When You Wish Upon a Duke by Charis Michaels

Percival Toombs had been the parish priest of the Syon Hall vicarage for as long as Jason could remember. A kindly old man, considered a member of the family by his mother, Toombs was delighted at the prospect of marrying a Northumberland duke, rather than burying one. Jason had called on him earlier in the day to make the special request.

Toombs had shown less delight in the timing of the proposed matrimony, which Jason wanted to commence that very night. During the ball. Down the corridor from the dancing. Not only was this irregular, the vicar suggested that the duke’s urgency might come off as a little . . . irreverent. And indecorous.

Jason did not care. He felt as if a blade had been yanked from his ribs. The pain was gone and he could look to the future with anticipation and not dread.

He would not be saddled with managing the dukedom alone.

His sister seemed truly relieved and happy.

Best of all, Isobel had come to him. And now that she was here, he would not let her go.

He told the priest the wedding time would be “cannot say for sure,” and named the location as “I’ll find you.” The lack of a plan so distressed the priest that Jason promised another ball in the near future to properly celebrate the nuptials. Eventually Toombs relented, reviewing the special license and agreeing to make himself available. He clearly doubted the probability of an extemporaneous wedding but the old man never missed a party at Syon Hall and promised to bring his prayer book, just in case.

Now Jason stalked the ballroom, Isobel on his arm, searching for Reverend Toombs.

“But will you silence the orchestra,” ventured Isobel, “to announce the betrothal? Or may we simply gather a small circle of family?”

“I’m less concerned about the announcement,” Jason clipped, “and more about the deed.”

Where was Percival Toombs?Jason began a wide circuit of the drinks carts.

“Deed?” she asked.

“The ceremony,” he said, dodging a trio of giggling debutantes.

“Jason, I don’t understand?”

“The wedding,” he sighed. He spotted Percival’s bald head bent over a tray of prawns. Finally. Thank God.

Isobel stopped walking, and he was yanked back. Damn! So close.

“Jason,” Isobel whispered. “You cannot mean to conduct a wedding tonight. Here? In the middle of your sisters’ ball?”

“That is precisely what I intend,” he said. “Why not?”

They stood in the middle of the crowded ballroom. Revelers passed on all sides; servants offered libations. A footman passed with drinks on a tray and Jason snatched two of them.

“Well, because it’s . . . it’s not done,” she explained weakly, taking a glass. “What of the legalities and the customs—what of a church?”

“We can be married here just as well as in the chapel. I’ve seen weddings happen on the field of battle and in a prison. Surely the Syon Hall conservatory will be a step up from these. And I assure you it will be perfectly binding and legal.” He slid a packet of papers from his coat and unfurled them, showing her the special license he’d obtained from the archbishop.

“But when did you—?” she asked, blinking down at the paperwork.

“In London,” he said. “After we made landfall. You’d sprinted away but I made this my first order of business. It was settled before I left London for Middlesex.”

“You’ve had this for weeks?” she marveled. She put down her champagne to study the paperwork.

“Of course, Isobel. I’ve been waiting for you. The rest of my life has your name scrawled all over it. I want my name on yours. Look at us.” He downed his drink and placed his glass beside hers. He took both of her hands in his own. “I’ve been privy to complicated marital relationships all around the world. I’ve seen everything from strong bonds like that of my parents’, to ‘understandings’ that allow dalliances, to forced misery and everything in between. Only very rarely have I seen two people more perfectly suited than the two of us. Your strengths align with my frailties; your weak spots match up to my . . . my . . . charm and good looks.”

She sputtered a laugh, her eyes swimming in tears.

“Please. Let me make you my wife. Without further delay. In other words . . .” he affected a pensive, faraway look, “. . . how can I say this?

“Now,” he finished, walking again, pulling her along.

“But—why?”

“Why do I want to marry you?” Jason sighed. “Or why do I want to do it as soon as possible?”

“Why . . . tonight?”

Jason stopped walking and turned to her. He leaned down to her ear. “Do you recall the state in which you left me at the thermal pool in Iceland?” he whispered. “On the last night? Have you not thought back, Isobel? Because it is all I bloody think about.”

She sucked in a little breath and nodded slowly.

“I have endured some measure of that state for nearly two months. Why now, you ask? Now we can finish what we started.”

He raised up to give her a quick, hard kiss.

She stared up at him, her blue eyes wide, her creamy cheeks tinged raspberry pink.

He turned and pulled her along. “The priest agreed to marry us whenever the moment presented itself. I wanted you to have the ring obviously. I’d not planned for my mother to squire you around the room like a long-lost relation, but I’m happy the two of you get on.”

Jason caught sight of Reverend Toombs again, now raising a toast to a neighbor and his wife. “Caught,” Jason mumbled, scooping Isobel in the man’s direction.

They were so close—a line of dancers away—when Isobel dug in her heels and stopped walking.

Affecting a half pivot, she spun and freed herself, stepping to a shadowy alcove.

Jason swore in his head, watching her. “Let me guess. You have some romantic notion about a lavish wedding. Copious flowers and musicians and breakfast guests? Am I being a cad to keep these from you?”

She blinked twice, considering this, and shook her head.

“Because I would postpone my, er, enthusiasm if this is what you wanted,” he said. “Please be certain—is that the wedding you want?”

“No,” she rasped, “I don’t suppose it is. I want only you.”

“Excellent, we are in total accord.”

She paced twice, back and forth, wiggling her fingers at her sides. “Stop.”

“Stop asking you what you want or stop the wedding?”

“There is no wedding, Jason—who gets married in the midst of a ball?”

“I do. You do. Who pretends to trade the love of their life to pirates, her hands bound in ropes? Who abandons her with said pirates so she can fight her way free? We do. Please, for the love of God, let us finish this.”

She made a sound of half laugh, half sob. “Yes,” she said, “alright, let us finish it. But what is the need to sprint through it, Jason? It’s not your nature. After all your talk of ambling about, learning the terrain, observing, not locking yourself in?”

“Bollocks to that; it doesn’t apply. When I know what I want, I do not amble.”

“Well, there is ambling and then there is some moderate pace, with a week to catch our breath. I understand that you are . . . that we are . . . desirous but—”

He let out a bark of a laugh. Understatement, thy name is “desirous.”

“—but we are not children.” She smiled a little, wiping her eyes. “We can wait until a proper wedding.

“Or,” she challenged, “you could take me upstairs. Have your way with me. You’ve made your intentions clear. We needn’t entertain pretense about the purity of anyone in this union. I am nearly thirty years of age. I’ve been around the world in every sense. I love you. You love me . . .”

She gazed down at the ring on her finger. She looked up and cocked an eyebrow. “We needn’t be disrespectful to your mother, but surely there is someplace in this sprawling house we could slip away . . .”

Jason’s body surged at the provocative look, but he forced out the word, “No.” He shook his head.

“You may stop trying to protect me,” she said, laughing a little now. “It’s sweet, and I’ll cherish it all of my life. But I feel fully ‘approved.’ I feel ‘accepted.’ Truly. There’s no need to—”

“My aim was never to have you know ‘approval,’ Isobel. I couldn’t care less about that. What I want is for you to feel ‘chosen.’ To be chosen. I choose you, love. And I pray God you will choose me.”

“Yes. Alright.” She sucked in a breath, the tears back in her voice. “You have burned me to the ground. In the very best, most necessary way. I am in ashes.”

He leaned down to kiss her. “It was meant to be a dashing, romantic sort of gesture. Memorable and fun. But if you must view yourself in ashes, so be it.”

She laughed and wiped her eyes again. “Now?” she asked.

“Right bloody now,” he said. “I’ll not risk losing you again, S’bell. I’m determined. Before you construct some other evasion.”

“No evasion,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m . . . I’m here. I came.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. Jason kissed her again, sweeping her into his arms in the dim alcove. He breathed in the smell of her, kissed her neck, and looked out at the milling party guests and hustling staff and—

Reverend Toombs.

“There he is,” Jason said, and they were off again, hand in hand, winding through the crowd. “It’s on.”