What to Do with a Duke (18 page)

His Grace's eyebrows were up by his hairline. He managed to look insulted and disdainful simultaneously. “And why, may I ask, do you ladies think I would favor Miss Hutting?”

“Anne saw us go into the bushes, Your Grace.” There was no point in trying to hide that. In fact, Cat was very much afraid that if she did indeed win the lottery, Anne would spread the story throughout the village. Anne had never been vindictive before, but this situation seemed to be bringing out the worst in all of them. “And though I explained I merely wished to have a private word with you, she seems to think something else happened.”

Oh, dear Lord, had she seen a smile flit over the duke's lips?

“I'm sure the ladies didn't mean to call your honor into question, Your Grace.” Randolph glared at Jane in particular, but she glared right back at him. “Emotions have been running a bit high, as you might imagine, since each of the ladies is very eager to reside here.”

“I see. And I suppose I must be the one holding the lots?”

“I believe so, Your Grace.” Randolph's mouth twisted. “I'm not certain that Miss Dorring's instructions specify, but since I'm the only other person available to do it, and my sister will likely accuse me of arranging things against her if she loses, I think it will have to be you.”

“
Would
you accuse your brother, Miss Wilkinson?”

Jane didn't even flinch. “Yes, Your Grace, I would.”

The duke nodded. “Then I suppose I must take comfort in the fact that mine are not the only motives you question. Very well. Tell us how you had planned to go on, Wilkinson, and we can then adjust the procedure to meet the ladies' requirements.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Randolph scowled at Jane. “I believe I've already devised things to guard against any favoritism. I put clay in the bottom of an old ceramic vase and carefully arranged the three sticks in it so they appear to be of equal length. Unless you can see through solid objects, you will not know yourself which is the shortest straw and thus have no way of favoring one candidate over another.”

The duke nodded. “That seems sufficient, but in an abundance of caution, I will blindfold myself as well. Will that do, ladies?”

Jane frowned. “I suppose so. Do you agree, Anne?”

Anne looked as if she'd like to find fault, but finally said, rather reluctantly, “Yes, I guess so.”

Of course no one asked Cat, not that she would disagree. What else could the duke do? The entire situation was ridiculous.

The duke pulled a large, white handkerchief out of his pocket. “If you will be so good as to tie this around my eyes, Wilkinson? And then please let the ladies inspect your handiwork to be certain they feel confident everything is in order.”

“I'm sorry, Your Grace,” Randolph said as he took the handkerchief. “I never guessed this would turn into such a farce.”

The duke had beautiful eyes, but once they were covered, Cat found herself focusing on his lips. Lud! Her body remembered in exquisite detail exactly how they had felt on hers.

She looked away as Jane and Anne stepped closer to assure themselves that the duke couldn't see.

“Don't you wish to examine the blindfold, too, Cat?” Randolph asked.

“No. I trust you to be able to tie a knot.”

“Thank you.” Randolph looked at Jane and Anne. “Does everything meet with your approval, ladies?”

Anne nodded.

“Yes,” Jane said. “Let's get on with it.”

Randolph fetched the vase and put it carefully in the duke's grasp. Cat's stomach twisted, and her legs started to shake. In just a moment, she'd know if she'd won the Spinster House or if she was condemned to continue living in the vicarage's chaos.

“May I suggest I count to three and then each lady put her hand on her chosen lot? However, before anyone pulls one out, I will give the vase to you, Wilkinson.” The duke's beautiful lips turned up into a grim smile. “I should like to have removed my blindfold before the result is known in case I need to defend myself.”

“I hope we have more control than to attack you, Your Grace,” Jane said.

“I hope so, too, but I find myself strangely reluctant to wager my safety on it.” The duke extended his arms, holding the vase well away from his body. “Here we go, then. One. Two.”

Cat's heart raced. She tensed, ready to dart her hand out the moment the duke said “three.” She had her eye on the lot she was going to choose.

“Three.”

She reached out—and had her fingers knocked away by Anne's.

“Anne!”

“I got to it first.”

Cat had no choice. She had to take the last lot.

“Wilkinson,” the duke said, “if you will hold the vase?”

Randolph took it, and the duke stepped back, ripping off his blindfold.

“Very well,” His Grace said. “Let us see who will be the next Spinster House spinster.”

Cat pulled her stick out of the vase and then looked at the others. Oh! There was no question—hers was far shorter than Jane's or Anne's.

“I won!” She grinned at the duke.

His Grace did not return her smile. “Congratulations, Miss Hutting. And may I advise you to watch your back if you wish to maintain your position?”

“What? Why?” She looked at Jane and Anne. “Oh.”

Her friends were scowling at her as if she were their mortal enemy.

—from Isabelle Dorring's diary

 

 

“You're moving into the Spinster House?”

“Yes, Papa.”

Cat had waited until dinner when the entire family was gathered to make her announcement. It had not gone well.

No, that was a colossal understatement. It had gone terribly. It had been like tossing a bomb into the middle of the dinner table. All conversation stopped, and everyone stared at her, mouths agape. Even Mama, for the first time in Cat's memory, was speechless.

And then Mama . . . well, drooped was the best way Cat could describe it. Her shoulders, her mouth, her eyes—everything slid downward as if pulled by unbearable disappointment.

Mikey started to cry, and even Tom sniffled.

“But why, Cat?” Papa sounded completely bewildered. “Aren't you happy here?”

“Of course I'm happy, Papa.” On one level, that was true. She did love her family. “But I'm twenty-four years old. It's time I moved out.” She forced a smile. “I don't even have my own bed here.”

“You will soon,” Mary said, “when I wed Theo.”

“Yes, and then Mama will move Pru in.” Cat tried to laugh and almost managed it. This was much, much harder than she'd thought it would be.

“No, Cat.” Mama finally found her voice. “I would have let you have the bed—and the room—to yourself if you'd told me that was what you wanted. We have enough space now. Pru and Sybbie can keep sharing.”

“Yes, Cat. I don't mind,” Pru said, her voice quavering. “Please don't leave.”

Good God! She'd thought Pru would be the one opening the door and giving her a sisterly shove to hasten her departure.

Sybbie was sobbing into her napkin now, and Walter and Henry just stared at their plates. They must be extremely upset—they'd stopped eating.

This was silly. “It's not as if I'm moving to London. I'll be just across the street.”

It was the right decision. She'd wanted this for years. So why did she suddenly feel as if she was making a terrible mistake?

She just hadn't expected this reaction, that was all. It was unfortunate, but change was always hard. Once everyone got used to her living in the Spinster House, things would settle down.

And, really, when Tory and Ruth had moved out, there hadn't been this great fuss. And Mary was leaving in just over a week—no one was crying about that.

No, the problem wasn't Cat moving out. It was her leaving without marrying.

“How could I not take advantage of this opportunity? I never guessed Miss Franklin would wed and open up the Spinster House position.”

“But I thought you lov”—Mary caught herself—“liked the duke, Cat.”

“Of course I like him.” She gave Mary a look that threatened slow dismemberment if she said one word about their nighttime conversation. “What does that have to say to the matter?”

Mikey had come over to wrap his arms around her waist and soak her dress with his tears. Now he wiped his streaming nose on her. “You're supposed to marry dook, Cat.”

She hugged him tightly. “No, I'm not, Mikey.”

“Yes, you are.” Tom had stayed in his seat, but his eyes were red and his lower lip stuck out as it always did when he was fighting tears.

“Oh, Tom.” She smiled at him, and then looked around the table and forced a laugh. “This is ridiculous. The duke hasn't even offered for me.”

“But he will.”

“Papa!”

“I saw how he looked at you during dinner last night, Cat. And how you looked at him. You can't say you're totally indifferent to the man, because I won't believe it.”

“She's not indifferent to him, Papa.” The words burst out of Mary. “She—”

“I
said
I liked him.” Cat glared at her sister, and Mary flushed and held her tongue.

Mama shook her head, clearly baffled. “I can understand your reservations about Mr. Barker, but the duke is nothing like him.”

“I know that.” Of course she knew it. In other circumstances—

But the circumstances were as they were. The duke was bedeviled by the curse, and she wished to write books. A husband—even a husband such as the duke—would be a tremendous distraction. Living in the Spinster House was the perfect way to ensure she actually wrote rather than merely wished to do so.

“I've told you, Mama, and you, too, Papa, that I have no plans to wed. I want to write. I need time and a quiet, solitary place to do that.”

“I don't know why,” Papa said. “I would think all you'd need was some paper and a pen.”

Of course Papa didn't understand. No one had ever understood, except perhaps Miss Franklin. Writing a novel was far more than just scribbling words on a sheet of paper.

“It's not that simple. If I married, running a household, especially one with children, would take all my time.” She looked back at Mama. “Isn't that true?”

Mama raised an eyebrow. “I suspect as the Duchess of Hart, you'd have an army of servants ready to do whatever you needed at the crook of your little finger.”

“Oh!” Prudence's eyes widened. “That's right. If you marry the duke, you'll be a duchess.” She almost bounced in her chair. “My friends will be
so
jealous.”

“And I wager the duke has a bang-up stable,” Walter said. “Or he will once he decides to live at the castle.”

“And he has a cook that bakes good biscuits,” Tom said.

“And a horse that doesn't bite,” Mikey added.

“And he can buy me my cavalry commission—”

“No, he cannot, Henry.” Mama scowled. “You are not going into the cavalry.”

“But, Mama—”

“Stop!”
Cat took a deep breath. “I am not getting married.”

“But Mama is right,” Prudence said. “If you married the duke, you'd have servants to take care of everything. And the castle is so large, you could probably go days without seeing him if you wanted to.”

But that was
not
what she wanted. She wanted to share her life with Marcus. She wanted to wake up with him every morning and go to bed with him every night.

And now she was blushing. She could not think about beds and Marcus.

“I am
not
marrying the Duke of Hart. How many times do I have to say it?” She struggled for control. “Contrary to what you say, Papa, he will not propose. Are you forgetting the curse?”

Walter shrugged. “Even better. If you marry him, you'll be a wealthy widow in just a little while. Then you'll have the castle and money and plenty of time by yourself to write. I should think that would be exactly what you'd want.”

Cat surged to her feet. “It is
not
what I want! What an awful, hateful thing to say.” She threw down her napkin and ran from the room.

Mama found her later sitting on the bed she shared with Mary.

“Walter should not have said that.” Mama sat down next to her.

“No, he should not have.”

“Papa has him translating Latin and Greek phrases as a punishment, but he'll be up to apologize himself shortly. He's truly contrite.”

“He should be.” Cat refused to meet Mama's gaze, not that Mama needed to see her eyes to know what she was feeling. Cat had shown the entire family that.

Mama laid her hand on Cat's. “I'm sorry, Cat. I wish I could do something to fix this.”

Cat's throat clogged with tears. She swallowed determinedly.

Mama's fingers tightened on hers. “If Isabelle wasn't dead already, I'd drown her myself. The pain she's brought you and the duke is unconscionable.”

Cat managed to force some words past the lump in her throat. “There is nothing between me and the duke.”

Mama let that lie pass unremarked upon.

“Walter said he'd help you move in the morning.”

“I don't need help.”

“Perhaps not, but it would be kind of you to let him make amends this way. I believe he really didn't understand your feelings.”

Likely not.
She
didn't understand them. “All right.”

Half an hour later, someone knocked on her door.

“Come in.”

Walter edged into the room.

“I'm sorry for saying what I did, Cat. I didn't know—I mean, you said—” His voice broke—he was at that age when it broke often—and he shrugged, staring down at his feet. “I really am sorry.”

“I know, Walter. It's all right.”

“And you'll let me help you in the morning?” He glanced up and then back down. “Mama said you would.”

“Yes, of course.”

 

 

By morning, Walter had regained his swagger. He chattered away about something—Cat was listening with only half an ear—while he carried her valise to the Spinster House. They passed Mrs. Bates on her way to her shop.

Cat smiled and nodded. “Good morning, Mrs. Bates.”

Mrs. Bates didn't answer or even meet Cat's eyes. Instead she pulled back her skirts and crossed to the other side of the road.

Walter stopped and stared after the woman. “Why'd she do that?”

“I don't know.” It was very odd. Mrs. Bates was usually quite friendly.

“It was like you had the plague or something.”

“Perhaps she is the one who is ill.” Cat didn't have time to stand on the walk and puzzle over Mrs. Bates's peculiar behavior. The key to the Spinster House was heavy in her pocket. “Come along, Walter. I want to get settled as soon as I can, and Papa said you weren't to dally. You have more translations to do.”

Walter scowled. “Papa has no mercy. You'd think he'd give me the day off since my oldest sister is moving out.”

Cat snorted. “Doing it rather too brown, Walter. You aren't going to miss me. And if you do, I'll be just across the road, for goodness' sakes.”

“It won't be the same.”

“Yes, it will.” They'd reached the Spinster House door. Cat fitted the key into the lock and turned it. The door swung open noiselessly to reveal Poppy sitting in the entryway cleaning her paws, as if she'd been awaiting their arrival.

The cat took one look at Walter, arched her back and hissed, and then darted past their legs and down the walk.

“And I don't like you either!” Walter called after her. Most animals loved Walter, so he was especially offended by Poppy's rejection.

“She's only a cat, Walter.”

“And a stupid one, at that. I'd evict her if I were you.”

“I doubt I can. This is her house more than mine—or at least I'm sure that's what she thinks. Now give me my bag, and you can be on your way.”

“I'll take it up to your bedchamber for you. You don't want to hurt yourself lugging it up the stairs.” Walter wandered farther into the sitting room.

Clearly he was not anxious to return to the vicarage and his translations.

“I am not so delicate, Walter, and the bag's not that heavy—I packed it, remember?” She could let him carry it up, but she was strangely reluctant to have him see the rest of the house. This was her place, her new life. She wasn't ready to share it.

“All right.” Walter set the bag down, but made no move to leave.

“Have you forgotten where the door is?”

“No.” He still didn't move, except to shift from foot to foot. He glanced around the room, his eyes stopping at the dreadful picture of the dog with a dead bird in its mouth. “Look at that painting.”

“Yes, I've seen it before. Now I'm sure Papa is waiting for you.”

He frowned at her. “Want to get rid of me, do you?”

She did. She was eager to revel in her solitude. But she thought she heard a hint of bravado in his voice. “You aren't really going to miss me, are you, Walter?”

“Of course not.” His words said one thing, but the hesitation in his voice said something else.

Heavens! He
was
going to miss her. “You know you can visit whenever you want.”

Oh, drat. She hadn't wanted to say that. She was here for the solitude. She wouldn't get much writing done if her siblings kept popping in.

But it had been the right thing to say. Walter's sudden grin was blinding. However, being a thirteen-year-old boy, he was not about to admit to any feelings.

“Why would I want to do that? You're just across the street, remember.” He paused and shifted on his feet again. “You'll be coming home for dinner, won't you?”

“Yes, from time to time.” She started for the door to encourage him to do likewise. “Now go along. You don't want to keep Papa waiting.”

Walter sighed. “Blasted translations. Why couldn't those ancient chaps have written in the King's English?”

“Perhaps because they were Greeks and Romans.”

Walter made a face at her, and then waved and headed back toward the vicarage.

She closed the door firmly behind him and rested her forehead briefly against it.

Finally! For the first time in her twenty-four years she couldn't hear someone talking or crying or arguing or just thudding around. There was no one asking her to play games or run errands. She was completely, blissfully alone.