Fearless Duke

The arrogant devil.
“His Grace has requested your presence in the grand library this morning, madam,” the butler announced.
They reached a sumptuously decorated hall, lined with marble busts and a gallery of paintings she could only guess must be priceless works of old masters. Westmorland House was the largest single edifice she had ever entered in her life. A veritable Mayfair palace.
The library seemed an odd choice indeed for him to wish to conduct work, but a safer space than that which she had feared. She hummed noncommittally and followed in the butler’s wake.
A flurry of color and movement caught her eye, then, as a lady glided into view, descending another ornate staircase in the picture gallery. She was stunningly beautiful, Isabella noted instantly, her dark tresses styled elegantly at her crown, with a braid worked around them and a waterfall of loose ringlets. Most shocking of all, however, was not her loveliness but her choice of dress. Her bodice was a brilliant vermilion, paired with flowing tan, divided skirts.
“You must be Miss Hilgrove,” she said with a welcoming smile that suggested she not only expected Isabella’s presence but approved.
Of course Westmorland must have a duchess. A man that handsome would not remain unattached long. Supposing she was making the acquaintance of his wife, Isabella dipped into a curtsey. “Your Grace.”
“Oh, no.” The ravishing creature before her laughed delightedly. “My dear Miss Hilgrove, you have it all wrong. Westmorland is my brother. I am Callie, and quite pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Isabella flushed at her error, thinking herself horridly gauche. It had been a long time since she had associated with members of the peerage. Memories of that long-ago summer still lingered, some more painful than others.
She curtseyed again, smaller this time. “Pleased to make your acquaintance as well.”
And how difficult it was to fathom that this engaging, friendly, trousers-wearing female before her was the sister of the imperious duke she had clashed with the previous morning.
The lady in question turned her attention to the frowning butler, who had paused as well and hovered on the periphery. “I will take Miss Hilgrove to see Westmorland, Young. You may carry on with your morning.”
“Of course, Lady Calliope.” The butler bowed, and then took his leave. “I shall leave you to direct Miss Hilgrove to the grand library.”
Callie—or, rather, Lady Calliope, as was apparently her formal address—turned to Isabella. “He is not as much of a frigid bore as he seems, you know.”
She spoke with the candor of an old friend who was imparting a confidence.
Which was silly indeed, for Isabella was neither this extravagant creature’s old friend, nor was she anyone worthy of her confidences.
“Are you speaking of Mr. Young?” Isabella asked, deliberately misunderstanding Westmorland’s sister.
“Of course not. I am speaking of Benny.” Lady Calliope’s grin was as infectious as it was carefree. “Westmorland, as you know him. Forgive me, Miss Hilgrove. I do detest formality. Having lived abroad for so long, I often forget the English adherence to it.”
She could hardly fathom the duke who had sent three of her best typists fleeing from Westmorland House in tears possessing a sister who referred to him as Benny. Isabella decided she liked Lady Calliope. Immensely and in spite of her unfortunate familial ties.
“You lived abroad?” she asked, enthused although she knew she was meant to be working this morning.
And the minutes were ticking by, likely rendering her near to tardy by this point.
But her dreams of travel were too potent a lure. She had lived all her life in London, not often traveling far from it, and certainly never beyond the bounds of her home country. Her father had been a wealthy merchant, but he also detested the notion of venturing abroad when England, as he suggested, was bountiful enough in her majesty.
“France was home to me for some time,” Lady Calliope said with a sentimental smile. “I do so wish, sometimes, that Benny did not bring me back to London. However, here I am, and here you are. I dare not tarry with you overly long, for I know my brother’s temper better than most. However, I could not resist the opportunity to speak with you, our paths having inadvertently crossed.”
The duke’s sister began walking down the expansive picture gallery, and Isabella followed, intrigued and wishing she had not committed herself to playing the typist for Westmorland. She was meant to continue building her school however she could. At this very moment, there were two dozen new ladies being trained by someone other than herself.
“Did His Grace mention my school to you, my lady?” she asked as she trailed the trousers-wearing spitfire.
“Something of that nature.” Lady Calliope sent her a smile over her shoulder. “You need not look so apprehensive, my dear Miss Hilgrove. As I said, Benny is not the unfeeling bear he presents to most. And please, do call me Callie. My father was a duke, it is true, but I cannot abide by the old ways of the world. Besides, if you are to be a regular visitor here at this old mausoleum, you and I shall be friends, I know it.”
Friends with a lady? And with the sister to the duke who had made himself her nemesis? It hardly seemed possible, and yet, there was something about Lady Calliope—some indefinable quality—which set Isabella at ease.
“I shall call you Callie,” she allowed as they approached a set of doors at the end of the picture gallery, “but only if you agree to call me Isabella.”
“Fair enough,” decreed the duke’s eccentric sister with an air of finality. She paused. “Do not allow him to browbeat you, my dear Isabella. He is insufferable when it is allowed.”
“Is he?”
The query, issued in the deep, mellifluous tone of the Duke of Westmorland, split the moment in half. Isabella started as her gaze flew to him. His countenance was grim, his coat, waistcoat, and trousers equally dark.
How difficult it seemed to believe the singularly beautiful, austere duke standing on the threshold of the