What to Do with a Duke (31 page)

“Yes!” How could the man joke at such a moment? They might be on the verge of learning something important. “Don't tease me.”

“But it's so amusing to do so.”

Cat actually stamped her foot.

Marcus laughed and looked back at the letter. “Gah! I can't imagine what Isabelle saw in my popinjay ancestor. The fellow's prose is so florid and full of hyperbole, it's painful.”

“Then just give me the gist of it.” This was not the time for Marcus to turn into a literary critic.

“Very well.” His eyes scanned the lines and his brows shot up. “Apparently the duke's mother found Isabelle's letter about the baby—it had come to London while the duke was still away at a house party. His mother read it and, being very much against that match, decided to put a false notice in the papers. The duke hadn't married Lady Amanda at all. They weren't even betrothed.” He looked up at Isabelle's portrait, sounding a bit dazed. “And the poor girl must never have known.”

“Good heavens!” The effrontery of the duchess was breathtaking. “Can you do that—publish a lie?”

Marcus shrugged. “Some would say everything in the newspapers is a lie. However, in this case the duchess was apparently bosom friends with the publisher's wife so could print whatever she wanted.” He looked back at the letter. “Good God, the duke writes that he is coming to Loves Bridge the next day to marry Isabelle.”

“And when he arrived, everyone told him she'd drowned herself.” Cat looked at the painting. Did Isabelle look surprised? Happy?

Marcus nodded. “He must have found this, realized Isabelle hadn't read it, and locked it and her diary away here.” He folded the letter back up.

“So everything was his mother's fault.” Cat wished she could travel back in time and offer the duchess a piece of her mind. “Well, and Isabelle's, too. If Isabelle had only waited to talk to the duke directly, none of this—the supposed curse, the Spinster House—would have happened. Isabelle would have married her duke and become the next duchess.”

“Yes, but the duke does bear some responsibility. He should have been far more decisive from the beginning.” Marcus shook his head, putting the letter and the diary back in the drawer. “This does change things. It will take me a while to fully comprehend what it means.”

“I know what it means! It means you don't have to worry about the silly curse any longer. You'll live a long, wonderful life, and we'll have a family together. Oh, Marcus, aren't you happy?” She wanted to throw her arms around him and dance for joy.

But she didn't. Marcus did not look convinced. “Perhaps.”

She tried to tamp down her enthusiasm. “And even if there is a curse, your mother thought you'd be the one to break it.”

“Yes, she said as much to me.”

What was the matter with him? “You're marrying me for love, aren't you?”

“Yes.” He smiled then and touched her stomach above the place their child was growing. “I suppose we'll know for certain about the curse in nine months' time, won't we?”

“Not in nine months' time—now.” She did wrap her arms around him then. “You
must
decide to live as if the curse is broken. Don't let it shadow your happiness another moment.”

“I'll try.” He cupped her face. “Having you by my side”—he grinned—“and in my bed will certainly help.”

He kissed her, and she tightened her hold on him. She would do anything she could to keep him from worrying about the future.

Kissing seemed to be working. His hands were beginning to wander in a very interesting direction—

Cat jerked back as Poppy yowled and sprang down from her perch on the cabinet.

“Oh, Poppy! You startled me.”

“Yes. Rather poor timing, madam,” Marcus said. “Miss Hutting and I were in the midst of a very interesting, er, discussion.”

Poppy, looking not at all contrite, blinked at them and then ran out of the room and down the stairs.

Marcus laughed. “I guess it's just as well we were interrupted. We still need to seek out your parents so I can make an honest woman of you.”

Cat laughed back at him. “And I an honest man of you.”

“Yes, indeed.” He offered her his arm. “I am very much looking forward to that.”

She put her hand on his sleeve, and they followed Poppy down the stairs and out of the Spinster House.

Curious about the curse?
Keep reading for an excerpt from

HOW TO MANAGE A MARQUESS
,

the next book in the
Spinster House Series.

 

 

And don't miss

 

IN THE SPINSTER'S BED

 

to learn all about the exploits of
Miss Franklin and Mr. Wattles.
Available now from Zebra eBooks!

 

Nathaniel, Marquess of Haywood, strode across the road from Cupid's Inn, where he'd left his horse, to the Loves Bridge village green, all the while arguing with himself.

Oh, hell.

He stopped and took a deep breath. He was overreacting. This was Loves Bridge, not London. Miss Hutting, the woman who he feared wished to trap Marcus into marriage, was a vicar's daughter, not a conniving Society chit. Marcus had said she wanted to be the next Spinster House spinster, not the next Duchess of Hart.

But apparently everyone thought Miss Hutting would make a splendid duchess. Worse, they seemed to think Marcus was attracted to the girl.

He started walking again.

He'd just finished an excellent meal—he and Alex, the Earl of Evans, had been congratulating each other on avoiding the dinner at the vicarage—when he'd happened to hear Marcus's steward talking to Mr. Dunly, the steward's assistant and Miss Hutting's sister's betrothed. That's how he'd learned of the gossip.

And when he'd shared it with Alex, Alex hadn't been surprised. He'd known about it and hadn't told him, blast it. But then, Alex didn't think Marcus's life was in danger. He didn't believe in the curse.

Bloody hell! He should have been more suspicious when Marcus was willing to accept that dinner invitation. He'd just assumed his cousin—well, really far more like his brother as they'd grown up together—was safe here. Loves Bridge was the curse's birthplace. Surely the villagers would realize the Duke of Hart had to avoid marriage as long as he could.

Yet it appeared that none of the villagers believed in the curse either.

Why the hell didn't they? They and their ancestors had seen it play out. Marriage was a death sentence for a Duke of Hart. For two hundred years, none had lived to see his heir born.

And now that Marcus had passed his thirtieth birthday, it was getting harder and harder to keep him safe. Good God, he'd never expected Marcus to go out in Palmerson's gardens and end up in the bushes with that Miss Rathbone. He'd been so relieved when they'd left London for Loves Bridge. Stupidly, he'd let his guard down.

I
hope
I'm overreacting.

He should have made it a point to find out more about the vicar and his family. He—

“Good evening, Lord Haywood.”

Damnation. He'd been so lost in thought, he hadn't noticed the two old ladies strolling toward him. They must be the Boltwood sisters. What wretched luck. Alex had told him—Alex always knew these things somehow—that they were the leading gossips of this little village.

He forced his lips into a smile and bowed slightly. “Good evening, ladies.”

“Looking for some company, my lord?” The shorter woman batted her eyelashes at him.

Nate repressed a shudder. “No. My thoughts are company enough, madam.”

The other old woman clicked her tongue. “A handsome young lord like you alone with your thoughts? That will never do.”

Her sister nodded and then waggled her thin white eyebrows suggestively. “We saw Miss Davenport loitering around the Spinster House, looking very lonely.”

A very inappropriate part of him stirred at the name.

Miss Davenport had arrived at the inn the other day just as he and Alex were coming to have a pint while waiting for Marcus to finish posting the Spinster House vacancy notices—with Miss Hutting, as he later discovered.

But Miss Davenport—Zeus! She'd looked like an angel, the sun touching her smooth, honey-blonde hair, making it glow. Her eyes were as blue as a lake on a cloudless summer day. He'd looked down into them as he'd opened the door for her and felt himself being pulled deeper and deeper . . .

He frowned. He'd seen dark currents swirling below her polite expression and had a sudden, bizarre urge to ask what was troubling her. It was quite unlike him. He'd even inhaled to speak, but her clean, sweet scent had gone straight to his, er, head and caused all rational thought to evaporate.

Thank God Alex had spoken. She'd looked away, and the odd connection he'd felt with her had broken.

Oh, blast. He'd let his mind wander a bit too long. The Misses Boltwood were now snickering and nudging each other.

He sniffed in his best marquess manner and looked down his nose at them. “I'm quite certain Miss Davenport would not welcome my intrusion into her solitude, ladies. If you saw her by the Spinster House, she might well be entertaining hopes of being the next Spinster House spinster.” Marcus had told him the woman was one of the three ladies—along with Miss Hutting and a Miss Wilkinson—vying for that position, though Miss Davenport might not care for him sharing that detail with the queens of the local gossips.

The woman's matrimonial plans—or lack thereof—were none of his concern.

“The Spinster House!” The shorter of the Misses Boltwood curled her lip and snorted. “I can't imagine what Isabelle Dorring was thinking when she established that place. Spinsterhood is an unnatural state.”

The other Miss Boltwood nodded. “A woman needs a man to protect her and give her children.”

Her sister elbowed her, waggling her eyebrows again. “And keep her warm at night.”

Since both ladies looked to have reached their sixth or seventh decade without nabbing a husband for themselves, their enthusiasm for the activities of the marriage bed was more than a little alarming.

“As you must know,” Nate said, “Miss Dorring had good reason to distrust men. It's not surprising she would wish to offer other women a way to live comfortably without the need to marry.” Miss Dorring had been very badly served by the third Duke of Hart. The man had got her with child and then wed another. And so the woman had cursed Marcus's line.

Familiar worry knotted Nate's gut again. Was Marcus safe? Surely nothing terrible could happen at the vicar's dinner table.

The taller Miss Boltwood shrugged and flicked her fingers at him. “Bah. From all accounts, Isabelle knew what she was about. Her mistake was letting the duke into her bed before she'd got him to the altar.”

“Though you must admit, Gertrude, that if that duke looked anything like this duke, poor Isabelle can be forgiven for getting her priorities confused.” The shorter Miss Boltwood's lips curved in what could only be considered a lascivious fashion. “Have you seen the man's calves? His shoulders?”

These elderly ladies
can't
be lusting after Marcus.

The thought was too horrifying to contemplate.

“I'm not blind, am I, Cordelia? And what about his—”

“I'm afraid I must continue on my way, ladies.” It might be rude to interrupt the women, but some things could never be unheard.

“Oh, yes, of course.” Miss Gertrude winked. “Here we are, keeping you cooling your heels when you must be anxious to meet Miss Davenport.”

“I am not meeting Miss Davenport.”

No! Where the hell had that thought come from? There was nothing unfortunate about it. He had no time for nor interest in a marriageable woman.

Because I have to keep Marcus safe.
There would be time enough to marry later, after Marcus—

“You aren't the duke, my lord,” Miss Cordelia said. “You don't have to worry about the silly curse.”

Miss Gertrude nodded. “And Miss Davenport is a comely armful in need of a husband.”

Very
comely . . .

She could be the most beautiful woman in the world, but she was not for him.

“And I'm certain some estimable man will realize that.” He bowed again. “If you will excuse me?”

He didn't wait for their permission. He wanted to get out of earshot as quickly as possible.

He wasn't quick enough.

“The marquess has an impressive set of shoulders, too, Gertrude.”

“Yes, indeed. Miss Davenport is a very lucky woman.”

He resisted the urge to turn and shout back at them that he had no interest in Miss Davenport.

But he could have no interest in the girl. What he had—must have—was an immediate interest in Marcus's safety.

He strode—

And he wasn't spying, precisely. He was merely keeping a watchful eye out.

He strolled toward the vicarage, which just happened to be directly across from the Spinster House. Was Miss Davenport still there? He didn't wish to encourage any gossip, but surely it wouldn't be remarkable to engage the woman in conversation if he encountered her. Actually, it would be an excellent thing to do. That way he could watch for Marcus without being obvious about it.

Ah, Miss Davenport
was
still there, dressed in a blue gown that he'd wager was the same shade as her eyes. A matching blue bonnet covered her lovely blonde hair. She was slender, though not too slender, and just the right height. If he held her in his arms, her head would come up to his—

He jerked his eyes away from her—an action that was far harder than it should have been—to look toward the vicarage. What luck! Marcus was just leaving. Miss Hutting was with him, but in a moment the girl would—

He stopped and blinked to clear his vision. No, his eyes had not deceived him. Miss Hutting had just pulled Marcus into a concealing clump of bushes.

Hadn't Marcus learned
anything
from the disaster with Miss Rathbone?

It was the blasted curse. Marcus wouldn't do anything so cabbage-headed if he was in his right mind. But what could Nate do to save him? He couldn't very well “accidently” barge into those bushes.

He glanced back at Miss Davenport. Oh hell, she was staring, too. If she told anyone what she saw—

His blood ran cold. If those gossipy Boltwood sisters got wind of this, Marcus would be hard-pressed to avoid parson's mousetrap, particularly as Miss Hutting's father was the parson.

Well, this was something he
could
attend to. He'd have a word with Miss Davenport. Surely he could persuade her to keep mum.

He strode quickly toward the woman.

 

 

Miss Anne Davenport, baron's daughter, looked at the Spinster House. It wasn't a remarkable edifice. In fact, the place looked like all the other village houses—two stories, thatched roof, of average size. It was much smaller than Davenport Hall, the comfortable house she shared with her father.

She forced herself to breathe deeply and finally the suffocating feeling passed.

The Spinster House would be spacious for a woman living alone.

She'd not given the place much thought before. She'd been only six when Miss Franklin, the current—no, the
former
—spinster had moved in twenty years ago. Miss Franklin had been very young at the time. Everyone expected her to be the Spinster House spinster for forty or fifty or even sixty years, if she enjoyed good health. So when Papa had taken up with Mrs. Eaton, Anne hadn't thought the house was a solution to her impending problem.

But then just days ago, to the surprise and shock of the entire village, Miss Franklin had run off with Mr. Wattles, the music teacher, who turned out to be the son of the Duke of Benton and was now, with his father's passing, the duke himself. Even the Boltwood sisters hadn't sniffed out
that
story, and they were almost as accomplished at ferreting out secrets as Lady Dunlee, London's premier gabble grinder.

And then the Duke of Hart had come to Loves Bridge, as he was required to do whenever the Spinster House fell vacant. Anne had had to pinch herself to prove she wasn't dreaming when he'd interrupted their village fair meeting to post the notice announcing the Spinster House opening. The Almighty—or possibly Isabelle Dorring—had answered her prayers.

But her friends Jane Wilkinson and Catherine Hutting wanted to live in the Spinster House, too.

Yes, but her need was greater.

Melancholy washed over Anne. She bit her lip hard. Her mother had died almost ten years ago. She should be over her loss by now. And she was. The searing pain and the emptiness she'd thought would swallow her from the inside out were gone, at least most of the time. But there were still moments when she missed her mother dreadfully. Times she wanted to share something that had happened or ask her advice.