart—may God rest his soul—and my brother is now earl, and my mother is a tyrant, and neither can be made to see how very essential this is to me.

“It doesn’t matter,” she finished, tightening her gloves. “I’ll run away if I must. I need formal training despite being quite accomplished, even now. I’ll perish if I cannot perform.”

It was a mouthful of an admission, even without referencing their father.

Isobel thought she should feel something dark and spiteful, but she found only sympathy. Also, affection. Lady Wendy was too earnest and honest and impetuous not to like. And Isobel’s fondness for actors was far more deeply ingrained than her distrust of half sisters.

“Enjoyed various theatrical productions, have you?” Isobel asked.

“Oh loads,” assured Lady Wendy. “Whenever we are in Town. My brother ferries me to Drury Lane. We’ll see whatever’s on. Before that, my father and I were constant patrons.”

And now Isobel did feel a pulse of something heavy and uncomfortable in the area of her heart. Their father had delighted in the theater; it was how he and Georgiana met. The connections felt too tight to be comfortable.

Even so, Isobel could not help but ask, “By any chance have you had the opportunity to travel, Lady Wendy? To see theatrical performances in Paris or Vienna or St. Petersburg?”

“No,” breathed Wendy, “but I aspire to. I promised my mother I would participate in one London Season if she would accompany me to the great opera houses of Europe. She agreed, and I slogged through that terrible Season, only to have her retract the offer when it was all said and done. She thought I would enter into a courtship and forget about Europe. But I have an excellent memory. And no intention of being courted by anyone.”

“Indeed,” said Isobel, impressed. This was no trifling vow for a debutante.

“And that is why I intend to run away,” Wendy continued. “And that is why I thank you. It’ll be far easier now that I don’t have to pretend to care about the Duke of Northumberland for a week, or a fortnight, or even a night. Now I can move forward with my—Oh!”

She slapped a hand over her mouth. “Why am I telling you this?”

“Your intentions are safe with me, my lady,” said Isobel.

“Well, you have a kind face,” Wendy theorized. “And you remind me of someone. I have a very bad habit of saying too much . . . to familiar people . . . with kind faces. Please, I beg you, tell no one? About my plans?”

“Never you fear,” said Isobel. “The duke should be along any moment. However . . . I’d like to invite you to call to my travel agency in Hammersmith. Perhaps you’ve heard of it? Tinker’s Travel?”

The girl shook her head, blond curls bouncing.

“Right. Well, if you convince your mother that she does, indeed, owe you a holiday, my shop can assist with all the arrangements. I’ve secured front-row seats at the finest theaters in Europe for other girls. I can even get you backstage to meet the players.”

And now Lady Wendy was hopping up and down again.

“Consider it, perhaps, before you embark on any plan to run away.”

Isobel was just reciting the shop name and direction when Jason strode into the corridor.

“Go,” whispered Lady Wendy, frowning as she watched him approach. “Do us both this favor.”

The girl was already backing away. “I will call on you in Hammersmith. Thank you, Miss Tinker!”

Isobel may have said, Thank you, or Please do, or she may have said nothing at all. Her eyes were fixed on the approaching duke, her insides filled with light.

“Where’s the box?” he asked, coming upon her.

“Oh,” said Isobel, fumbling in her pocket. “But what of your cousin?”

“Packed away in a carriage with his parents,” he said, snatching the box from her hands. “The Frenchman mollified—if you can imagine—by your mother.”

Isobel let out a laugh. “I can imagine. She is useful in mollifying Frenchmen.”

He snapped open the box, plucked out the jewelry, and pitched the empty box into a plant.

“Take off your glove,” he ordered.

Isobel peeled off the moss-green leather.

“Should we do this properly?” he asked, dropping to one knee. Isobel laughed. They were nearly alone in the hall. Only the occasional servant, distracted with the duties of the ball, hurried along the wall.

“You’ve been a stickler for propriety from the beginning,” he said, looking up, reaching for her hand.

A second too late, he swiped his hat from his head and placed it over his heart. His hair was deliciously rumpled and she reached out to smooth it.

“Oh yes,” she said. “A paragon, that’s me.”

“Isobel Tinker,” he continued, “will you make my life complete—after much, much excruciating delay—by becoming my duchess?” He slid the beautiful, glittering ring on her finger.

Isobel nodded, her voice too choked to speak.

“Brilliant,” said Jason, vaulting up. “Let us hope the priest is still available.”