When You Wish Upon a Duke by Charis Michaels

They were married half an hour later in the candlelit conservatory of Syon Hall’s east wing. The room was cold, the fires having been lit only ten minutes before. The floor-to-ceiling windows provided a moonlit view of the pond and pleasure garden but did little to forestall the October chill.

Jason felt no discomfort. Jason felt only relief and elation and anticipation. Underlying all of that, he felt blissful calm. No longer did he dread the future. He was free of guilt over his lapsed responsibilities as duke. He was so very grateful to his sister and to whatever convergence of luck, and the divine, and (remarkably) his cousin Reggie, that brought Isobel to him.

The service was brief. His mother was impatient to return to her guests and the Very Reverend Toombs had grown drowsy after too many glasses of wine. Isobel’s mother, Georgiana Tinker, was also in attendance, as well as her clerk, Samantha, and all of Jason’s sisters. There was no shortage of witnesses; so many, in fact, Jason thought perhaps they might forgo any future celebration that promised more guests and flowers and wedding finery. His mother disabused him of that idea in no uncertain terms, insisting that she would host a proper celebratory breakfast as soon as the arrangements could be made. Jason was to mention the party when he introduced the new Lady Northumberland to the ballroom.

He would have just as soon skipped this step—he was prepared to skip all steps that did not lead to a bed—but he knew he had a better chance of controlling the gossip surrounding a secret wedding if he and his family took ownership of the narrative.

“May I have your attention, please,” Jason called out to the ballroom after the ceremony. He held a crystal goblet aloft and clanged it with a knife. The orchestra sat drowsily behind him, silent at last, and dancers began to drift toward the bandstand.

“The dowager duchess, my sisters, and I wish to take this moment to thank all of you for joining us at Syon Hall. As you know, the title of duke has fallen to me under tragic circumstances. May God rest the beloved men who came before me.” He paused, unexpectedly choked up.

“In many ways,” he went on, “I am still growing accustomed to the title.” Another pause.

Behind him, Isobel placed a firm hand on his shoulder. He looked to her, took a deep breath, and raised his glass.

“However,” he went on, clearing his throat, “when it comes to the role of party guest, I am as veteran as any of you—and my experienced eye informs me that everyone is having a jolly good time. Brilliant, and how very welcomed you are. Not to outdo any man here, but I should now like to lay claim to the very best time of all. But let me not get ahead of myself.”

He cleared his throat. He smiled because most things went down more easily with a smile.

He paused again—why not build suspense?—and turned to beckon Isobel to step beside him.

She’d been smiling up at him, uncertain of what he would say, and now she blinked twice, looked to her mother, and then stepped forward. He clamped a hand around her waist.

“You lot,” he said, pointing to the crowd, “are the very first to be introduced to my new wife, Lady Isobel Beckett, the Duchess of Northumberland. We married recently in a private family ceremony, and it gives me great pleasure to announce our nuptials publicly tonight.”

His mother cleared her throat and whispered behind him.

“Oh yes,” he continued. “And we invite all of you . . . and ten of your closest friends . . . to a more formal celebration of this happy news in coming weeks. Watch the post or for private messengers or homing pigeon or however it’s done for an invitation.”

And then, as a hundred stunned faces stared up at him, their eyes wide in unblinking shock, he raised a glass.

In the rear of the ballroom, someone started a rousing yell of, “Hip, hip, hooray! Hip, hip, hooray!”

It took two rounds before the crowd joined in, but then footmen descended with bubbling champagne flutes and the toast gained more momentum.

Jason couldn’t have cared less. He signaled the conductor to resume the music; he shot the drink in his own glass, swallowing it in one gulp.

He turned to Isobel. “Your Grace,” he said.

She fell into his arms, reaching up to grab him around his neck. Speaking softly against his skin, she repeated his own words from the heated pool the night of their betrothal.

“How do you want it?”

Jason made a growling noise and kissed her. He picked her up and whirled her around as a swarm of curious-eyed guests began queuing up to congratulate the happy couple.

She glanced at Jason, but he was already shaking his head: Absolutely not. He backed away, tucking her in front of him like a shield. His plan, it appeared, was to wind the two of them through the tightly packed orchestra to escape the crowd.

“Mama?” Isobel called, signaling her mother. Georgiana saw the problem immediately and stepped up, obscuring Jason and Isobel and asking the dowager to introduce her to “more of her lovely friends.”

Georgiana’s bright dress and brighter smile were an ideal interference, and Isobel pulled Jason from the bandstand. Moving quickly, eyes averted, laughing, they skirted the crowd, rounded the dance floor, and fled through the ballroom doors.

They didn’t stop until they reached the giant, curved staircase. Breathing hard, they mounted the stairs hand in hand and hit the landing at a run. Isobel’s hair broke loose and fell down her back. She kicked off first one shoe, and then the next.

When they reached the column that obscured the ground floor, Jason fell against it. Isobel continued on, but he gave her a yank, and she turned back. She was on his mouth in an instant, laughing as she kissed him.

He flattened himself against the marble, arms thrown back, allowing her to attack him. She came on like a swarm, grasping hands and swinging hair, stockinged feet climbing his body.

Isobel wanted his evening coat off. She peeled her gloves and dug her fingers beneath the collar to roll away the heavy garment. He shoved up to allow it to fall to the floor. Without breaking the kiss, she attacked the buttons on his waistcoat, fingers working feverishly; it was the next piece to go.

He swore on a delighted hiss. “Damn, Isobel, I cannot keep pace.” He reached for the buttons that marched up the back of her gown.

She didn’t answer; her laughter faded away. She’d become so very focused. The culmination of weeks of wanting him suddenly felt near to bursting inside her. She slid his shirt from his trousers.

Jason groaned and picked her up by the bottom. She leapt up, straddling him, wrapping her legs around his waist. He shoved off the column and staggered on, not breaking the kiss.

“Where?” he gasped.

“Don’t care,” she panted, and it was true. He could take her to the laundry or the pantry or the potting shed. He could drop them to the rug and she wouldn’t have cared.

His insistence on the wedding, here, now—forher, not for esteem or pomp or customs—had ignited something elemental inside her. She was overwhelmed with love, swamped by it. She was swimming in her love for him. And she’d never been more urgently aroused in her life.

“Bedchamber,” he growled against her throat, staggering five more steps to fall against a thick oak door.

“Good—yes,” she panted. In the back of her mind, it occurred to her that she’d never made love in a proper bedchamber before. Another new thing. Everything about loving him felt so very new. Stronger passion, deeper love, greater trust—by far the best technique.

And now a proper bedroom, with a proper marital bed. Another new thing. Her past experiences had been stolen or secret, on the fly, on the sly. Had she ever made love with the benefit of something as secure as a locked door? She couldn’t remember. She didn’t want to remember. She wanted only this.

Jason released her long enough to turn the knob. The door swung and they fell into the room. He kicked the door closed with his boot, and the strains of music and laughter were locked outside. The room was hushed except for their breathing.

Isobel opened her eyes, looking over his shoulder as they settled into a less frantic, deeper kiss. The chamber was cavernous. There were towering windows, steepled at the top with gothic arches. Moonlight spilled bright spears of silver across the stone floor. The only other light was a jumping fire in a massive hearth. Against the longest wall, between the windows was—

She blinked, squinting now.

A cot?

Yes, it was a cot. A rumpled, dingy cot, as flat and hard as a workbench.

Isobel broke off the kiss and leaned around him for a better look.

It was one of three forlorn pieces of furniture in the palatial bedchamber.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, dropping kisses along her neck. His fingers found the buttons on the back of her dress and worked through them, flicking each one free with effortless proficiency.

“Well,” she mumbled, scanning the room again. There were no linens, no tapestries, no rugs.

“Why is this room so . . . empty?” she asked.

Jason paused in the act of pushing her gown from her shoulders and looked around.

“Bollocks,” he swore. He began to reverse the direction of her gown, pulling it back up.

“No. No. No. No,” she chuckled, sliding it down. “It’s not as bad as all that. I’m simply—It is not what I expected.”

“This is the ducal bedchamber,” Jason explained, kissing her between each sentence. “But I had the furniture of the previous dukes hauled away and bade the servants bring in whatever could be found in the attic.” He left her mouth and attacked her neck with kisses. “Only until you arrived. I couldn’t bear the other and I expected you’d have your own preference for the room.”

He pulled away and frowned at the cot. “Poor planning,” he said, turning back to stare at her mouth. “Extremely poor planning.”

She laughed again. He cared, she could tell, although not so very much. He was not a man who stood on ceremony—and thank God.

And if it meant she could decorate the room however she liked . . .

Furthermore, if it meant she would share this room with him every single night?

She did not care. Not even about the cot.

She assured him with a deep kiss, and he answered her with a knee-weakening moan. Oh, how she loved the noises he made when she kissed him; he gave off a sort of animal enthusiasm, a relish.

His enthusiasm for her had never been in doubt—well, except perhaps for the four terrible weeks he had not come for her—beyond that, when they were together, he had never made her doubt.

How Isobel had longed to be free from doubt, to feel looked after, to look after someone in return, someone worthy of the effort.

She fingered the ring on her hand, relishing the cold pricks of each cut stone. It was so lovely to be chosen, just as he had said.

He gathered her around the waist and pressed her to him. She felt his arousal through the layers of skirt and shimmied just so, ramping up the exquisite pressure. He moaned again, kissing her.

“I’ve a bedroom down the hall,” he said. “It’s been mine since I was a boy. I meant to take you there, and then I . . .” he kissed her, “. . . forgot. There’s still time.”

Isobel shook her head, bussing him with a kiss and a lick with each pass. He allowed it until the third pass and then captured her mouth.

While he kissed her, she worked the gown from her arms and pushed it over her hips. It fell into a poof at her feet. She released his neck and worked her petticoats free, allowing them to fall the way of the dress. She broke the kiss and stepped from the circle of silks, standing before him in her corset and shift.

“No boyhood bedrooms,” she whispered. “We’re all grown now.”

“Yes,” he said, his voice choking a little. “So very grown.”

He stripped from his shirt and tossed it. She blinked twice, very slowly, allowing herself to enjoy the sight of his broad chest, slim waist, and so many cleverly ridged muscles.

He put his hands on his hips and looked around. “Where shall we—?”

He made a raspy sound, half cough, half laugh. “I’m making a muck of this,” he declared. He stooped to pull off his boots and stockings, flinging them over his shoulder.

“I’m not a virgin, I assure you,” he went on. “I had every intention of seducing you properly but—”

“Oh, I’m seduced,” she told him. “Just by the sight of you.” She began a slow circle around him, looking her fill. “I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you in my alley. I wanted you when you appeared in the tearoom with your aunt. I wanted you when I was ill on the brig, and every night in between. Just look at you.”

Jason looked down at his body like a man searching for his lost spectacles, although . . . he knew. It was part of his charm. He knew he was tall and broad and handsome; he knew he was clever and in command.

And now all of that,she thought, is mine.

She walked to him, turning her back to offer him her corset strings. Jason, God love him, did not hesitate. The bindings flew, beginning at the top, and she felt immediate, tingling relief. The confining garment loosened, and Isobel tipped forward, pressing her bottom into his erection, allowing her breasts to spill free.

The position seemed innocent at first, accidental, like she was giving him more room, but the looser the ribbons became, the farther she tipped, eventually bent nearly in half, her bottom pressed against him.

Jason let out a wicked laugh and caught her around the waist, grinding into her. He flung the corset and leaned over her back, burying his face against her neck.

“There is so much I would do to you,” he said, spanning his hands up her rib cage and cupping her breasts.

“We have all night,” she whispered, breathing hard. “We have a lifetime. Thank God, we have a lifetime.”

“Now,” he countered, his voice a growl. He made a thrusting motion, kissed her ear, and then fleeced her from her shift in one, swift movement.

Isobel closed her eyes and let out a little gasp. When she opened her eyes, he stood before her, his trousers and drawers gone.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, kissing her. “You seemed too bright and beautiful ever to be contained by me or any man. But I wanted you; I wanted you any way that you would have me.”

“Take me,” she whispered, looking up at him. “Please.”

He swept a hand beneath her knees and lifted her, carrying her in a naked bundle in his arms. He strode to the cot and she thought, Alright, this really will happen on a—

But he lingered only long enough to swipe a silky coverlet and then carried her to a deep window seat. The seat was cushioned with purple velvet, and he settled her in the center, tucking the coverlet between her and the cold glass of the window.

He fussed over her comfort, his face serious in the moonlight, while his magnificent body, hard and ready, strained against her.

She reached for him, stopping his ministrations, reclining on the cushions, and pulling him down. They fell into a kiss; her legs rose on either side of him, her hands roved his back. All the parts she touched melded into a long, glorious, muscled exploration—hot and him. Hers.

His own hands found her center, felt her readiness, and he moaned.

“I cannot wait,” he whispered, panting into her ear. “I’m sorry.”

“Do it,” she whispered back. “You promised.”

He growled, rose up, and grabbed her by the ankles, scooting her to the edge of the window seat. Isobel thrust up, raising her hips, seeking him.

His eyes flared when he saw her eagerness; he swore, and then he sank into her in a long, slow, deep thrust.

They both gave a shout, an exhalation of the long-awaited sensation of joining. They relieved sensual pressure at the same time they pitched it ever higher; it was everything at once, everything, everything . . .

Isobel almost forgot what came next, but Jason was seized by instinct. He began to move, driving into her with a force she should have expected but she did not, a force that thrilled her, that caused her to cry out in ever-escalating sounds of delight.

He kissed her, but it was too much; she needed to suck in breath, to shout. She turned her head to the side, and he dropped his mouth on her exposed ear and whispered, “Yes, yes, yes, S’bell, yes . . .”

She heard his words; she wanted to answer, but she was rising, rising, rising—

And then they launched.

His wrist was beside her lips and she whispered, “I love you,” into his pulse point. Consciousness left her, flying out the window into the sky.

Above her, Jason thrust twice more and then spilled inside her with a guttural cry. She held to his shoulders, fingers digging into muscle, clinging for dear life.

Her eyes shot open at the sheer, concentrated force of the sensation, pleasure and sweetness, and love and heat. Her gaze fixed on the night sky, but her vision swam, and she saw flashes of the aurora borealis and the churning North Sea and the swiftly moving clouds of Middlesex. She saw her future, which looked oh-so-bright indeed.

Eventually, she saw Jason’s hair, which flopped over her face in short, sweaty locks.

She heard his labored breath. She became aware of her own breathing. She heard a log in the fire disintegrate with a hiss and drop into the ashes.

“Have we survived?” she asked softly.

He didn’t answer.

His arms tightened around her; he squeezed her until it was almost uncomfortable.

“Never leave me again,” he said against her neck. “Never make me deny you to my family again.”

She shook her head. “No. I promise. Never again.”

He squeezed her once more, even tighter, and she let out a little squeak. He rolled from her, and she scooted against the window, making room. He gathered her into his arms and pulled the coverlet over the slick, naked tangle of their bodies.

“I love you, Isobel Beckett, Duchess of Northumberland,” he said, kissing the top of her head.

For a time, they drowsed, sated and replete, and reveling in their love. A loud swell of music from downstairs roused Isobel, and she lay in Jason’s arms, gazing at his sleeping face in the moonlight. With a gentle hand, she smoothed a tousled lock of hair from his brow.

He made a growling noise and nuzzled her hand.

“I cannot believe I came here to rescue you from your own . . . emotional drowning,” she whispered, “and I became a duchess instead.”

“Make no mistake, you did rescue me. Although my sister Ronnie claims it was only a matter of time before she took me in hand. But you rescued me in other ways.”

“What will you do now?” she asked. “Now that Lady Veronica will manage the estate?”

“The notion is so new to me I hadn’t thought,” he said. “I’ll need to be present, I suppose, to be available and useful to Ronnie. My father sat in the Lords, as I’ve said. My brothers did not. If any part of the dukedom appeals to me, it would be government. I have something to offer, given my experience. What do you think?”

“I think it is an idea worth pursuing.”

“What of your work?” he asked. “ ‘Tinker’s Travel,’ my spies tell me it’s called. You’ll carry on, I hope, despite being duchess. I cannot imagine my mother is entirely ready to give up running this house, unless you . . .”

He allowed the sentence to trail off. He was so very generous about her preferences and desires.

“I do wish to carry on working,” she said. “I’ll hire more help. I’ll train Samantha to take on more responsibility. She has been asking, and she is ready. I want to be prepared if—”

And now she stopped. Without warning, her throat grew thick and painful with impending tears. Her eyes stung.

“If what?” he asked, listening carefully. He found her hand and interlaced their fingers.

“If we’re blessed with a child,” she finished on a rush, the tears impossible to hide.

“You would like to be a mother,” he observed lightly, giving her time.

She nodded, tucking her face into his chest.

Against his skin, she whispered, “If I can carry a baby who will—”

She couldn’t finish.

“We will try and try and try, Isobel,” he assured her. “We will try in every room of this house, including on the rickety cot, and a million times in the bed that replaces it. You are young and I am virile.”

She laughed. Only he would claim this.

“And perhaps you will be a mother. That is what I predict. And if not . . . it won’t be for lack of trying—as I’ve mentioned—but we’ll manage that too. Come what may.”

She nodded again, squeezing her eyes shut. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

He jostled her closer, and her ear settled over his heart. She heard the heartbeats, fast and strong.

“And,” she said, speaking to the dimness of the room, “I . . . I should like to travel.”

He scuttled her up, settling her on his lap, facing him.

“I beg your pardon?” He raised one eyebrow.

She giggled, wiping her eyes. “It’s true. I—I’m ready. I’ve missed it so. And how effective can I truly be as a travel agent if I’ve not set foot on the Continent in seven years?”

He exhaled heavily and dropped his head against the glass, staring at the sky. “Oh, brilliant, S’bell. The places I want to show you.”

She took his face in her hands and guided it to hers. “On the contrary, the places I want to show you.”

“We’ll show each other,” he said, kissing her.

And she laughed and fell against him.

And so began their very long, thoroughly fulfilling journey to happily-ever-after.