The Duke I’m Going to Marry (Farthingale Series Book 2) (21 page)

Her mother reached up and kissed him on the cheek. “Your daughters managed quite well on their own. Even Dillie. She has an offer of marriage from a duke. A young and handsome one at that.”

But one who doesn’t love me.

“Very well. I’ll give you a week. Abner brings you back to London by the following Wednesday.”

Which was an enormous concession, and Dillie knew better than to press her luck, but she tried anyway. “I need two weeks. Not a day less.”

Her father now had a stubborn set to his jaw. “One.”

They settled on two weeks, but her father would spend the second week with her in Coniston. It was a workable compromise. By late morning, she and Uncle Rupert were passing through the Farthingale gate in the carriage, drawn by a pair of sturdy horses in the capable hands of Abner Mayhew, their longtime coachman.

Abner was a most pleasant fellow, older than her father by a good ten years. He had a full cap of white hair and round, ruddy cheeks. The Mayhews had worked for the Farthingales for generations. Mrs. Mayhew was their long-time cook. Abner was their coachman. Amos, the youngest, who was about Dillie’s age, was one of their footmen. Various Mayhew nieces had worked in the Farthingale household in the positions of nanny, maid, and governess.

Which was perhaps why Abner felt it was his place to comment on her situation when they stopped near Northampton. The carriage clattered to a halt in the courtyard of the Hawkshead Inn just as the sun faded over the glistening rooftops. Rupert descended and strode ahead to arrange for their quarters while Abner grabbed his step stool and set it in front of the carriage door. “Let me help you down, Miss Dillie.”

She smiled her thanks.

She could see that he was simply bursting to tell her what was on his mind. “Are ye sure ye want ta be runnin’ from a duke, Miss Dillie?”

“No, Abner. I’m not sure at all.”

“Then why are ye runnin’? Is it because of them ugly rumors?” he asked, releasing her hand and taking a step back.

“My supposed scandal? It’s utterly ridiculous. The duke always behaved as a gentleman—”

“
Ech!
I never believed that stuff and nonsense about you and him. Ye’re a good girl. We all know that.” He nodded to emphasize his point. “I meant those other nasty rumors. The ones about him.”

Her heart suddenly beat a little faster. “Tell me, Abner. Please. No one else will talk to me about his past. What have you heard? Is it something important?”

“I think so, Miss Dillie.” He paused and swallowed hard. “They say he murdered his own brother.”

***

Ian rode for Swineshead the morning after the disastrous Cummerfield ball. Of course, he hadn’t actually attended the ball, just been tossed into a Farthingale carriage and beaten into submission by his own best friends. He supposed he deserved it. After all, he’d run down Chipping Way the night he was attacked, ignoring the Chipping Way curse, and now he was suffering the consequences.

The sky was overcast and threatening rain, but he hoped to get in several hours of hard riding before the skies opened up. No matter the weather, he needed to leave town. It wasn’t for his sake, but for Dillie’s. She needed time to calm down and think, time to realize that her prospects were dim unless she married him. She would come around in time. He just needed to keep away and give her that time alone to consider all the possibilities.

In this, he was a patient man.

He wasn’t in any hurry to be leg shackled. Truth be told, he hadn’t planned on ever taking a wife. He certainly wasn’t about to offer for anyone other than Dillie, for he wasn’t fit husband material for any woman. He’d try his best for Dillie’s sake, though. It might work. She had a way of easing the pain he carried in his heart, of making him laugh, and she never bored him.

That counted for something, didn’t it?

He was not expecting miracles. Dillie could never completely heal his wounds or bring back the brother he’d loved deeply. He’d been scarred by that one bad moment and had never felt good about himself since. Indeed, he would never forget what he had done to James, nor would his detestable family ever allow him to forget, making certain to twist their verbal knives deep into his heart each and every time they met.

Hence that turtle shell he’d built around his heart.

As he rode off, he considered another problem. Once he and Dillie were married, it would be difficult to keep her and his family apart. Having been raised in a close and loving household, Dillie would feel duty bound to bring him and his relations together, just as her twin, Lily, had done with her husband’s family. That effort had ended happily, but any effort on Dillie’s part to reconcile him with his family would not. The Markhams were different. His mother and cousins would do their best to poison the marriage.

He wouldn’t allow it, but what if he weren’t around to protect Dillie? She’d chased off a pair of base ruffians and saved his sorry life. Still, his wretched family would not hesitate to tear her to pieces if given the opportunity.
Damn them.
Celestia and her toadies could say or do what they wished to him, but he’d hunt them down and kill them in cold blood if they ever attempted to harm Dillie.

He shook his head and sighed, wondering whether he was fretting needlessly.

What if Dillie refused him?

Hell, she’d be better off.

He rode on, ignoring the biting wind against his cheeks and wanting to get as far away from London as possible. This gave him the perfect opportunity to visit Felicity in Swineshead, for he needed to make certain she was being treated well. He also needed to tend to several Edgeware matters he’d put off because he’d tarried too long in London.

Until a few months ago, he’d used Swineshead as a hunting lodge. The land, with its abundant forests and well-stocked streams, was a perfect hunter’s retreat. The ponds, lakes, and streams attracted all manner of freshwater fish and game, and the dense forests provided shelter for birds, deer, and wild boar.

Felicity’s arrival at Swineshead had changed everything. He’d ordered improvements made to the lodge since she was to reside there, and he wanted her to be comfortable and happy. He was now eager to see the changes.

He released the breath he’d been holding and let out a wry laugh. Within the month, his life might never be the same, a fast descent from rakehell to married family man. He’d made the necessary arrangements with Dillie’s father. The only thing lacking was Dillie’s consent.

She would give it. She had to. He owed her for saving his life and he always repaid his debts. It could work. Dillie would make it work, for her kisses were delectable and she had a sunshine smile that always warmed his cold heart. Felicity would love her, for she had a gentle way with the Farthingale children that made him ache every time he watched her play with them.

No one had ever been gentle with him. Not once in his life.

It rained steadily on and off for the first three days of the journey. Ian finished his business in Coventry with surprising ease and continued north toward Swineshead, but he was hindered on the fourth day by a brutally cold rain that began to fall hard as he approached the market town of Penrith.

All of a sudden, the skies opened up with a vengeance and buckets of fat raindrops quickly muddied the roadway. It was early evening and the sun had yet to set, but thunderous black clouds covered the sky so that it appeared as ink-dark as a starless night. “This looks to be a bad one. We had better find shelter,” he muttered to Prometheus, the handsome gelding he’d acquired at Tattersalls.

He wasn’t far from the Black Sail Inn, a decent establishment situated on the outskirts of Penrith. Since he often stayed there while attending to business in Carlisle or across the border in Scotland, he headed for the inn, resigned to continuing his journey the next day once the weather cleared. He wasn’t about to risk injury to Prometheus.

The horse suddenly grew skittish, forcing Ian to concentrate on the road. He drew lightly on the reins, easing him from a canter to a walk across a particularly slick patch. The temperature had taken a swift dip, and sleet now mingled with the rain that fell with torrential force.
Bloody English weather.

The wind kicked up, now tossing that rain straight into his face, but the Black Sail Inn was just up the road and he looked forward to warming himself in the common room beside the well-stoked fire. He’d dry off first, then imbibe a much-needed tankard or two of ale. However, he had to put those thoughts of comfort aside for the moment. The road was suddenly a dangerous mix of mud and ice requiring all his concentration.

Ian’s tension eased as the inn’s thatched roof came into view. “Do you see it, Prometheus?” He dismounted and walked his gelding the short distance through the mix of cold, pelting rain and hailstones. The temperature had dropped even more precipitously, and the courtyard would soon be a treacherous expanse of ice.

“Yer Grace! I’ll see ta yer rooms at once,” the proprietor said, bustling out of the inn and walking precariously on the slick ground to greet him. “Good ta have ye with us again. ’Tis not a fit night for man nor beast. Haven’t seen conditions this dangerous in years.”

A stable boy hurried forward and took his horse. “I’ll take good care of ’im, Yer Grace. Never ye worry. Gaw! He’s a big one. What’s ’is name?”

“Prometheus. He looks fierce, but he’s a lamb to handle. Just give him a few gentle strokes and some soft praises.”

“Gaw! Just like a woman.”

Ian let out a startled laugh. “Aren’t you a little young to know about such things?”

The boy tossed him a smug grin. “I’ve seen things. And I’m almost fourteen.”

“That old? My, my.” Ian slipped the pouches off the saddle and hurriedly carried them in while the boy took Prometheus to the stables.

The proprietor, a portly man by the name of Gwynne, began to fuss over him the moment they were inside. He summoned several servants, and with the quick clap of his hands ordered one to ready Ian’s bedchamber and another to carry wood upstairs to light a fire in his hearth. He then ordered another two servants to heat water for Ian’s bath. A tub was already in his chamber, Mr. Gwynne explained. “’Tis our finest room, and why shouldn’t I offer m’best guests every modern comfort?”

Ian nodded. “You’ll find no argument from me. My stays here are always pleasant. In truth, I made for your inn the moment I saw the darkening sky.”

Mr. Gwynne puffed out his chest with pride. “Will you be dining downstairs, Yer Grace?”

Ian was cold and wet, and his back was stiff from the long ride. “I’ll come down for a drink later, but have my meal brought upstairs.”

With another efficient clap of his hands, Mr. Gwynne called to one of the serving maids. “Elsie, His Grace is in need of a tankard of ale and a hearty chicken stew. Bring a tray up to him at once.”

Elsie was a young, attractive girl who had warmed Ian’s bed a time or two on past visits. She cast him a look that indicated she was eager to do so again. “I’m always at yer service, Yer Grace.”

“Stew and ale is all I’ll need tonight,” he said, politely refusing her offer.

“I’m available if ye change yer mind.” She purposely grazed her breasts against his arm as she left to obey the innkeeper’s instructions. A year ago, he wouldn’t have needed any encouragement, for that had been his way of life. Wherever he went, whenever the urge struck, there were always women eager to share his bed.

He no longer found these meaningless encounters appealing. Dillie made him hunger for something more. He wasn’t certain what that “more” was, but he knew it would be something more substantial than the casual satisfaction of a tumble in the sack.

Ian slung the pouches over his shoulder and turned for the stairs. He was eager to get out of his wet clothes and didn’t care to wait for the servants to ready his quarters or offer to carry his bags upstairs. The pouches were light in weight, containing only a change of travel clothes and some private business papers.

He strode past the common room, which was purposely situated near the stairs so thirsty travelers would be enticed as they walked to and from their sleeping quarters. Ian heard the sound of clinking tankards and laughter. He glanced into the room and noticed the rows of empty tables. There were no more than a dozen stray travelers who had sought shelter from the storm.

A few locals also appeared to be enjoying the usually crowded tap room. Mr. Gwynne shook his head and sighed. “The storm’s bad for my regular business. Hope it passes quick.”

“I’m certain it will.” A fire blazed in the common room’s massive fireplace. Wisps of smoke drifted toward Ian, carrying the scent of burning wood and a pork roast that must have been glazed with honey as it cooked over the flames earlier in the day. His stomach growled. He was hungry, not only for Dillie but for actual food.

The other guests didn’t seem to notice him, for their backs were turned. In any event, Ian had no wish to engage in pleasantries this evening. The common room was inviting enough, but he was spent. He ran his fingers through his wet hair. Pieces of ice slipped through his fingers. Ice in April? These late storms were particularly treacherous, for travelers were often ill prepared for them.

Mr. Gwynne led the way, huffing and lumbering up the stairs. “Yer Grace, I hope ye find yer quarters satisfactory. Elsie will bring ye that tankard of ale and a bowl of chicken stew. It isn’t fancy, but it will warm yer innards.”

Ian nodded. “It’s most appreciated.”

He was pleased to see a plump mattress on the bed and a fire blazing in the hearth. A tub stood near the hearth, and there was a side table with chair on the far wall beneath the window. The shutters were rattling, no doubt loosened by the fierce wind. “Blasted weather. My apologies, Yer Grace. I’ll fix them at once.”

Ian removed his oilcloth and cloak and hung them on a hook beside the hearth. He crossed to the window to assist the innkeeper, who was wrestling with the shutters. Eager to be left alone, he was about to offer to take over the chore when he saw a brilliant bolt of lightning strike the courtyard. It was followed by a roll of thunder.