The Duke I’m Going to Marry (Farthingale Series Book 2) (16 page)

The ledge was one of the few bare spots in the kitchen. Every spare table and countertop was covered with pots, utensils, serving trays, and food to be cooked for this evening’s supper.

“Rest your arm here,” she instructed once he’d settled on the stool. He obediently propped his elbow on the ledge. Though she was distressed by the damage she’d caused to his clothing, he remained amused and took far too much delight in her discomfort. “I’ll have to remove the cuff link so I can get under the sleeve.”

“I never refuse a woman wishing to take off my garments.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s just the cuff link, you clunch.” But his jest brought home all the reasons why she and Ian would never make a good match. She needed a husband who would be faithful. He would be off and cheating before the minister closed the Bible on their wedding vows.

She tried to remember that as she worked on the stain, but it was a struggle. All she could think of was the strength of his body dangerously close to hers and the heat of his skin beneath her fingers. Whenever she breathed, she caught the sandalwood scent of him mingled with the delicious scent of cinnamon and apples wafting from the oven. She tried not to breathe, but that didn’t work.

She made the mistake of glancing at him. He looked at her as though he ached to hold her in his arms and never let her go. It was a devastatingly tender look. It was a forever look. But that’s what made him so dangerous. Experienced rakehells knew how to toss that look even while plotting their next conquest.

***

“There. All done. Give it a moment to dry, then I’ll put the cuff link back on,” Dillie said, the sweet sound of her voice wrapping around Ian’s heart.
Damn it.
She had no business being anywhere near his heart. She was as hopeless a debutante as he’d ever met.

She’d proved it again today, making a mess of her mother’s salon, upsetting an entire platter of cakes and a large pot of tea, shattering her mother’s favorite cups and saucers, damaging his shirt and jacket (not that he cared—those were easily replaced), and scalding his forearm.

Wild ferrets caused this sort of mayhem.

Wild ferrets and Dillie, apparently.

To make matters worse, she had insisted on tending his forearm, rubbing butter on the burn while she moaned and softly called his name.
“Ooh, Ian. Ian. Am I hurting you? Ooh, tell me if I am,”
she’d purred.

She couldn’t have made him hotter if she’d stuck her hand between his thighs and... well, no. That delight would have killed him.

She’d take a meat cleaver to him if she realized what he was thinking.

“Ian, where is it?” She was purring again. Driving him insanely hot again.

“Where’s what?”

“The cuff link, you clunch. What else would I be looking for?” She raised the square of linen she’d used to rub the tea stains off his sleeve and dabbed at the beads of perspiration now coating his forehead, no doubt mistaking the overheated kitchen as the cause of his discomfort. In truth, it was his raw, rampant lust to blame.

She met his gaze and let out a gentle laugh. “You’re a hot, buttered mess. I think I like you better this way. You aren’t so dauntingly perfect.” Her tongue darted out to give the butter remaining on one of her fingers a light, curling lick.

Every organ in his body began to throb. His groin had been throbbing all along, but now it felt as though it were stuffed with gunpowder, fuse lit. Detonation in five seconds. Four. Three. Two.

Thuck, thuck, thuck.

Thank the angels! Lady Withnall’s arrival was like a barrel of ice water poured straight down his pants. “What brings you into the dungeons?” he asked, genuinely surprised she’d found her way here. Few women of her stature ever visited their kitchen, and certainly never visited a friend’s kitchen.

“Came to check on the gel.” Her gaze practically bore into Dillie.

Dillie gulped.

Ian wanted to take her hand, give it a light, reassuring squeeze, but he knew it was the worst thing he could do in front of an audience, even though that audience consisted of only one person. But that one person was the most meddlesome in existence.
Damn
. Lady Withnall was purposely riling Dillie, taking forever to make her way across the kitchen to their side, her gaze never wavering and trained on Dillie.

He heard Dillie sneeze twice, and wasn’t certain whether she was faking. He rose to stand beside her, ready to protect her if the need arose.

“The pair of you look quite cozy in here. Good thing I came along.”

“She’s only treating my wounds,” Ian replied before Dillie could open her mouth and make matters needlessly worse. He stuck out his forearm to show her the burn.

“Hmmph. Scalded you with the tea, did she?” She continued to gaze at Dillie. He moved protectively closer. Probably shouldn’t have, for it put ideas into Lady Withnall’s head. “Gel, you seem to be making a habit of repairing the Duke of Edgeware.”

Dillie let out a shaky breath that blew softly against his shoulder. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Of course you do, and you’ve done a fine job of keeping it a secret. An admirable trait in a young woman. But I know that the Duke of Edgeware spent a week in your bed last November.”

Dillie suddenly seemed to stop breathing.

Ian let out a soft growl and put his arm around her, his protective instincts surging to the fore. “Phoebe, what are you playing at? You know I don’t care what’s said about me, but Dillie is innocent.”

The old harridan shook her head and sighed. “You ought to have thought about that before you landed in her bed.” Having said that, she turned and walked out.

Thuck, thuck, thuck.

***

Dillie wasn’t in any danger of swooning. True, the air had built up in her lungs and she hadn’t released it yet, but for the most part she was fine. Fine and angry. Her fists were tightly clenched. She stepped in front of Ian, glaring at Lady Withnall’s turned back as she attempted to follow after the tiny troublemaker.

“Don’t you dare,” Ian warned, holding her back by the skirt of her gown. “You’ll only make matters worse. I’ll speak to her. She and I are friends. She won’t spread that ugly rumor. I won’t allow it.”

Dillie shook her head, certain she had misheard. “Friends? And you think you can buy her silence? What sort of friend extorts another?” She felt her eyes water. They were glistening with anger. “I don’t care about myself. You had better not give her so much as a ha’penny to protect my reputation. My family trusts me and will never believe her lies. No one who matters to me will ever believe her, but your family is another matter. They’re looking for any reason to hurt you. I can’t believe Lady Withnall means to give it to them.”

“She won’t.”

“How can you be sure?” Once again, she started for Lady Withnall, but he held her back. “What’s the matter with you, Ian? You can’t let her hurt you like this. You’ve never taken advantage of me. Quite the opposite, you’ve been a perfect gentleman. And you’ve never harmed anyone or stolen any infants. Why won’t you allow me to defend you?”

“I’m asking you to leave it alone. You’re not my friend,” he said with a quiet determination that made her heart catch in her throat.

“But—”

“Leave it alone, Daffy.” That said, he strode to the opposite end of the kitchen to retrieve his coat from Mrs. Mayhew, and then strode out without a backward glance at her.

Dillie turned to the slightly open window, needing the draft to cool the heat of her anger. Lady Withnall wasn’t the only object of her ire. She was just as angry with Ian for holding her back, for refusing to defend himself. Mostly, she was angry with herself. She had allowed Ian to get to her heart. For a moment, she’d believed that he actually cared for her, but he only knew how to push people away. Is that why his family despised him?

Still, she’d hoped that she mattered to him a little. He’d just made it painfully clear that she didn’t.

The clunch!

SEVERAL DAYS LATER,
Ian’s carriage drew up in front of the Belgrave Square townhouse his mother and cousins had let for the season. It was a large house, built of gray stone, and had lots of windows to allow in sunlight. The drapes were drawn, of course, for his mother hated the sun’s glare. It exposed her physical flaws, those hideous age spots that she strove so mightily to conceal.

He descended from his carriage and walked up the stairs to the front door, a large, wooden door that was painted a bright, garish red, like the rouge his mother had taken to painting on her cheeks in the mistaken belief she would appear young and ruddy cheeked. She was wrong. She was aging, and not well.

It was on the early side, not quite noon. He had decided to pay his mother this unannounced visit in the hope of surprising her. Not in a good way. Their encounters were never friendly, though he was always cordial to her. She was the one who tensed and bristled, and then attacked. She wanted nothing to do with him. Had she known of his arrival, she would have slipped out the back way.

The meeting was necessary. He needed answers about that November attack. He also needed to rein in his mother. He was used to her venomous words and no longer cared about the insults hurled at him. But he wouldn’t allow her to insult Felicity. Truly, this was a new low even for his mother, stooping to destroy a defenseless infant.

Hence the reason for his visit. The cold, proud Duchess Celestia was never that brave when forced to speak to him in private.

He decided to discuss the November attack first, for it was uppermost on his mind. He didn’t think his mother had come up with the scheme, but she must have approved of it. His cousins would not have paid those wharf rats to come after him without consulting her first.

Why attempt to kill him? There was nothing to be gained. Neither Simon nor Edmund cared to work, and they ought to have been satisfied with the allowance he gave to each. Had he not been generous enough with them? He set aside the thought as the door opened and a butler stepped forward.

Ian usually gave only passing notice to servants, but this man caught his attention. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was the shape of his eyes or their unusual color, brown with flecks of amber. The man appeared to be about fifty years old. He had a trim build, graying hair, and an unmistakable air of refinement.

“Your Grace,” he said with a respectful bow, obviously recognizing him though he hadn’t presented his card. Perhaps he’d noted the Markham family emblem engraved on his carriage door.

When he introduced himself as Badger, Ian wanted to ask the man whether they’d ever met before but dismissed the notion. Why should he care? “Let’s spare the polite conversation, shall we?” he said instead. “No, the dowager duchess is not expecting me. No, I will not leave until I see her. I don’t care if my cousins join us or not. They’re free to slink off and hide out at their club if they so choose. I’ll hunt them down when I wish to see them.”

Badger merely nodded and led Ian into the parlor to wait. “I’ll have refreshments sent at once, Your Grace.”

“No need, Badger.” He liked that name. Liked the cut of the man as well. No doubt he came with the townhouse, for neither his mother nor his cousins would ever have engaged his services. He didn’t appear to be a toady. “I won’t be staying long.”

“Very good, Your Grace.”

“And Badger, let my mother know that if she’s not down here in ten minutes, I’ll come up there and drag her downstairs.”

The man didn’t blink, didn’t change the stony expression on his face. “Very good, Your Grace,” he repeated, but Ian noted the subtle glint of amusement in his eyes.

Upon closer inspection, the parlor furniture wasn’t quite as elegant as it had first appeared. Though well made, it had a patina of faded gentility that must have rankled his mother. She was used to the finest of everything, and although he never stinted on her maintenance, it never seemed to be enough for her.

Nothing was ever good enough for Duchess Celestia. She hadn’t been satisfied with her husband. Certainly had never been satisfied with her sons, until the death of his brother. Then James had become the golden child, the one upon whom she proceeded to bestow her love, posthumously of course.

In truth, Ian had been too young at the time of his brother’s death to understand about maternal love or the lack of it. Perhaps she had loved James as deeply as she proclaimed, but he doubted it. She wasn’t the sentimental sort. If she bemoaned his death, it was because she thrived on the attention of others. She wasn’t selective about who offered her sympathy. Anyone would do. A friend. One of her lovers. Even the household servants. It was attention she craved.

He might have believed her sincere had she been less theatrical about
her
torment. She never considered that anyone else might have mourned James. No one else mattered to her, or had ever mattered to her.

To Ian’s surprise, he didn’t have long to wait before his mother made her appearance. She glided in, dressed in a gown of yellow satin, her blonde hair perfectly done up in the latest style. The three fat curls dangling by the side of her ear looked awkward, but the style of her hair didn’t matter. Nor did the pronounced downturn of her mouth bother him. He was used to her sour expression, the tight purse of her lips, as though she’d eaten something unpleasant. Or seen something unpleasant. Namely, him.

The train of her gown billowed as she made a sweeping turn and sat on the stiff divan. “Why are you here, Edgeware?” She rarely called him Ian, couldn’t bring herself to call him by his given name lest it be mistaken for affection.

He remained standing, not that she cared. She hadn’t offered him a seat. “For the truth. I know that you, Simon, and Edmund have forgotten what that is.”

“Did you come here to insult me? If so, then I must ask you to leave.”

He paid her no mind. “Five months ago,” he started. “Who came up with the brilliant idea to end my life? You? Simon? I doubt it was Edmund. He hasn’t had an original thought since the day he was born.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! We wouldn’t—”