What to Do with a Duke (21 page)

“Umm.” It was probably safer not to venture an opinion.

“Your hair is rather untidy as well.”

Cat's hands flew up to assess the damage. Oh, dear. How had so many strands come loose? She'd need a mirror to put everything to rights.

“We were, er, in the midst of a discussion.”

Mary snorted. “
Discussion
. That's an interesting term for it.”

Mary could be very annoying.

“The duke heard about the rumors. He asked Papa for my hand in marriage.”

“Oh, Cat, that's wonderful!” Mary threw her arms around her and hugged her tightly. “I'm so happy for you. See? He didn't let that silly curse prevent him from proposing.”

When Cat didn't hug her back, Mary pulled away, frowning. “What's the matter?” Her frown deepened. “You aren't going to hold to your mad decision never to marry, are you?”

That's what she should say, but she didn't have the heart at the moment to put on a brave face.

“I can't marry the duke.”

“Why not?”

“Because he still believes in the curse, Mary. I can't ask him to give up his life just because people are talking about me.”

“But he won't die. You know that”—Mary's eyes widened—“don't you?”

Icy fear chilled any lingering passion. “I don't know what I believe.”

 

 

Marcus walked up from the stables to the castle. The day had not gone at all how he'd expected. When he'd left for the village, he'd been certain the vicar and his wife would fall on his neck in gratitude that he was willing to do the right thing by their daughter. He'd thought Catherine would be relieved to be saved from scandal. He'd thought he'd be betrothed now and contemplating his own mortality.

He'd forgotten he was dealing with a family of lunatics.

He slapped his hand against his thigh. What the hell could he do? He couldn't force Catherine to the altar.

And why would he wish to? He should be delighted with the outcome. He'd done what honor demanded. Now he was absolved of all blame, not that the situation was his fault to begin with.

He clenched his teeth. But people
would
blame him. They'd assume he hadn't offered, because what woman in her right mind would turn down the chance to be a duchess, even the duchess of the Cursed Duke? And he
had
been the one to initiate that kiss in the bushes. And the kiss in the Spinster House . . .

He started walking faster.

What the blazes was the matter with him? He'd never cared about public opinion before. He certainly hadn't lost a moment's sleep over Miss Rathbone's ruined reputation.

But Miss Rathbone hadn't had a reputation except as an unpleasant, unscrupulous, scheming harpy. She'd earned every bloody aspersion cast her way. Catherine, on the other hand . . .

Oh, God. His mindless cock stiffened, making it painfully clear why he was in such an agitated state. It had nothing to do with Catherine's reputation. He'd been so blasted happy to see her when she'd finally opened the door that his heart—and his cock—had literally leapt for joy. He shouldn't have waved at Mrs. Greeley, but he'd
wanted
to be seen with Catherine. He'd wanted everyone to know that she was his.

Except she wasn't.

But she
had
responded to his kiss.

At least, he thought she had. He slowed his steps, going back over the scene in his mind. Perhaps he'd been a little too overwhelmed by it himself to know for certain.

But no, she hadn't pushed him away. On the contrary, he'd felt her hands moving under his coat and then through his hair. She'd moaned and rubbed against him—

Zeus, he was going to embarrass himself here in the middle of the lawn. He needed to think about something else, something like drainage issues and . . .

And Catherine's body had fit perfectly against his. Her mouth had welcomed him, and all he'd wanted was to get lost in its warm, wet depths.

And then he'd wanted to strip her naked and have her under him, his cock plunging deep while she screamed his name—

No. Think of dry rot. Crumbling mortar. Leaking roofs.

This insane attraction was all the curse's fault. Now that he was thirty, the need to see to the succession was growing, pushing him toward the cliff that was marriage. Finch and Kimball had warned him. Nate had tried his best to save him.

It was time to save himself.

He needed to put as much space as possible between himself and Miss Hutting as quickly as possible. He'd leave for London at once. Emmett and Dunly had been taking care of the castle quite competently all these years; they could continue to do so. They didn't need him. Hopefully by the time he returned for Mary's wedding—unfortunately, he couldn't skip that, not with Nate committed to play the pianoforte—he'd be cured. Several visits to his favorite brothels should do the trick.

He tried to ignore the nausea suddenly roiling his stomach at the thought of taking anyone but Catherine to bed.

Thank God Mary and the twins had shown up when they had. He would miss Thomas and Michael—he would miss all the Huttings—but it could not be helped. Sometimes retreat—hell, out-and-out flight—was the only option.

Emmett met him at the front door.

“Your Grace, I'm happy to see you've returned.” Emmett did not look happy; he looked nervous. “You have a visitor.” He cleared his throat. “In the study.”

Who the hell could be visiting him here? “Did the person give you his name?”

“Yes.”

Marcus waited. Emmett stared back at him, a panicked smile pinned to his face.

“So who is it?”

“Er . . .” Emmett swallowed. “Um, Mrs. Cullen.” His tongue was finally loosened. “She arrived an hour ago. I put her in the study and gave her some tea and cakes. She's very anxious to see you, Your Grace. I would suggest you go right in.” He smiled weakly. “Straightaway, if that would be convenient.” He swallowed again. “Your Grace.”

“I don't know a Mrs. Cullen. Emmett, what are you hiding from me?”

Emmett's face lost what little color it had, but then his chin hardened with resolve. “Your Grace, I think it best if you let Mrs. Cullen explain things.”

Oh hell, hadn't this day been bad enough? He didn't want to deal with another difficult woman; he wanted to flee to London, but he didn't have the heart to vent his spleen on old Emmett. For some reason it was important to the man that he hear this Mrs. Cullen out.

“Oh, very well, but I hope this won't take long.”

“Indeed, Your Grace.” Emmett wouldn't meet his gaze. “I'm certain Mrs. Cullen won't waste your time.”

The man was clearly hiding something, but what? The woman purported to be married, so she couldn't be planning to claim he'd compromised her—not that he would fall in with such a scheme in any event. And surely Emmett wouldn't be part of something so underhanded.

He would go along and find out what she wanted. If it turned out she had nefarious intentions, he'd send her on her way with a flea in her ear.

When he reached the study, he paused just outside the room to observe the woman. She was tall and slender, her black hair threaded with gray. She did not look to be a member of the
ton
. Her blue, unremarkable frock wasn't precisely dowdy, but it certainly wasn't of the first stare. He doubted it had been made in London.

At the moment, she was frowning up at the third duke's portrait. Hmm. Something about her profile was oddly familiar. He was certain he'd never seen her before, but perhaps he'd once met a member of her family.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Cullen,” he said, coming into the room. “I'm sorry to have kept you waiting.”

At his voice, the woman sucked in her breath and whirled to face him, her right hand going to her breast as if to keep her heart from leaping free. “M-Marcus,” she breathed.

He frowned. “I'm sorry. Have we met before?” He would swear they had not, and yet the woman was bold enough to use his Christian name. And she was looking at him in a very . . . unusual way, as if she wished to memorize his every feature.

She smiled, the corners of her blue eyes crinkling. “Yes, we have, Your Grace, but only briefly and many years ago. You would not be remembering it.”

She had an Irish lilt to her voice.

“Ah. I see.” Though of course he didn't. “Did you come with a specific purpose in mind, then, Mrs. Cullen?”
Other than to stare at me.

She laughed at that. “Oh, yes. I'm sorry. You must think me very odd. May we sit down, Your Grace? And then I'll be telling you my story.”

“Of course. Shall I ring for more tea?”

“No, thank you. I've had quite enough.”

Unfortunately
he
would like a large glass of brandy. Something told him he'd need the alcoholic support. But it would be rude to drink when the woman wasn't, and she didn't strike him as the sort of female who would be partial to spirits.

She sat gracefully on the uncomfortable settee while he took the uncomfortable chair. If he were going to stay here—which he wasn't—he'd make getting rid of this furniture a top priority.

The woman was studying him again in that oddly intent way. Was she never going to get to the point of her visit? He'd best prompt her.

“You were about to tell me why you are here, Mrs. Cullen.”

She nodded—and then sighed. “Yes. I'm afraid there's no easy way to be saying this, Your Grace.” She hesitated again.

“Then just say it, madam.” He couldn't keep the thread of annoyance from his voice. He'd had enough emotional drama for one day.

She nodded. “You are quite right.” She took a deep breath, smiled, and said, “I'm your mother.”

“What?!”
He felt his jaw drop, and then he surged to his feet and started to pace.

The woman was lying. She was here to pick his pocket; that was it. Somehow she'd got wind he was in residence. Perhaps she was in league with Emmett. The man had made a point of telling him that wild tale about an Irish mother. He'd even admitted to knowing her.

He looked back at her to tell her exactly what he thought of such machinations—

And suddenly realized why she looked familiar. He'd seen a male version of her face in his own looking glass.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I'm sure it's a shock.”

“Yes.” He sat again. He
really
would like a glass of brandy. “It is. How do you come to be here, madam?” He wouldn't call her Mother. He couldn't, not yet. Perhaps not ever. Nate's mother—his aunt—had earned that title.

But why had Aunt Margaret told him his own mother had married an Italian count and gone to Italy?

“I believe Emmett told me you live in Dublin?”

Mrs. Cullen nodded. “I do. My husband is a physician there. He's been corresponding with a doctor outside London for years and finally decided to visit. Since we were so close to Loves Bridge, I asked if we might stop and see Mr. Emmett as well. It was amazing luck”—she smiled—“or fate to find you here.”

Neither luck nor fate had ever favored him. “And your husband? Where is he at the moment?”

“Shortly after we arrived, Mr. Emmett got word that a tenant's child had taken ill, so my husband went off to see what was amiss. He always travels with his bag of medical supplies. You'd be surprised how often he is called upon to help someone.”

Mrs. Cullen was clearly proud of her husband. Marcus would even guess that she loved the man.

It was nothing to him, of course. He only felt this twinge of . . . discontent because he'd had a stressful morning.

She leaned toward him, determination suddenly in her eyes. “My husband will be back shortly, I'm thinking, Your Grace, so I should say this now.” She picked at an invisible speck of lint on her dress. “Please understand I don't wish to criticize your aunt—”

“I would hope not, madam. I will not brook any censure of the woman who raised me.”

Mrs. Cullen flinched at his words. He was sorry for it—sorrier than he would have guessed, actually—but it seemed best to be frank.

“Yes, she did raise you. And I do believe it was for the best—at least, that is what I have always told myself. But I never realized—” She paused, frowning. “That is, I never imagined . . .”

She leaned toward him again. “Your Grace, Mr. Emmett told me it was his impression that you thought I didn't want you, that I'd been happy to give you up. That is not true.” She sighed. “Or not completely true. It is far more complicated than that.”

It had happened a long time ago. It was likely best they leave it in the past. “Now, Mrs. Cullen, there is no need to—”

She spoke over him. “I loved you, Marcus. Giving you to your aunt and uncle was the hardest thing I have ever done. It was like tearing my own heart out. I did it because I was persuaded it was what was best for you.”

“And is that also why you've never contacted me in thirty years?” Blast it, he should hold his tongue. None of this mattered. It was ancient history.

So why did he have this crushing ache in his chest? He wasn't a child any longer. He was a grown man. He didn't need a mother.

“Yes, that was part of the reason. I said it was complicated.” She pushed an errant strand of hair off her face. “I don't know if you can possibly understand.”

“Then don't feel the need to explain, madam. I've survived quite well without you.”