What to Do with a Duke (29 page)

He'd thought to slake his lust with one of the many accommodating London light-skirts, but when he'd arrived at his favorite brothel, he found he couldn't take another woman to bed. His cock refused to play, dangling between his legs as if dead. He hadn't stayed beyond five minutes and had likely ruined his reputation among the London Cyprians.

Bloody hell! He enjoyed a romp in bed as much as the next man, but now . . .

He kicked a loose stone and sent it clattering over the pavement.

Now something had changed. He'd changed. What he'd done with Catherine had been more than an enjoyable act of copulation. Minds and hearts had been involved.

It
had
been an act of love.

But did that mean he
loved
Catherine?

He crossed the street to Hart House, the glow from the gaslights making the puddles glitter and the cobblestones shine.

It didn't matter. He might not know what love was, but Alex was right. He felt dead now. He'd rather have a handful of months sharing his days—and his bed—with Catherine than years and years of life without her.

He'd go to Loves Bridge and ask her to marry him.

He grinned and took the steps to his door two at a time. He'd leave in the morning. He'd like to leave now—and might consider it if the moon was full—but such bizarre behavior would shock poor Emmett and Dunly and the others at the castle and would set tongues to wagging. He didn't want that. He hadn't yet persuaded Catherine to have him.

Finch opened the door before Marcus could grasp the latch. Damnation, the butler must have been watching for him. Now what?

“I can let myself in, you know, Finch. No need to hover by the door.”

Finch frowned and tugged on his waistcoat. “I have put your correspondence in the study, Your Grace.”

Oh, right. The way he'd been waiting for the post every day, Finch must think he'd want to have that news immediately.

“Thank you. I'll look at it in the morning. I'm off to bed now.”

Should he tell him he was leaving at dawn? No, better save that for Kimball. His valet was apt to get his nose out of joint if he thought Finch knew something before he did.

Finch cleared his throat. “I believe you would wish to read it tonight, Your Grace.”

He froze. “Oh?”

Finch nodded, not meeting his gaze. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Very well. Thank you.”

He started for the study, alarm coursing through his veins. Something was wrong.

Finch had left a lamp burning. He saw the post immediately. Most of it was off to the side, but one white rectangle lay by itself in the middle of the desk.

He walked slowly over to it and picked it up. It was from Loves Bridge. From the Spinster House, which could only mean one thing.

He broke the seal. The writing was neat, feminine. There was a splotch in the middle as if a tear had fallen on the ink.

—from Isabelle Dorring's diary

 

 

She was sorry.

He let the letter slip from his fingers and flutter down to the desk.

She was
sorry
.

He'd been so focused on his own feelings, he'd forgotten about Catherine's. She wasn't like the other girls. She didn't want to marry. She certainly didn't care about becoming a duchess. She wanted to live alone in the Spinster House and write. This pregnancy would ruin all her plans.

No, it needn't do that. Yes, she'd have to marry him, but he would hire nursemaids and governesses and tutors. All his properties were large. She could go off by herself to write whenever she wished. He would expect her to warm his bed from time to time for the few months he had with her before the curse sent him to the grave, but surely that wasn't too much to ask? She'd proven herself passionate—

Oh, God, no. That wasn't what he wanted. Even his randy cock wasn't enthusiastic about the notion of Catherine being little more than a live-in mistress.

He dropped into the desk chair and rubbed his face. Did she care for him at all?

She'd never said so. She'd only said she wanted him.

But she'd let him into her bed. Surely she wouldn't have done that if she hadn't felt
something
for him besides lust. Catherine wasn't a light-skirt. He'd been her first lover.

Oh, Lord. I
want
her to love me. I want it far too much.

He surged back to his feet and started to pace in front of the fire.

Catherine did seem to care whether he died or not. Hadn't she mentioned the blasted curse when she'd said she wouldn't marry him?

Perfect. The curse that had been such an attraction for the grasping women who'd been past Duchesses of Hart was exactly what was keeping Catherine from accepting his offer.

He paused by the far wall. All right, he would absolve his mother of that sin. But the ladies who'd been vying to become
his
duchess certainly valued the fact that they could look forward to his early demise.

He turned to stride back the other way.

But caring whether he lived or died didn't mean she loved him. She would likely feel that way about anyone, even the detestable Mr. Barker.

But she hadn't stopped him.

Likely it was his own emotions he'd imagined in her expression. Perhaps she'd only been appalled by her behavior, finally realizing the magnitude of what she'd done, how she'd put all her plans in jeopardy.

His gut clenched. Surely she didn't feel the panic and despair Isabelle Dorring had felt?

No. She'd written to him as she'd said she would. She must know she could rely on him to help her.

He turned his back to the fire. And he
would
help her. He would marry her. It might not be what she wanted, but that was immaterial now. Neither of them had a choice any longer—they'd made their choice three weeks ago.

And she
had
made the choice. It hadn't been rape. He'd offered to leave. He'd even warned her there was a risk of conception. Yes, he should have pulled out in time, but what was done was done. He hadn't meant to impregnate her.

Now she was carrying his child, so she had to become his wife. He would not let his son or daughter be born a bastard.

He snatched Catherine's letter off the desk and tossed it into the fire. No need to advertise the fact that they had anticipated their vows. People might wonder, but babies did sometimes come a few weeks early.

He headed for the stairs and his bedchamber. He needed to try to get some sleep. He intended to leave at first light. Tomorrow he would see Catherine.
Zeus!
He'd thought he'd never again have that pleasure, but now . . .

Now he was filled with an unsettling stew of anticipation and dread.

 

 

Cat was dreaming of Marcus. He was in her bedroom, and she was naked—

Something brushed over her cheek. She swatted at it, but Poppy was too fast. Cat's hand passed through the air without touching anything.

The light sensation came again.

“Go away, Poppy.” She snuggled deeper into her bed. “I'm dreaming.”

“About me, I hope.”

She'd swear that was Marcus's voice.

Her eyes flew open. Her room was still filled with shadows, but she could see Marcus's face just above hers.

Was she dreaming? She reached out to cup his jaw.

His strong fingers wrapped around her hand and turned it, his lips skimmed her palm. The sensation of his mouth brushing over her skin sent expectation humming through her.

“Your cheek is rough.”

“I didn't take the time to shave.”

She
must
be dreaming, and this Marcus must be a phantasm called up by her desire. It was too early for the real Marcus to be here. She'd just posted her letter yesterday afternoon.

But he felt very real.

“Is it true? Are you actually here?” she whispered.

“Yes, Catherine. I'm here.” His voice was deep and husky and warm—and there was a note of humor in it, too. And desire. Surely desire.

“Show me.”

“Show you?” He sounded hesitant.

“That you're really, really here.” She pulled back the coverlet to make her invitation plainer. “Please.”

She knew she'd missed him, but she hadn't realized how much until now. Her body was on fire, her breasts, the place between her legs, everywhere aching for him to do what they had done before. There was no danger now. She couldn't become pregnant. She already was.

For a moment she thought he was going to refuse. She bit her lip. She wouldn't beg, though the need surging through her urged her to do so.

And it wasn't just her body. Her heart ached, too. She'd been so lonely without him.

It was still too dark to see his expression—his back was to the window—but perhaps there was enough light for him to see hers.

“Shall I get undressed?” His voice wasn't completely steady.

“Yes.”

She scrambled out of her nightshift as he removed his coat. Then she watched as he shed his waistcoat, shirt, shoes, stockings and, finally, his pantaloons.

Three weeks ago his body had been so strange. Now it was familiar and precious, a gift she could hardly wait to hold again.

He climbed into bed and stretched out beside her. She put her arm over his chest, buried her face in the angle between his shoulder and neck, and breathed deeply. He smelled so good. He felt good, too, solid and strong. All the fear, the loneliness, the anxiety that had gripped her since he'd left drained away.

She ran her fingers over his chest, down his flat belly all the way to his male bit. It was long and hard and thick.

Desire surged in her again. She was empty, and she needed him to fill her.

“As you can see—or feel—I missed you rather dreadfully,” Marcus said with a breathless little laugh. And then he turned and brought his mouth down on hers.

There was nothing gentle or tentative or graceful about this lovemaking. Marcus tried at first to go slowly, but she was having none of it. Her need for him was too raw. Her hands slid down over his muscled back to grab his arse and pull him closer.

“Now, Marcus. Please.”

He didn't argue.

She came apart the moment he entered, convulsing around him as he slid deep, deep into her. And then, as if in echo, she felt the warm pulse of his seed.

He collapsed onto her, and she held his damp, relaxed body tightly.

Oh, God, how she loved him.

He lay like that for a few moments, and she savored his solid weight pressing her into the mattress. Then he turned his head and brushed her cheek with his lips.

“That's a splendid way to say good morning.” He lifted himself off her and drew her against his side, pulling the coverlet up over them.

“Mmm. I'd love to say good morning that way every morning.” She ran her fingers over his chest. She felt wonderful. Relaxed and at peace.

“That sounds like a brilliant idea.” He grinned. The room was lighter now so she could see his face clearly. His eyes gleamed, his smile was broader than she'd ever seen it. He looked very, very happy.

“Though I'm not a hundred percent certain I could survive the experience daily.” His grin widened even more. “But I would try. I would definitely try.”

She grinned back at him. Having him here was heaven, though the Almighty would likely not approve. At least there was no planning meeting to interrupt her today.

Wait a moment....

“How did you get in?”

“The same way I did last time—the back door.” He kissed her nose. “You really should lock it if you don't want riffraff showing up in your bed.”

“Oh.” She started to sit up. If Marcus got in, then someone else could, too. Not that she expected anyone to try, but it would be terribly, er,
awkward
to be found naked in bed with the Duke of Hart.

Marcus wrapped his fingers gently around her arm to stop her. “Don't worry. I locked the door behind me.”

He tugged, and she let him pull her back down so she rested her head on his chest, her arm draped over his muscled stomach. She listened to the steady beat of his heart as his hand stroked up and down her back. Mmm. She felt so warm and relaxed and happy. She could stay here forever.

“I'd lecture you on the need to be more careful if you weren't going to be moving to the castle so soon.”

Her contented, lazy peacefulness evaporated in an instant, and she jerked up to frown down at him. “What do you mean? I'm not moving to the castle.”

“Yes, you are.”

Marcus's body was finally content, but, more importantly, so was his mind and his spirit. He'd been so miserable these last few weeks, but that was over now. Now he would have Catherine with him for as long as he was given to live.

He looked up at her lovely breasts dangling above him, at the delicate line of her collar bone—and the deep furrow that had appeared between her brows. He reached up to trace the line, but she pulled her head back.

“No, I'm not.”

He was too sated to be alarmed. “Yes, you are.” He smiled and traced the line of something he could reach. He watched her nipple pebble before she moved back farther. She was almost off the bed.

He leaned up on one elbow. “Well, after we marry, of course. We don't want to scandalize people more than we have already. I'll go for a special license today, and your father can marry us as soon as may be.” His smile widened. “But I'm not waiting for Mrs. Greeley to make you a gown—unless you insist.”

Her frown hadn't gone away. If anything, it had deepened. “Marcus, I am not marrying you.”

Good God, she sounded serious.

He sat up. “But you have to, Catherine. I got your letter. I know you're increasing.”

He rested his hand on her belly, excitement and wonder coursing through him. His child—a new life that included some spark of him—was there.

She put her hand over his. “No, Marcus. Don't you see? If we aren't married when the baby is born, he can't be your heir. The curse won't apply.” She smiled at him finally and cupped his cheek. “You'll get to hold your son and watch him grow. And we can have more children. We can have a family.”

“No.”

“No?” Her brows slammed down. “Why not? It's the perfect solution.”

He didn't want Catherine to be his mistress. The thought was obscene. He wanted her to be his wife.

“No, it's not. Remember how everyone shunned you over our interlude in the bushes? This time there will be no doubt what we've been doing.”

She flushed. “It doesn't matter.”

“Of course it matters. Your family would be put in a terrible position. Think of Mary as Dunly's wife. Or your father. He's the vicar, for God's sake.”

Catherine picked at the coverlet. “Perhaps I could live somewhere else. You have other estates, don't you?”

“I do, but people are the same everywhere. And never think word of our situation wouldn't get out. The
ton
loves to gossip, and your cousin Lady Uppleton and your aunt Lady Penland most of all.”

Her face was now very pale. “I don't care.”

She was brave and independent, but she'd lived her entire life in a village where everyone knew her and accepted her. Yes, she was an original, but she'd not strayed far from propriety's path—or, at least not that anyone knew. When her activities with him came to light—which they would in a few months—she would learn that being a true social outcast could be very, very painful.

“And what about our children, Catherine? They would be gossiped about and pointed out as examples of the evils of lust. None of the other children would be allowed to play with them.” He brushed a strand of silky hair off her face. “Bastards have a very hard life. Even a duke's bastards.”

She shook her head and looked down at the bed.

“And there's this as well. If you
are
carrying a boy, as my firstborn son he should be the next Duke of Hart.”