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Authors: Sally MacKenzie

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BOOK: What to Do with a Duke
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She sat on the bed in her shift, stroking Poppy and staring out the window.
 
 
How could he not have pulled out in time? He'd never made that mistake before, even as a green boy. He took great pride in his control.
Except just now, at the most important moment, his bloody wonderful control had failed him.
Marcus made his way through the tangled garden and crossed the road toward the church. Sounds of conversation, laughter, and music drifted down from the hall's open windows. The party was still going on, but he wasn't quite ready to rejoin it. He turned toward the graveyard instead.
What the hell am I going to do?
What he'd told Catherine. He'd go back to Town in the morning and try to forget this interlude had ever occurred.
He snorted. And he'd go dancing with fairies on the Thames as well. There weren't enough light-skirts or brandy casks in all of London—no, in all of England—to make him forget Catherine.
I don't want to forget. It was perfect . . . all but my failure to pull out.
All right, that had been perfect, too. Emptying his seed in Catherine's warm, welcoming body had been so much better than pumping into the cold air, spending himself on the sheets. If he had the luxury of living a normal life, he'd even hope that they'd made a child together.
But I don't have that luxury.
Perhaps he should go to the Lake District instead of London, even if Nate and Alex decided against the trip. Walking miles and miles with only sheep for company—and perhaps Nate and Alex—would put this sorry situation in perspective.
But then if Catherine does write to tell me she is—
That is, if Catherine should write, it might take weeks for her letter to find him. That would be disastrous.
A red squirrel darted across his path and scrambled up the wide trunk of an old oak.
Blast it, he should have had her promise to send him word the moment she discovered she wasn't pregnant as well. Now if he didn't hear from her, it might just mean she'd decided to defy him and carry the child without his knowledge.
I can tell Dunly to let me know—
No. What could he say to Dunly without violating Catherine's privacy? Send word if your sister-in-law becomes noticeably stout?
Of course not.
He wandered among the gravestones. How long would it be before Catherine knew whether or not she was increasing? A woman generally had her courses once a month, but some had them less frequently. He could be waiting on tenterhooks for a damnably long time.
Zeus!
He slammed his fist down on one of the headstones.
How could I have lost control that way? I wagered my life for a moment of pleasure.
He was only thirty. He should have years and years ahead of him before he had to marry. But if Catherine had conceived, he couldn't let her bear the child out of wedlock. The entire village would shun her. And what if the child was a boy? Then the babe would become the next Duke of Hart, but only if he and Catherine were married when the infant was born.
And then the poor little mite would be cursed, too. Perhaps it would be better to let him be born a bastard.
No. Bastardy was never a gift.
He took a deep, calming breath. He was getting ahead of himself. With luck, Catherine had not conceived. The interlude in her bedchamber would just become a pleasant memory.
The thought was exceedingly depressing.
And if she wasn't carrying his child, he'd never see her again. How could he bear
that
?
He leaned against the headstone. Perhaps he didn't have to. Emmett had said he should spend more time at Loves Castle. He'd enjoyed becoming involved in the management of the place and getting to know his tenants. If he was at the castle, it would be natural to come into the village from time to time. He could even look in at the Spinster House to be sure all was in order and to see how Catherine went on....
No. Whom was he fooling? If he saw Catherine, he would want to bed her. He'd just proven how weak his control was where she was concerned. If they'd been lucky enough to escape pregnancy this time, he couldn't tempt fate by having relations with her again, even though his damn, mindless cock was insisting vehemently that one time with Catherine was not enough.
It isn't, but it's all I'm going to get.
Unless she
had
conceived. Then he'd have months to live with her and love her and watch her grow round and heavy with their child.
Months, not years. And he'd never see the baby, would he? Unless he was exceedingly lucky and Catherine gave him a daughter. It had happened once before. It could happen again....
No. I can't hope for such luck. And I'll still need a son to carry on the title.
He straightened. He was getting nowhere with this. He might as well go inside, even though the last thing he wanted was to be around people.
He glanced down at the gravestone he'd been leaning against and read the name on it. Of course. Isabelle Dorring. Blast! He'd like to push the damn thing over. It was a lie anyway. Isabelle wasn't buried here.
If only the curse was as much of a lie.
When he entered the hall a few minutes later, the Misses Boltwood pounced on him.
“You've been gone quite a while, duke,” Miss Cordelia said, waggling her brows.
Miss Gertrude giggled. “One hour and fourteen minutes.” Her brows joined her sister's in jumping up and down. “We timed you.”
“You must have had quite a
conversation
with Miss Hutting.” Miss Cordelia nudged her sister and they giggled harder.
“Yes. An exchange of many
pleasantries
.”
“For an
hour
and fourteen minutes.”
“You must have had a lot to
talk
about.”
Good God, the ladies had clearly had a few too many glasses of punch. He looked around the room. Would no one come to his aid?
Apparently not. Nate was still playing the pianoforte. He managed to catch Alex's eye, but the scurvy fellow just smiled and continued his conversation with Miss Wilkinson.
Well, Alex could plan to walk back to the castle, then.
“I think the dear vicar will be celebrating another wedding soon, don't you, Gertrude?”
“And maybe a christening nine months later—oh.”
The ladies suddenly realized they had strayed into hazardous territory.
“No one believes in that silly old curse,” Miss Cordelia said.
Miss Gertrude nodded vigorously. “This is 1817, after all. The previous dukes' deaths were just unfortunate coincidences.”
Five unfortunate “coincidences”—every single duke for the last two hundred years.
He'd had practice hiding his emotions. Now he smiled at the women. “Actually, I was visiting Isabelle Dorring's grave. Or, I suppose I should say, her gravestone.”
Their jaws dropped in unison.
“Why would you do something daft like that?” Cordelia managed to ask.
Why indeed? “No reason. I was just wandering through the graveyard and happened to stop there.”
The ladies were still gawping at him. He couldn't fault them. It
was
a rather preposterous tale, but he was not about to tell them where he'd been before his stroll through the churchyard.
“Good God, she turned you down.” Cordelia looked at her sister. “Can you believe it, Gertrude? Cat turned him down! What is the matter with that girl?”
“She has feathers for brains, that's what's the matter,” Gertrude said. “Or rocks. I could understand why she would shy away from Harold Barker—who
would
want to get buckled to that man?—but to turn up her nose at this!” She gestured at Marcus. “She must be blind as well as doltish.”
He did not wish to confirm their suspicions, but he couldn't stand silent and listen to them malign Catherine.
“Miss Hutting
is
living in the Spinster House, ladies. I believe that makes it quite clear that she is perfectly content with her unmarried state.”
Both elderly ladies rolled their eyes.
“Nonsense!” Cordelia said. “No female in her right mind would choose a life of virginity over a night in your bed, duke.”
“With or without a marriage proposal,” Gertrude added.
Cordelia snorted. “Except for Cat. I'm sure she'd want a ring on her finger first. She
is
the vicar's daughter.”
Dear God, don't let me look as guilty as I feel.
“And as stiff and proper as a nun.”
She is not!
Cordelia nodded. “Stiffer. Likely cold, too.”
If they only knew . . . which they will if Catherine has conceived, blast it.
“But if anyone can warm her up,” Gertrude said, “you can, duke.” She winked at him. “I'm sure you know your way around a bed.”
Cordelia sighed. “Yes, indeed. If only I was a few years younger.”
Good God! A few years? The woman must have at least sixty years in her dish, if not seventy. And she and her sister were both spinsters themselves.
Er, best not wade into
those
waters.
“Yes, well, it's been very pleasant chatting, but I must go speak to my friends, Lord Haywood and Lord Evans. I wish to get an early start tomorrow.”
“Early start?” Gertrude looked at her sister and then back at him. “You aren't leaving us, are you, duke?”
“Sadly, I am. I find I must return to Town.”
The two elderly sisters stared at him in silence.
Then Cordelia put her hand on his sleeve and shook his arm slightly. “Don't give up, duke. Cat will come around. You'll see. You just need to be persistent.”
If only it was that simple.
He gently freed his arm. “Madam, I know you mean well, but I must ask you not to pursue this topic any further.”
“Do you want us to speak to her for you?” Gertrude asked.
“No!” That came out a bit too forcefully. He made himself smile. “No, thank you. It is very kind of you to offer, but . . . no. Now I really must take my leave.”
“When will you be back?” Gertrude asked.
Cordelia reached for his arm again, but he was able to avoid her without being too obvious about it . . . he hoped. At least it didn't stop her from speaking.
“Perhaps you should stay away for a week or two, duke. Give Cat time to miss you. Then she'll fall into your arms the moment you return.”
“Yes. Well, I doubt that I will be returning. Good afternoon, ladies.” He bowed and turned—
And almost tripped over the twins. They were staring at him, large eyes dark in their pale faces. Mikey—and even Tom—looked to be on the verge of tears.
“You can't leave, dook,” Mikey said, throwing himself at Marcus and wrapping his arms around his legs.
Tom raised his chin and used his sleeve to wipe away his tears. “You're supposed to m-marry Cat.”
Oh, blast.
Chapter Eighteen
July 25, 1617—Dear God! My courses are now two weeks late, and my stomach is severely unsettled. The smell and even the look of some foods have me running for the chamber pot. I
must
be increasing. But what am I to do? I wish Marcus was here to hold me, but he is still away at his house party. I must write to him. He will marry me and all will be well.
—from Isabelle Dorring's diary
 
 
Something brushed across Cat's cheek.
“Mmpft.” She swatted at it and turned over in bed, settling back to sleep. She'd been in the middle of a wonderful dream. Marcus had just been about to—
The thing swatted back, hitting her nose this time.
“Go away, Poppy. I'm sleeping.” Ever since that afternoon with Marcus, Poppy had taken to inviting herself into Cat's bed. It was very odd. Had her scent changed or something?
She blushed, digging deeper into the covers. If something was different about her, fortunately, only Poppy seemed to have noticed.
“Merrow.”
Poppy rubbed her face against Cat's.
“It's too early. See, the sun isn't even up.” Cat finally opened her eyes. Her room was actually quite bright. Too bright.
She sat up abruptly, sending Poppy leaping to the floor. “Good God, what time
is
it?” She lunged for her watch on the bedside table. “Nine o'clock! I've never slept this late.”
Except she'd been sleeping this late rather often recently. She pushed her hair out of her face. What was the matter with her? She was always tired now, and her breasts were tender and achy—
Aching for Marcus's touch.
She buried her face in her hands. She
had
to forget him. She wasn't going to be some silly Miss, languishing for her lover. Marcus wasn't her lover. They had only done . . .
that
once.
She closed her eyes as her body remembered in throbbing detail exactly what they'd done. Marcus had been gone three weeks—three
long
weeks—but she recalled exactly how he had touched her as if it had happened yesterday.
Lud, it had been wonderful. She'd had no idea she could feel such things. She wanted more—
But she couldn't have more. And in any event, her breasts were really too sensitive to be touched.
She climbed reluctantly out of bed. If she hadn't already missed more than one fair planning meeting, she might have stayed under the covers. But she'd promised Jane and Anne she'd be there today.
Ouch! She bumped her breast with her arm as she pulled on her shift. She put her stays on more carefully and then her dress. Odd. Her bodice felt a bit tight. She hadn't thought she'd been putting on weight. Just the opposite. Even the smell of certain foods made her stomach rebel.
She must be sickening. Or perhaps her monthly courses were coming on. It was about time for them to make their appearance. She frowned. When had she had them last? She should pay more attention—
Oh.
Oh, God!
She dove for the chamber pot and emptied the contents of her stomach into it. Eew.
She sat back on her heels and pressed her fingers to her forehead. She couldn't be increasing. A woman didn't conceive the first—and only—time she had sexual congress with a man.
Though Marcus had seemed to think it was possible. He
had
told her to write him.
She eyed the chamber pot again as her stomach twisted.
Nonsense! She was just late, that was all. Her body had been shocked and disordered by the, er, experience with Marcus. Things were sure to right themselves in a few days.
Hopefully.
She opened the window and dumped the chamber pot's disgusting contents over the sill. Then she hurried down the stairs. Unfortunately, there was no time for tea, but she could get a cup and a bit of bread at the inn.
“Cat!” She looked over to see Jane and Anne coming toward her on the walk.
She fell into step with them. “Why aren't you already at the inn, Anne? Didn't you ride there directly?” Poor Anne. Her father had just remarried and moved his new wife and her sons into Davenport Hall.
“I did, but when I arrived and didn't see you or Jane—and did see the Misses Boltwood—I decided to go for a walk. I did not wish to be the only unmarried target for the ladies' dubious advice.”
Anne hadn't stopped by the Spinster House on her way to Jane's. That hurt.
No, it was just as well. If Anne had come by, she would have found Cat in bed or, worse, hanging over the chamber pot. “What kept you, Jane?”
“Randolph needed me to find a paper for him.” Jane snorted. “Of course it was exactly where I'd told him it was. He just couldn't manage to look under the book he'd put on top of it.”
“How annoying.” Cat waited for a self-satisfied feeling to bubble up at the thought of her own housing good fortune, but it didn't come. Ever since she'd made the mistake of letting Marcus into her bed, her contentment with the Spinster House had ebbed.
All right, she hadn't been as content as she'd expected even before then. Life in the Spinster House was a little too quiet and a bit lonely. But she was still adjusting. Things would get better soon. The situation with Marcus had . . . confused her.
Once I get used to his absence, I'll be fine.
They were walking past the lending library now. No one had taken it in hand since Miss Franklin left. Perhaps that was something she could do to pass the time when she wasn't writing.
“Why are you late, Cat?” Anne asked.
Good God, how did Anne know her courses were—
Oh. She was talking about being late for the
meeting
. “I overslept.”
“No little brothers or sisters to wake you up, eh?” Jane said.
Of course! That must be why she was sleeping so much. “Precisely. And I don't have to share a bed”—drat, she wasn't blushing was she?—“with Mary any longer.”
“You wouldn't have to do that now that Mary's wed.” Jane raised her brows. “Which I hope you'll be soon. The thought that I'll be able to move into the Spinster House—”
“
You'll
be able to move in?” Anne scowled at Jane. “Don't bet on it.”
“Definitely not!” What was the matter with Jane? “Why in the world do you think I'll be getting married?”
I'll have to marry if I'm increasing.
No, I can't. The curse—
“Have you heard from the duke recently?” Jane exchanged a significant—and very annoying—look with Anne.
Cat's stomach heaved. She pressed her fingers to her mouth, but fortunately, it was a false alarm. “Of course not.” She swallowed. “There's no reason for the Duke of Hart to write to me.”
“But when is he returning?” Anne asked.
“Never. That's what Mama said he told Thomas and Michael, and I don't believe he would lie to children.” The twins had been heartbroken.
Anne frowned. “I thought he told them he didn't know, but he was afraid it might not be for a long time.”
“That's the same thing. He was just trying to soften the blow for the boys, but they'd heard what he'd said to the Misses Boltwood.” Mikey had cried inconsolably that night, Mama had told her, though that might also have been due to Mary's leaving. But even Tom had been teary-eyed.
Oh, lud, Jane and Anne were looking at each other with that annoyingly knowing expression again.
“What
is
it?”
“I was talking to Lord Evans at Mary's wedding,” Jane said. “He thought the duke was very, er, interested in you.”
Which he had been.
Extremely
interested. He'd explored every interesting inch of her, some of which she'd never explored herself.
“His Grace is very kind. He takes an interest in everyone.”
Jane rolled her eyes.
“That's not the sort of interest Lord Evans meant,” Anne said, “and you know it. He meant a matrimonial interest.”
If I'm increasing, Marcus will insist we marry despite the curse.
“We think the duke cares for you, Cat,” Jane said.
Did
Marcus care for her or was what had happened between them merely a case of a worldly duke taking what a silly country spinster was offering? She hadn't thought so at the time, but she'd been so overwhelmed by all the new sensations, she hadn't been thinking at all. He could have been laughing up his sleeve at her.
With all his experience, he'd probably found what they'd done in her bed sadly flat.
Oh, God, she didn't know what to think. As more time passed, her recollection of what Marcus had said and how he had looked dimmed. The only thing that hadn't faded was her body's desire to do what they had done again.
And again.
No, that wasn't true. What she felt in her heart hadn't faded either.
“Have you forgotten about Isabelle's curse? Marriage for the duke is a death sentence. He has no desire to take up permanent residence in the churchyard anytime soon.”
But if I'm increasing . . .
Oh, Lord, if I give birth to a bastard, the scandal will be enormous. Papa is the vicar, for God's sake.
“But if the duke marries you for love,” Anne said, “won't that break the curse?”
But Marcus hadn't said anything about love. He'd offered because he'd spilled his seed in her.
“I don't know why we're having this ridiculous conversation. I'm a confirmed spinster. The duke knows that. He's the one who gave me the keys to the Spinster House.”
They finally reached Cupid's Inn.
“You're a spinster now,” Jane said, “but that doesn't mean you'll be a spinster forever. Look at Miss Franklin.”
Yes, Miss Franklin.
“Miss Franklin was an aberration.” Cat pulled open the inn door. “Mama says that as far as she can remember, no other spinster has ever wed.” Which is exactly what she would do—remain a spinster forever. If she couldn't have Marcus—and she couldn't—then she wouldn't have anyone.
And if I am increasing?
Oh, God. Oh, God. I can't be.
 
 
Cat would be the first to admit she wasn't paying much attention during the fair planning meeting. She sipped her tea and willed her courses to start.
“Pining for your duke, are you?” Miss Gertrude said when Cat failed to respond to something she'd asked.
It was going to be hell if every time her attention wandered, someone was going to throw Marcus's title in her face.
“Which duke?”
Every single woman in the room rolled her eyes then, and baby Malcolm farted, though that, of course, had not been intentional.
“
Which
duke?” Miss Cordelia said. “Let's see, how many dukes have wandered into Loves Bridge in the last few years?”
“The Duke of Benton, for one,” Cat said.
“Not the Duke of Benton.” Miss Cordelia snorted. “The Duke of Hart, of course. The boy who was sniffing around your skirts just a few weeks ago.”
“Likely doing more than sniffing,” Miss Gertrude said, nudging her sister.
“He did seem very interested in you, Cat,” Viola Latham said, having examined Malcolm's bottom and confirmed that noise was the only thing that had emanated from that region. “We all remarked on it.”
Helena Simmons nodded. “Even my husband mentioned it, and he never notices anything of that nature.” She snorted. “If he can't eat it or drink it or swive it, he doesn't see it.”
Helena and her husband did not have a happy union.
“So when is the duke returning to Loves Bridge?” Miss Cordelia asked. “And when will there be a wedding?”
Cat's stomach heaved, but she swallowed it down. “He's not coming back, and there won't be a wedding.”
“Oh, there'll be a wedding,” Miss Gertrude said, waggling her brows. “He's like his father. He knows he has to marry you to have you, and any fool can tell he wants to have you.” Her brows jumped even more. “Desperately.”
Oh, God, if I
am
increasing, everyone will know exactly what I did with the duke.
She took a deep breath.
My courses will come today or tomorrow. They have to.
“Remember the curse,” she said. Why didn't anyone else remind people of that damned curse? “The duke must put off marriage as long as he can.”
Miss Cordelia flicked her fingers at her. “It will take more than a silly curse to keep that boy from between your legs.”
She really was going to cast up her accounts—perhaps she could aim for the Misses Boltwood's shoes.
“Cordelia,” Viola said, “remember Cat is a virgin as are Jane and Anne”—her brows rose—“and you and your sister, I presume.”
Cordelia blushed slightly and shrugged. “Yes, yes. But we don't have any patience with roundaboutation, do we, Gertrude?”
“No, indeed.” Gertrude snorted. “Modern mealy-mouthed ways. In our day we got right to the point, and the point is, Cat, that the duke is as lusty as they come. Lud, his pantaloons were—”
“I really must be going.” She did not want to hear what Miss Gertrude thought about Marcus's pantaloons. “I find I'm not feeling quite the thing.”
“I know just what will cure you,” Miss Cordelia said. “A nice tumble between—”
BOOK: What to Do with a Duke
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