Page 4 of The Dark Duke's Virgin

He just prayed that his daughter forgave him. He was, after all, doing this for her.

She was seated across from Miss Wanton, a set of crochet needles in hand and a length of stitching falling from her lap and trailing across the floor. As part of her education, Miss Wanton was showing Isabella how to properly crotchet with needle and thread, one of the many skills that any young lady of the ton should have knowledge in. That, after all, was the entire point of a governess, to prepare a young lady such as Isabelle for adulthood and what was expected from a daughter of a duke.

And in a way, she had succeeded in said tasks. Having only been here a month, she was everything that she had claimed when applying for the role. But that was merely surface level.

“You look mad, father…” Isabella set down her needles and skipped across the room toward Frederick, throwing her arms around him in a tight hug.

“Do I?”

She giggled. “Although I suppose I would be more surprised if you looked happy. Right, Miss Wanton?” she then asked of thegoverness. “In the month you have been here, have you seen my father smile even once?”

Miss Wanton’s mouth opened and closed, no words coming out. Fear struck her face, and it was only too clear that she wished to be anywhere but in her employer’s presence.

“My point exactly, big meanie,” Isabella giggled again, arms still wrapped around his waist, looking upwards and beaming because only she could get away with teasing him like this… and she knew it.

Oh, how Frederick loved her. How he adored her. She was the only source of light in his life, and he cherished her as if his own life depended on it. And the fact that she looked more like him than her mother only furthered this sense of protective love and worship as he saw himself in her often… or at least a side of himself that he rarely let out anymore.

Perhaps that was why he was so protective of her? Yes, there was the fact that she was his only daughter, and if things continued for Frederick the way they had been, she would likely remain his only child. And yes, he wanted the best for her, a life promised that only the daughter of a duke could fulfil. But mostly, it was that she reminded him of who he used to be, and what life might have been like if he hadn’t been born to this station. Fun. Jovial. Even whimsical. Words not spoken in the same sentence as Frederick’s name because of the image his peers had of him.

And it was this love, this sense of protection he had for Isabella, that had brought him here this morning. The reasonhe was set to perform a most unpleasant task, one which would undoubtedly anger his daughter as he so hated doing.

“How is everything going today?” he asked, watching Miss Wanton for her reaction. Typically, she grimaced and looked down at her lap.

“Wonderfully,” Isabella said as she let him go and wandered back to her seat. “Miss Wanton is a wonderful teacher.”

“And that is what she is doing, is it? Teaching you?”

“Well… yes.” Isabella frowned and glanced at Miss Wanton.

“I just came from seeing Miss Tibbs,” he said, looking between the two. “She was concerned, for she finished washing your clothing from yesterday, Isabella, and it seems she found something that she thought prudent to bring to my attention.”

Isabella’s eyes flicked to Miss. Wanton; the guilt in them clear. “W-what did she find?”

“Blood,” he said. “On the skirt of your dress. Do you care to explain?”

“I…” Isabella’s mind worked quickly. “I am not sure. Are you certain it was mine? Or even blood? Perhaps it was a food stain?”

“Show me your knees, please.”

Isabella’s eyes widened, but she was quick to reset. “My knees? Father…” An awkward chuckle. “I do not know what you?—”

“Your knees, Isabella. Show them to me. Now.” It was not a question but a command that even Isabella would not refuse.

She bowed her head. “Father… it is not what you think.”

“Show me,” he growled at her.

Silently, with great shame, Isabella lifted the skirt of her dress to reveal her kneecaps, and as expected, as he had known, they were scuffed and torn with scabs growing over recently formed wounds.

“It is not what you think!” Isabella said quickly. “I fell! That is all!”

“And what were you doing when you fell?”

She grimaced, unable to look her father in the eye. “We had finished my studies—I made sure of it. I did. And there was still some time before supper, so I asked Miss Wanton if she might wish to play—I asked her!” Her head snapped up, her eyes turning red as she pleaded. “It was not her choice! It was me, father! I was the one who?—”

“Silence!” he snapped at her, feeling immediate guilt for yelling. “Isabella…” He then groaned and rubbed his eyes, doing whathe could to contain the anger that brewed in him… and the disappointment. “We have spoken about this.”

“I know, father,” she said softly.

---