What to Do with a Duke (11 page)

“Ohh.” Miss Hutting sounded almost awestruck. “How lovely.”

The room was the size of the other two combined and looked to be in excellent shape, almost as if Isabelle had just stepped out for a moment. But that was likely only because it was in shadows. Marcus stepped over to open the shutters.

“Look! It's Isabelle.”

For the space of one convulsive heartbeat, he thought Miss Hutting had seen a ghost.

Good God, he was definitely losing his grip on reality.

He turned to see that the light from the window illuminated a full-length painting of a girl dressed in the long bodice and wide skirt of the early 1600s. Her white clothes were heavily embroidered with blue and red flowers and golden vines; the bodice's low round neck offered just a glimpse of her breasts. But it was her face, framed by a lace collar and her lovely red hair, that drew him: her high, smooth forehead; her lips, turned up in a slight smile; her green eyes gazing directly at him. She looked young and beautiful and happy. Clearly the painting had been done before she'd met his disreputable ancestor.

She also looked strangely familiar. . . .

He turned to gaze down at Miss Hutting. “You are very much like her.”

“Do you think so?” Miss Hutting tilted her head, examining the picture. “No. It's just the hair, and perhaps the eyes.”

She was wrong. The similarity was striking, though perhaps Miss Hutting's chin was firmer and her expression more determined.

He turned back to the painting and frowned. Isabelle was quite pretty, but she wasn't that extraordinary. There must have been many pretty girls for the third duke to choose from. And while Marcus believed in the curse—he had no choice about that—he did not believe in witches or love potions or any of that other superstitious nonsense. So why the hell had his ancestor squandered his honor and brought disgrace—and the curse—to his line over this girl?

He'd probably never know.

“This room is beautiful.” Miss Hutting had lost interest in the painting and was looking around. “I wonder why Miss Franklin didn't sleep here.”

Perhaps Miss Franklin had felt the same odd heaviness he did. The walls were dark oak paneling lightened somewhat by a paler wood inlay, but they still made him feel gloomy. Or perhaps it was the thought that his future had been stolen from him in this room—in that bed. The huge four-poster was dark oak as well, with heavy red curtains and—

And Poppy sitting right in the middle of the bedclothes, studiously licking her private parts.

 

 

If—
when
—she lived here, Cat thought, she would make this her bedchamber. It was much larger and nicer than the other room, and it looked out over the garden.

But perhaps the bed was uncomfortable. That might be why Miss Franklin hadn't chosen it. She leaned on the mattress to test it—and Poppy gave her a nasty look.

Ah. Had Poppy claimed this room then, and Miss Franklin had been too timid to sort things out? Well,
she
was not so timid. She'd make Poppy a comfortable spot somewhere else. And if the mattress needed replacing, surely the duke would see to it. He was going to have someone deal with the house's other issues.

The duke was frowning at the painting of Isabelle Dorring again.

When the workers were here, she'd have them move that, too. It felt wrong to toss it on a bonfire, which is what she'd like to do, but at least she could see it tucked securely into the storage room. She did not care to have Isabelle staring down at her while she slept.

She studied the picture. Yes, she'd grant that there was a slight family resemblance. “I think she looks a bit spoiled, if you must know.”

The duke's eyes snapped down to hers, a deep line between them. “Spoiled? What do you mean?”

“It wouldn't be so surprising. She was the only child of a rich merchant. She was likely used to getting whatever she wanted, and she wanted your ancestor.”

It really was too bad about the curse. This duke took far too much responsibility for what had happened all those years ago.

His frown deepened. “She was a young woman; the third duke was a wealthy and powerful man. I know at whose door to lay the blame.”

Men's minds were so narrow. “Isabelle was twenty-four years old, Your Grace. My age. Not a young woman.”

He snorted. “Right. An old crone, awake on every suit, no doubt.”

Could he be more annoying? “I'm sure she knew exactly how to catch the duke's interest. Women can be very wily, you know.”

“I do know, much to my sorrow.” He raised his eyebrows. “And I thought you were shocked when I suggested Miss Franklin might have seduced Mr. Wattles.”

“You never met Miss Franklin.” Yes, perhaps she wasn't being entirely rational, but looking at Isabelle's face now, she'd be willing to bet the girl hadn't been a helpless victim. “And I don't mean seduction precisely. Nothing so obvious. I've merely observed that women almost always have the cooler head when it comes to romance, even though that may not be the fairy tale men like to tell.”

“Oh? This is news to me.”

Of course it was news to him—he was a man.

“You should pay more attention. Watch people, though I suppose being a duke it's difficult to fade into the woodwork. But I have to imagine the game is played the same way in London as it is here.”

“Indeed it is. I assure you, women pursue men most assiduously in Town.” His mouth flattened. “I have far too often felt like a fox running before a pack of baying hounds.”

That sounded dreadful, but she believed him. He was titled and wealthy and very, very handsome. “Yes, but I'm referring to a far more subtle game, Your Grace. A woman finds a man she thinks will make a good husband, and then she persuades
him
to pursue
her
. I've seen my sisters and many of the other village women do it countless times.”

“Really?” He put his hand on one of the bedposts.

She'd like to wipe that superior look off his face. Patronizing idiot.

“Yes, really. Once a girl has selected the man she wants, she studies his habits. She'll ‘accidentally' encounter him on the village green. She'll smile at him. If he smiles back, she'll arrange to bump into him after Sunday services, and they'll share a few words about the sermon. Later, she'll just happen to be walking to the store when he's on an errand in the same direction, and they'll exchange observations about the weather. Before the poor man knows it, he's completely ensnared. He's calling on her whenever he can. Finally, he has no choice but to ask for her hand in marriage.”

“But then Isabelle didn't play the game very well, did she? The third duke didn't marry her.” His voice was rather low. “Though he got her with child.”

Her cheeks heated. The duke's words made her stomach flutter again. “That's true. I imagine she couldn't believe that anyone would tell her ‘no,' so she, er, put the cart before the horse, as it were.”

The sun must have gone behind a cloud, because it suddenly seemed dark and quite intimate in the room. Was the duke leaning closer?

She took a small step back.

“You describe such a calculated campaign, Miss Hutting. What about love?” His voice was little more than a whisper, dark and seductive. “What about desire?”

“D-desire?”

Oh, drat, her voice squeaked. He would think her a scared little girl.

She
was
rather unsettled. Her heart and stomach were fluttering now, and she felt light-headed. Perhaps she was going to be ill.

She grabbed the bedpost to steady herself, her fingers just below the duke's.

His hand was so much broader, so much stronger, than hers.

“Yes, desire,” he said, his words weaving a spell around her. “The physical need to touch and be touched, to be so close to another person you don't know where he ends and you begin. It can be painful, that need. It can consume you.”

“Ah.”

She could barely breathe. It felt as if the air was being sucked out of the room.

And then he took his free hand and touched the side of her face.

She should slap his hand away, but instead she wanted to grab it and press it against her cheek.

“And the longing not to be so very alone, if just for a few moments. It's a deception. A snare. We can't—none of us can—escape our solitary lives, but for a very little while we can pretend we did.”

No. He was wrong. She longed to be alone. She opened her mouth to tell him so—and saw the sadness and despair in his eyes.

She wanted to help him. To comfort him.

She stepped closer—

“Oh!” She jumped, and the duke straightened at the same time, snatching his hand back from her face. They both let go of the bedpost to turn and look at Poppy, standing on the bed. The cat glared at them and then leapt gracefully down to the floor and walked out of the room.

The bedroom. She'd been standing in Isabelle Dorring's bedchamber with the Duke of Hart doing . . .

What
had
they been doing? What had just happened?

Nothing apparently. The duke looked appalled. His expression should be funny.

She didn't feel like laughing.

“My apologies, Miss Hutting. I was . . . That is I didn't mean to . . .” The duke cleared his throat, tugged on his waistcoat, and glared up at Isabelle's painting. “I meant no disrespect. Now I believe we've accomplished everything we can here.” He glanced at the bed, and she'd swear he blushed. “We should be going. I have more notices to post.”

“Of course.” She walked briskly toward the door. “Would you mind if I moved that portrait into the storage room when I move in, Your Grace—assuming I become the next Spinster House tenant, that is?”

“I think that is a brilliant idea, Miss Hutting.”

May 5, 1617—Aunt Winifred has written again to say I should have an older lady living with me, and I have written back—
again
—telling her I do not need a nursemaid. Papa raised an independent daughter and gave me my head from an early age—much to Aunt Winifred's dismay. I cannot count the number of times she wrung her hands—at least in letters—and said his permissiveness would result in my coming to a bad end. Papa and I laughed over it often. Oh, how I miss Papa! But I will not have an old maid watchdog in my house. I am twenty-four years old, and this is Loves Bridge. Everyone is accustomed to my odd habits. And a companion would be very much in the way, especially now. The Duke of Hart continues to seek my company. I think an offer cannot be far off.

—from Isabelle Dorring's diary

 

 

Cat pushed an errant strand of hair out of her face as she stood in the village shop and watched Mrs. Bates, the shop owner, flutter around the duke.

“Oh, Your Grace.” Mrs. Bates put a hand to her substantial bosom. “Oh, how wonderful to see you!”

He wasn't going to turn stiff and haughty with poor Mrs. Bates, was he? No. He smiled.

“Thank you, Mrs. Bates. You are very kind.” He held up the Spinster House notice. “Now can you tell me where I might best post this?”

He hadn't proven himself at all high in the instep in any of his dealings with her. He'd been pleasant—friendly even—when she'd shown him the way to Randolph's office the other day, and he hadn't been at all snappish there, even when she and Jane had pulled caps a bit. And then in the Spinster House—

She bit her lip. What
had
happened in the Spinster House?

“I have a board over there, Your Grace. It's out of the way, but not
too
out of the way, if you know what I mean.”

Something dark and hot and, well,
disturbing
had happened. And something more disturbing might have happened if Poppy hadn't chosen precisely that moment to get off the bed.

Yes,
bed
. She should never have been in a bedroom with a man. What had she been thinking?

But it had been completely unobjectionable until the moment he'd mentioned—she felt her cheeks flush again—desire.

She fanned her face with her hand.

When her sisters had sighed about broad shoulders and kisses, she'd thought them ridiculous. She hadn't the least wish to be pulled up against some smelly man and have his mouth mashed down on hers. Ugh! How revolting.

And yet . . .

In Isabelle's shadowy bedchamber, with the duke standing so close, she'd suddenly begun to understand. His light touch had reminded her—
all
of her—of the feel of his body against hers when he'd caught her as she'd stumbled on the path to Randolph's office. He was so big and hard, but instead of feeling overpowered, she'd felt protected.

Stupid!
She did not want anything to do with the man. With
any
man. She wanted to be the Spinster House spinster. To be independent, free to write her novels without interruption.

She must have imagined that. How could the Duke of Hart feel lonely? He had an army of servants and countless friends and acquaintances, two of which had accompanied him to the castle. He didn't need her concern, and he certainly didn't need her pity.

Faugh! She'd hate to have anyone pity her.

Mrs. Bates had brought the duke over to her announcements board, where there was a faded paper about St. George's Day that Mrs. Bates hadn't yet taken down and a notice about the fair planning meeting, which Cat needed to get to soon. At least this was their last stop before Cupid's Inn.

Oh, drat. The silly Misses Wendley were giggling and peeking around the ribbon display at the duke. She had better go rescue him.

The girls saw her coming and hurried to reach the man before she did.

“Oh, look,” Mrs. Bates said, beaming at the hussies. “It's the Wendley twins. I'm sure you won't be able to tell them apart, Your Grace. Even their own mother can't.” Mrs. Bates chuckled. “You'll have to introduce yourselves, girls.”

Then she dropped a quick curtsey. “If you'll excuse me, Your Grace, I have to get back to minding the till.”

The duke inclined his head. “Thank you for your help, Mrs. Bates.”

The Wendley girls barely waited for Mrs. Bates's substantial girth to pass them before stepping even closer to the duke.

“I'm Abigail,” the one on the right said.

“And I'm Beatrice.”

The identical blond-haired, blue-eyed, eighteen-year-old featherheads curtseyed in unison. Even though her brothers were twins, Cat had never been able to sort the girls out. To be truthful, she'd never cared enough to try.

“It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Abigail, Miss Beatrice.”

The silly chits actually sighed with delight. The corners of the duke's mouth twitched, and he glanced up, meeting Cat's eyes.

Cat grinned back. Good for him. Most men were bowled over by the girls' matching beauty.

“We're
so
happy to see you in Loves Bridge, Your Grace,” Abigail said.

“We hope you'll stay now that you're here.” Beatrice fluttered her eyelashes.

“Not that we don't realize London must be a wonderful place.”

“We'd love to go there someday.”

“Do tell us about it.”

The duke blinked. Clearly he'd never before encountered anything quite like the Wendley sisters, but he recovered well. “London is rather crowded and noisy and dirty, actually.”

“Oh.” The girls' shoulders drooped, and they exchanged a look of dismay. However, they didn't let the duke's less-than-glowing reply discourage them for long.

“But surely there are soirees and balls,” Abigail said.

“And scores of shops,” Beatrice added.

“And elegant carriages.”

“And riding in Hyde Park at the fashionable hour . . .”

“. . . seeing and being seen.”

“Well, yes, there is that,” the duke said. “I suppose there's more to do in Town, but your village has its own charms.”

And what would those be? London might be all the objectionable things he'd said it was, but it had to be far more exciting than Loves Bridge. London had literary salons, theaters, museums—

Oh, what did it matter? She had as little chance of going to Town as the Wendley sisters did.

“Do you really think Loves Bridge charming?” Abigail asked.

“Yes, Miss”—he hesitated slightly, clearly trying to remember which twin he was addressing—“Abigail, I do.”

“Are you planning to live in the castle now?” Beatrice almost bounced with excitement.

“You must come to the village fair then,” Abigail said breathlessly. “It's wonderful fun. There are games and food and dancing. Last year there was even a performing monkey.”

“You can't pass up the opportunity to see a performing monkey, Your Grace,” Cat couldn't resist saying. “And there will be an organ-grinder as well, I believe, though I can't promise. The committee hasn't yet decided.”

He gave her a speaking look. “Oh? In that case I am severely tempted”—he returned his attention to the girls—“but I really can't say what my plans are at this time.”

“Oh, we do hope you will stay, Your Grace.”

“It's only a few weeks away, Your Grace.”

“A few months, you mean,” Cat interjected.

The girls glared at her, but she believed in accuracy, not that she thought for a moment the duke was at all interested in attending their little fair. Once the Spinster House situation was resolved, he would hurry back to London.

“I'll keep that in mind,” he said, and turned to tack up the Spinster House notice.

“What's that about, Your Grace?” Beatrice peered at the sheet of paper.

“I'm required to advertise the opening at the Spinster House, now that Miss Franklin has left.” He smiled. “I don't suppose either of you is interested in becoming the next Spinster House spinster?”

He might as well have asked if they were interested in emptying the castle's chamber pots. Abigail and Beatrice shook their heads so vigorously Cat thought their hair was going to come tumbling out of its pins.

“Oh, no. Definitely not, Your Grace,” Beatrice said.

“We wish to marry. All women do.” Abigail glanced at Cat. “All young women, that is.”

The dreadful duke managed to turn his laugh into a cough. “Yes. Just so. Now if you'll excuse us, ladies? Miss Hutting and I are off to Cupid's Inn.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” Beatrice looked worshipfully up at him. “It was so wonderful to meet you, Your Grace.”

Cat felt like gagging. And then Abigail, the annoying baggage, smiled at her in a condescending fashion.

“How kind of you to show His Grace around the village, Miss Hutting. I'm sure you'll be so happy when he no longer needs your assistance.”

“Precisely. Now, as His Grace just said, we need to be going.” She turned and walked toward the door, not really caring at that moment if the duke followed her or not.

“Do come again, Your Grace,” she heard Mrs. Bates call, so she knew he must be behind her.

“Are you going to make me chase you all the way to Cupid's Inn, Miss Hutting?” he said as she started across the road.

She stopped and waited for him. “No, of course not. And you could have caught up to me easily if you'd wished to.”

“Yes, but I was afraid I might get my ears boxed if I did.” He grinned down at her. “Which would have been a terrible injustice. All I want to do is offer you my arm so I can help an old woman totter across the green.”

She had to laugh. “Those girls.”

“They
are
very young.”

“They are my sister Mary's age, but they act as if they have only one brain between them.” She glanced at him. “And they are very beautiful. Usually that is enough.”

“Enough for what?”

“To have all the males in the vicinity fluttering around them like moths around a flame.”

All right, even she could hear the petulance in her voice. It wasn't that she wanted male attention herself. Not at all. It was just so exasperating to watch normally sensible men act like complete idiots over the girls.

“I, er, see.”

“Oh, don't worry. I won't bite your head off.” She forced a smile. “I apologize for my peevishness. I don't know what has got into me. I'm not usually bothered by the beautiful Wendley sisters.”

Oh, lud, there she'd gone sounding spiteful again.

The duke stopped, causing her to stop as well.

“What is it?” She looked up into his brown eyes with their long lashes. Their soft warmth was such a contrast to the strong, masculine planes of his face.

An odd heat, a yearning almost, started low in her—

She jerked her attention back to his
ordinary
brown eyes.

“There are many beautiful women in London, Miss Hutting. The Wendley girls are lovely, but they would be only one—or I should say two—among many in Town.”

“Yes, of course.” How ridiculous she was. She should have realized any Loves Bridge female would pale in comparison to a London lady. “My pardon. I don't know what came over me.”

He grinned. “Well, I imagine extreme irritation came over you. The girls
are
rather annoyingly inane. I was very happy to escape them.”

She grinned back, her joy far out of proportion to his comment, but she refused to examine the reason for that now. “I—”

“I say, isn't that Miss Hutting? Who's the man with her, Harold?”

“Drat it.” She recognized that querulous voice all too well. Mrs. Barker was dragging her son toward them.

“Friends of yours?” the duke murmured.

“Not precisely.”

Harold—Mr. Barker—had the grace to look embarrassed when he and his mother finally reached them.

“Don't just stand there, girl,” Mrs. Barker said, squinting at the duke. “Introduce us.”

“I will be delighted to do so, if you will give me the opportunity.” She didn't even try to keep the annoyance out of her voice. With luck, Mrs. Barker would take a complete disgust of her—not that the woman didn't already thoroughly dislike her—and forbid her son to have anything more to do with her. “Your Grace, may I present Mrs. Barker and her son, Mr. Barker. Mrs. Barker, Mr. Barker, His Grace, the Duke of Hart.”

The duke and Mr. Barker bowed; Mrs. Barker stared.

“I should have guessed,” she said. “You look very like your father.”

“Indeed, madam?”

The duke examined Mrs. Barker as if she were some repulsive insect he'd just discovered under a rock. Cat wished she could copy the expression to use herself.

“Oh now, don't stiffen up.” The woman sighed, and what looked like a nostalgic smile flitted over her lips. “He was quite something, your father. We were all enamored of him.”

Mr. Barker, unlike his mother, was not oblivious to the duke's chilly demeanor. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Your Grace.” He bowed again and tugged on his mother's arm. “Come along, Mama. I'm sure Miss Hutting and the duke need to be on their way, and you will wish to do your shopping.”