The Dastardly Duke (4 page)

Julian swept her a mocking bow. “Then shall we be off, Miss Gregory—now that we understand each other?” He offered her his arm.

But she was not looking at him and did not know he had spoken. She stared straight ahead, seemingly lost in the inspection of a spot of dirt on the wall. Gently, Reverend McGougal touched her elbow to get her attention. She looked up and met Julian’s derisive gaze.

Without another word, she rose and took his arm.

“If things do not work out, you will always have a home here, Hannah,” the minister assured her.

But she had her back to him and missed the words.

They did not go direc
tl
y to Julian’s magnificent town house on Berkeley Square, where eight previous Dukes of Claridge had lived when in London and where Lucy was even now readying herself for the evening’s parties. Instead, they made a quick stop at Lucy’s dressmaker, where a footman picked up a small trunk before the carriage turned up the Oxford Road and headed west.

“Where in blazes arc we going?” Charles demanded, as the carriage rounded the park and kept on going.

Julian eyed him in surprise. “My hunting box. Surely you did not think I would simply thrust her into the social whirl without benefit of tutoring?”

“What you do with her is your own concern,” Charles responded with asperity. “You can let me off right here, thank you.” He tapped on the carriage roof to get the coachman’s attention.

Julian eyed him blankly. “But I need your assistance.”

“It is one thing to refrain from contradicting your lies, and quite another to actively work against my own interests,” Charles declared. “I draw the line in helping tutor your
protégée
.
You are on your own now.”

As
the
carriage slowed, he opened the door and leaped out. Catching sight of Miss Gregory’s startled expression, he tipped his hat to her and walked off down the street
.

“Damn it, Charles!” Julian shouted after him. “I have no intention of spending time alone with the woman.”

“Pity,” his friend called over his shoulder. “I would have thought that was just your style.”

Hannah stared miserably at the increasingly dense landscape that whirled past outside the carriage window. She had missed the substance of the exchange between the duke and his friend, and His Grace had been in such a black mood since then that she had dared not question him about Sir Charles’s sudden departure.

As best she could gather, they were traveling through the countryside with a trunk of new clothes and absolutely no thought of meeting the duke’s sister. Hannah wondered if the duke even had a sister, or whether this were not some twisted plot to kidnap her.

But why would anyone wish to kidnap her? She had nothing of worth to offer for ransom—not money, nor beauty, nor military secrets. A disturbing thought seized her. Gossip had it that the Duke of Claridge had a wondrously hedonistic appetite. What if his tastes were strange, as was reputed to be the case with some of the wealthiest noblemen? The women who had befriended her had told her about such men—men aroused by the unusual, men who took pleasure in debasing the flesh of the infirm or deformed.

What if—dear Lord!—the duke was a man inclined to such tastes? What if her deafness, of all things, was a spark to his unnatural desires?

Did he mean to hold her hostage, to use her until she cried for mercy? Hannah knew that men could be cruel, and the man who stared broodingly out the window looked cruel indeed. His eyes were dark, bottomless pools of mirthless cynicism; the frank sensuality of his wide, slashing mouth fueled their dangerous air. The jagged scar on his cheek bespoke violence, and that unruly black hair crowned him with a wild, untamed look. As they drove ever deeper into the forest, Hannah thought of a satyr, waiting to wreak his will on her in some unholy woodland bower.

Panic seized her. What could she do to save herself?

Just then, his hand touched her arm. She shrank against the seat.

“Stop!” she cried. “Do not touch me!”

He seemed puzzled. “I merely wanted to speak to you. That is how it is done, is it not?”

Hannah realized that he had only imitated the way he had seen Reverend McGougal get her attention when he wished to talk to her. She colored, greatly embarrassed at having let her imagination run wild.

“Yes,” she confirmed in a small voice. “That is how it is done.”

Those dark eyes studied her for a disconcerting moment. “I thought you would wish to know where we are going,” he said slowly, obviously trying to enunciate every word so that she would understand.

Carefully, Hannah nodded.

“We are traveling to some property I own in the country a few miles from London,” he continued. “There is a hunting box that will afford us some privacy.”

“Privacy?” Nervously she adjusted her bonnet.

“Yes. I mean for us to spend a few days there before I take you to my sister.”

“A few
days?” Alarm knifed through her. She could think of only one interpretation to the fact that he meant to be alone with her in a secluded hunting box.

“Well, perhaps it will not take that long,” he conceded with a careless shrug.

Hannah stiffened. “Yes, who knows?” she flung at him. “Perhaps you will tire of me before very little time has passed.”

Once again, the duke stared at her as if she had lost her mind. Then his brow cleared. His mouth quirked upward into something that might have been a smile if it had not been so tinged with contempt.

“As I have said, Miss Gregory, prostitutes are not to my tastes. You need not fear that I will insist on your services as payment for rescuing you from that place.”

Hannah bristled, but he merely continued: “I simply wish to make certain you are prepared to meet my sister. Lucy understands that you have lived away from society, but she would be shocked if I presented her with someone utterly ignorant as to polite behavior. We will spend the next few days coaching you, Miss Gregory—not engaged in the lascivious pursuits to which you are accustomed.”

His unflattering assumptions about her character left her speechless. He seemed not to notice her revulsion and turned his attention to the small stone house that appeared as the carriage rolled to a stop.

No lantern brightened its windows. No bustling servants hurried to greet them. Indeed, there was no sign of any activity. The place was truly empty. Hannah could feel the coachman’s knowing eyes upon her as he waited for her to descend the carriage steps. He did not tarry but hopped back onto the vehicle, which promptly pulled away.

She and the horrid Duke of Claridge were utterly alone.

Chapter
Four

In three years, Hannah had grown accustomed to the silence. The carriage wheels that no longer squealed, the horses’ hooves that struck the ground soundlessly, the whinnying that produced only a hot and silent stream from the nostrils of those gentle beasts.

The world around her had lost its voice.

At first, when her infirmity was thought to be only temporary, Ha
nn
ah took pleasure in the fact that she no longer had to listen to the giggles and biting comments of her sophisticated cousins, who were ever so pleased to be the offspring of the earl himself rather than the impoverished orphaned daughter of his younger brother. Her aunt’s constant bemoaning of the herculean task of turning a country hoyden into a presentable young lady was finally lost to her, and Hannah did not mourn that loss.

But when her hearing did not return, as even the doctors had expected it would, the bitter solitude of loss hit home. Hannah could not accept the cruel permanence of the deafness that had resulted one sunny spring afternoon, when budding trees awakening to the sparrow’s song seemed to plead for her kindred spirit to join in that song from the highest branch overlooking a verdant valley.

Acceptance had come gradually, reluctantly. And even now, it was not complete. The heart of a rebel still beat in her breast, the heart of a young girl who would not be denied the joy of spring, no matter how hoydenish it was to climb a tree and soar recklessly among its branches.

Her heart still held the sparrow’s voice. Her ears still remembered the nuanced huskiness of her mother’s ancient clavichord and the musical
skill that had been her parent’s only legacy. Even amid the silence, she yearned for the beauty of sound.

But the silence she had come to know differed from the palpable stillness that now fell over her and the duke in that stone cottage. It was as if a muffled drum had started somewhere, its beat growing ever louder with each thump of her suddenly thundering heart. And though her other senses had heightened over the years to compensate for her deafness, their acuteness could not account for the sudden tingling of her skin or the stifling breathlessness in her chest.

Did he feel it too? Surely not. A man who had made his contempt so plain would not be drawn to the likes of her. She kept her gaze down as he carried her trunk into a little alcove, but the cottage was small and his nearness loomed like an omnipresent shadow. She did her best to seem nonchalant, but his presence crushed her like a vise.

Out of the
corner
of her eye, she caught the movement of his hand. He was trying to catch her attention and did not want to set her off again by touching her arm. Or perhaps, since he loathed prostitutes, he merely found touching her repulsive. Slowly, she lifted her gaze.

“Miss Gregory,” he began.

Hannah wished she could hear his voice. A man with such a dark and stormy countenance would have a voice to match. Low, deep, and resonant, it would hold undertones of restrained emotion—anger or perhaps even passion. More likely the former, she thought, studying the dark eyes that regarded her with more than a little impatience.

Belatedly, she realized that he had been speaking and that she had been staring—not at that wide, sensuous mouth, but at the enigmatic sparks in those midnight eyes.

“I am sorry,” Hannah said, flushing. “If you would be so kind as to
repeat...” She
trailed off. His eyes rolled heavenward, as if asking for patience.

“I said I greatly regret that Sir Charles elected not to accompany us.” He spoke slowly, as if she were an idiot unused to civilized speech. “It was certainly not my wish to have us thrown together in such enforced intimacy. I am resolved to make the best of it, however.”

“How admirable,” Hannah muttered, unable to suppress a surge of irritation.

The duke eyed her coldly. “Let us agree on one thing, Miss Gregory: I am your employer. You will treat me with proper respect or I shall toss you back into that sea of disreputable filth where a woman like you belongs.”

Hannah paled. The Lock Hospital had not been a pleasant place. Though the cries and wailing that so unsettled the staff and visitors fell unheard upon her ears, she could see the other women’s suffering, almost feel their pain. She did what she could to ease their discomfort, but many of them had had their
min
ds affected and were simply beyond help. Their helplessness and hers—not the bars or the dirt or the staff
’
s hostility—had tormented her.

If the duke sent her back, Reverend McGougal would be angry at losing his donation. Perhaps he would turn her out, for he was not at heart a generous man. She would have to return to the Covent Garden boardinghouse where she had spent a year trying to survive by relying on skills not unlike those of a hunted animal. Mrs. Simmons, her previous landlady, had made it clear that she expected Hannah to be like the other girls and do more to earn her keep than cook and clean. She had never known when the woman’s husband would sneak up on her, his grimy hands darting out to grab her. She had no privacy, no respect.

That sort of life was the best a woman like her could hope for; as bad as it had been, there were far worse fates—she had seen them firsthand. Whatever plans the duke had for her could scarcely be worse. Though much about this situation did not make sense, the farther she traveled from the Lock Hospital the less that seemed to matter.

And then there was the money. Five hundred pounds was a great deal, almost precisely Dr. Itard’s fee, in fact. When the duke had uttered that sum, the die had been cast.

“I apologize,” she said quietly. “I shall endeavor to be more respectful.”

Scowling, he gestured to the little alcove where he had placed the trunk. “That is to be your room. I regret that there is not more privacy to offer, but I do not imagine you are accustomed to it in any event.”

Hannah shook her head.

“I do not know how long we will remain here,” he continued. “Sir Charles and I will present you to my sister as soon as possible. How soon is up to you.”

“What is it that you expect of me here?” Hannah said with studied politeness.

But even her docileness seemed to provoke him. He scowled. “I thought I had made that plain in the carriage. We must give you a background, history, a past, a respectable life that will raise no eyebrows. My sister will help with your introduction to society, but we must present her with decent raw material. I have told her not to expect too much, so she will be prepared to make some allowances..
.”

“How fortunate,” Hannah murmured, fighting a rising temper. He had spoken as if she were some sort of scruffy animal one did not normally allow in the house.

He eyed her skeptically. “She will be expecting someone who merely needs a little polish—not a woman from the dregs of London with no notion of respectability.”

That was too much. Hannah tilted her head defiantly. “Passing me off as respectable must challenge even your formidable skills.”

His brows drew together. “Miss Gregory, you have a harpy’s tongue.”

Though his criticism stung, Hannah knew she was being difficult
.
She must try to remember that this was her only honorable opportunity to collect Dr. Itard’s fee. With some effort, she willed her anger away. “I suppose my manner of speech is something we must work on as well,” she offered meekly.

“Ladies do not employ sarcasm, Miss Gregory. Let that be the first lesson you learn.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” But resentment simmered within her, and when Hannah executed a perfect curtsy to show him that she knew the ways of a lady as well as anyone, he regarded her with suspicion.

“How is it that you can inject sarcasm even into a curtsy?”

She colored. “I will try to do better,” she said, sighing. “But you should know that I have never had a biddable disposition.” The duke muttered something that was lost to her as he turned and strode from the house.

The wood on the pile looked to be newly chopped, depriving him of even that excuse to work off his seething temper. Eyeing the ax longingly, Julian cursed his servants’ efficiency.

Though manual labor was not part of a duke’s duties, he still remembered the calluses that growing up as a virtual orphan in Sommersby Castle had given him. As Lady Sommersby’s nephew, his presence had been tolerated by the late earl, but no quarter given. Julian had been expected to earn his keep, and hauling wood for the castle’s insatiable chimneys had been only part of the exhausting labor that had given him muscles as strong and solid as any fully grown man’s.

What he would not give to savor the mindless predictability of steady chopping and the comforting smoothness of the ax handle in his hands now. Fool that he was, he had actually assumed that a deaf woman dependent on Reverend McGougal’s charity would be malleable.