What to Do with a Duke (32 page)

Like now.

But Mrs. Eaton was also a widow with two young sons. She could give her father an heir.

Her stomach twisted. The notion was disgusting. Obscene.

It was the way of the
ton
.

But it wasn't the way of Loves Bridge. Surely the vicar would never behave in such a manner if he were widowed.

Of course, he already had a number of sons.

Anne glanced over at the vicarage—

She shook her head and blinked, but she hadn't imagined the scene. Cat was darting into the trysting bushes and hauling the Duke of Hart in after her.

Cat
had pulled the
duke
into the bushes, not the other way round.

Perhaps it was the duke who was in need of rescue.

Anne stared at the bushes. It had been several minutes, and neither Cat nor the duke had emerged. The branches weren't thrashing about. Clearly no one was struggling to get free.

Which could only mean they were doing something other than fighting in there.

Heavens! There was only one reason a couple went into the trysting bushes, and it wasn't to discuss the weather.

Anne chewed on her lip.

Excitement bubbled up in her chest.

She tried to push it back down. Cat and Jane were her closest friends. She'd known them for as long as she could remember. They'd shared confidences, cried on each other's shoulders. Hadn't Cat and Jane comforted her just the other day when she'd told them the sorry tale of Papa and Mrs. Eaton?

But Cat had definitely been the one forcing the duke into the shrubbery. She must have changed her mind about a life of spinsterhood.

Of course she had. The Duke of Hart was nothing like Mr. Barker, the stodgy farmer Cat's mother had been throwing at her head these last few years. His Grace was handsome and wealthy.
And
he didn't have an annoying mother living with him. If Cat married him, she'd have time and room to write the novels she'd always wanted to write. And if there really was a curse hanging over his head, she'd be a wealthy widow before long.

It wouldn't take much. Just a word in one of the Boltwood sisters' ears and the story—likely a much embroidered version of the story—would be all over the village in an hour or two.

The Spinster House should go to a true spinster, not a fallen woman....

“Miss Davenport.”

“Ack!”
She jumped several inches above the walkway. Dear God, the Marquess of Haywood was at her elbow.

Her heart gave an odd little jump as well.

She'd met many men of the
ton
—she'd had a Season and been dragged to endless house parties—but she'd never met a gentleman like Lord Haywood. With the strong planes of his face, his straight nose and thin, sculpted lips, he could be a Greek statue come to life. And his warm, hazel eyes seemed to look straight into her soul. When he'd opened the door for her at the inn the other day, she'd had to curl her fingers into fists to keep from brushing back the lock of brown hair that fell over his brow.

He'd been so serious, so unlike his friend, Lord Evans. Lord Evans had laughed and flirted, but when Lord Haywood had spoken—just a few polite words—odd tendrils of warmth had curled low in her belly. Even now, though his tone had been rather harsh, his voice sent excitement fluttering through her.

“I didn't see you approach, my lord.”
My voice doesn't sound as breathless as I think, does it?

If it did, the man didn't notice. Or maybe he did and it annoyed him. His brows slanted down farther.

“You didn't see me because your attention was elsewhere.”

He sounded disapproving.
She
wasn't the one engaged in scandalous behavior. In fact, now that she thought more about it, she remembered hearing the Boltwoods gossiping about the duke at the fair planning meeting.

“Indeed, it was. I was quite surprised—shocked, really—to see His Grace bringing his London tricks to Loves Bridge, exploring the vegetation with a marriageable female.”

Lord Haywood's mouth flattened into a hard, thin line and his aristocratic nostrils flared. “Miss—”

His frown moved from her to the large black, white, and orange cat who'd appeared at their feet. “What the—” He pressed his lips together, clearly swallowing some less-than-polite comment. “Go along, cat.”

The cat sat down on the walk and stared at him.

“That's Poppy,” Anne said to fill the oddly strained silence. “She lives in the Spinster House.”

The marquess glared at her.

A thread of sadness tightened round her heart. She would never know.

The marquess turned his glare back to Poppy. “Now what's the matter with the animal?”

“What do you-oh.” Poppy
was
behaving rather strangely. Her back was arched, hair standing on end, and she was hissing. But it wasn't Cat's scandalous behavior in the bushes that she was objecting to. No, Poppy was looking down the walk toward the inn.

“I think the Misses Boltwood are coming this way,” Anne said.

Poppy must agree. She yowled and darted toward the Spinster House.

“Blo—” Lord Haywood caught himself. “Blast. I just encountered them headed in the other direction.”

“Well, I
suppose
it might be another set of elderly ladies. They are still too far off for me to see clearly. In a—what are you doing?”

The marquess had grabbed her hand and was tugging on it, trying to get her to go off in the direction Poppy had taken.

“I'm hauling you out of harm's way. Perhaps they haven't noticed us yet.”

Sadly a part of her wanted to go with him, but the more sensible part urged her to dig in her heels. Vanishing into the bushes with a man was bad, but going inside an empty house—with bedrooms and beds!—was far worse. “Lord Haywood, the Spinster House is locked.”

“I know that. I'm following the cat into the garden.”

She'd just come from the garden. It made the trysting bushes look like a few small shrubs. “The garden is completely overgrown.”

“Precisely. The vegetation should hide us nicely.” He pulled on her hand again. “Hurry along, will you? Do you
want
those gossips to find us together?”

An unmarried man and woman conversing in public on a village road wasn't at all remarkable, but with this man it suddenly seemed scandalous. And it was true the Boltwood sisters could weave a tale that made sitting in Sunday services sound sinful.

All right. If she were being completely honest with herself, the thought of going into the wild Spinster House garden with Lord Haywood was surprisingly thrilling. Silly. He looked like he was more likely to throttle her than kiss her. . . .

Of course not. She stopped resisting and let him pull her into the shadowy leafage. She would have heard if the
ton
considered the marquess dangerous. All anyone ever said of him was that he'd dedicated himself to keeping his cousin single and thus safe from Isabelle Dorring's curse.

Oh.

Perhaps she shouldn't mention she was hoping to force the duke to marry Cat.

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ISBN-13: 978-1-4201-3712-5 ISBN-10: 1-4201-3712-3

ISBN: 978-1-4201-3712-5