What to Do with a Duke (4 page)

“Not Lord Hart.”

He was still watching her.

Damnation, what was he about? He clearly expected her to recognize him.

“Well, why don't you just come out and tell me who you are, sir, rather than have me play this silly guessing game?” She should be horrified at speaking so sharply to a guest, but she was too annoyed—and something else—to hold her tongue. “Are you King Hart or Prince Hart or the Duke of—”

Oh.

His mouth curved into a sardonic smile. “That's right. I'm the Duke of Hart.” He bowed again, but this time the movement was self-mocking. “Or, as you may know me, the Cursed Duke.”

April 10, 1617—I encountered the duke again this afternoon when I was out walking. He offered me his arm. Such manners! Such presence! He makes all the local men look like callow boys. (And his arm was rock hard. I venture to guess he has
very
impressive muscles.)

—from Isabelle Dorring's diary

 

 

“Oh, Your Grace, I didn't mean . . . That is, I'm sorry I . . . I had no idea . . .”

He watched the girl flush and stammer.

He should speak, put her at ease, tell her it meant nothing.

He couldn't force a single word past his lips. Desire's hot fingers had wrapped themselves around his throat and squeezed, robbing him of breath and thought and reason. Need beat insistently behind his forehead . . . and rather lower down on his person.

Bloody hell. This was worse than anything he'd felt before.

He could
not
feel this way for this girl. She was a vicar's daughter. She could not be had without marriage, and marriage would start the clock ticking to his death. Yes, she was pretty, but she was not worth dying for. Hell, for all he knew she was a conniving shrew, worse even than Miss Rathbone.

None of his arguments had the least effect on the lust surging through him.

Her reddish gold hair gleamed, and her wide green eyes shone with spirit and intelligence. And desire. She might not realize it, but he'd swear she'd wanted him, too, if only for a moment. The flash of heat he'd seen in her lovely eyes when she'd looked at him had been unmistakable.

Zeus, his cock was going to poke a hole through his pantaloons. He needed to get control of himself. He glanced down again at her stained bodice. See? She was a bit slovenly.

Who the hell cared about a dress? It was what was under the bodice that was of interest, and Miss Hutting looked to have a very lovely pair of—

He could
not
allow his mind to travel in that direction.

Kimball and Finch were right. The urge to wed grew stronger and stronger after a Duke of Hart turned thirty. This insane desire must be part of the curse.

He would not succumb.

He cleared his throat. “Please.” He cleared it again. “Don't apologize. The fault is mine for not immediately identifying myself.” Though how she could not have recognized his title was beyond comprehension. In Loves Bridge, the curse's birthplace, he should be notorious.

And with the Spinster House empty, he should be expected.

“I was only four the last time you were here.” She smiled. “I still remember your shiny black traveling coach with the beautiful gray horses.”

That would make her twenty-four now, more than old enough to be married. Likely she
was
a shrew.

“I'm afraid I didn't appreciate anything about that journey. I was rather sulky at having been dragged here for something I didn't understand nor care about.” Oh, hell, why had he said that? It didn't matter what he'd felt.

Her eyes softened.

“You must have been very young.”

“I was ten years old.”

She frowned. “Only a boy. You should never have had the burden of choosing the next Spinster House spinster.”

No woman had ever looked at him that way before, as if she was seeing the child he'd been. It made him feel very odd.

This entire conversation was odd.

“It was my duty as the Duke of Hart.”

Her expression didn't change. “But you were so young. I can't imagine my brothers even now at thirteen and fifteen making such a decision.”

“They aren't dukes.” And now he sounded ghastly high in the instep. He forced himself to smile. “It wasn't so bad. There was only one candidate, and my uncle interviewed her. I just had to sit still and pretend to pay attention.”

She grinned at him suddenly, and his heart twisted.

Indigestion. The cook at Loves Castle had been extremely flustered by his arrival. None of the food had tasted off when he'd eaten it, but something must have been bad. He'd check with Nate and Alex when he got back to the castle to see if they were also feeling out of curl.

“Well, I'm still impressed that you cooperated, as you'll understand when you meet Henry and Walter.” She turned to knock on the door behind her.

Having a curse hanging over one's head tended to encourage cooperation.

“Come,” a male voice said.

They stepped into a study. A man with graying red hair and spectacles—clearly Miss Hutting's father—looked up from behind a large desk. The two boys on the desk's other side grinned and leapt to their feet, obviously delighted to have their studies interrupted. One of them still had the round, soft features of a child, while the other was much closer to manhood, tall and angular, but not yet filled out. His eyes now focused on Marcus's cravat as if he was trying to memorize the knot.

There was no point in wondering. It was never going to happen for him.

“Your Grace, my father and my brothers Henry”—the older youth made a credible bow—“and Walter. Papa, this is the Duke of Hart.”

The vicar smiled as he stood. “Thank you for coming so promptly, Your Grace.”

Miss Hutting sucked in her breath sharply, and her eyes narrowed. “You were
expecting
the duke, Papa?”

“Er.” The vicar looked down and rearranged some papers on his desk. “Yes.”

“Why?” She leaned forward slightly, her voice and her bearing suddenly tense. Something had seriously ruffled her feathers.

Her brothers grinned and nudged each other as if they were expecting fireworks.

The vicar eyed her warily, and then inclined his head toward Marcus. “Perhaps we should have this discussion at another time, Cat.”

An excellent name for the girl. She reminded him of the ginger-haired cat that had lived on his uncle's estate when he was a boy. Athena they'd called her. A warrior, she'd been fiercely independent and a bit reckless. All the male cats had been afraid of her, though she must have let one get close to her as she'd had a litter of kittens. He wondered if the poor tom had survived the mating.

Hmm. He'd like to try surviving a mating with this Cat. She'd look splendid spread naked across his bed, eyes flashing—

Good
God
. It
must
be the curse that was making him entertain such inappropriate thoughts. He glanced over at Ca—at Miss Hutting.

Her eyes were indeed flashing—with anger. Lips pressed tightly together, jaw hard, nostrils flaring. She was going to explode at any moment.

Her brothers watched with clear anticipation. The vicar seemed to brace himself.

And then she let out a slow breath, and her lips jerked up into a tight smile. “Yes. I'm sorry, Papa. Pardon me, Your Grace.” She looked at him. Her green eyes were stormy, but her beautiful mouth—

No. Her ordinary, unremarkable mouth was still smiling determinedly. “I don't know where my manners have gone.”

Her control was very impressive. Her father's shoulders dropped in relief, her brothers' in disappointment.

“No offense taken,” he said. “I confess I'm surprised you didn't think to see me.” He smiled. “I'm still required to come whenever the Spinster House is vacant.”

“What?!”
Miss Hutting gaped at him. “The Spinster House is vacant? How can that be? What happened to Miss Franklin? I just saw her the other day at the lending library. She looked very well—glowing almost.” Her gaze flashed back to her father. “She hasn't . . . She didn't . . .” She put her hand to her forehead as if dazed. “She wasn't even forty. I don't remember her being sick a day in her life, and now this.”

“She didn't die, Cat,” the vicar said. “She went off with the—er, with Mr. Wattles.”

“She did?”
Miss Hutting sounded shocked. Or perhaps horrified.

The boys hooted.

“Really?”

“The old music teacher?”

“Huzzah! No more music lessons!” Walter did a little jig.

The vicar frowned at his sons. “Show some respect, boys. And Mr. Wattles wasn't old, Henry. He was not quite forty.”

Though if the man wanted children, he should have chosen a much younger woman.

“That
is
old,” Henry said. “And he looked ancient in those fusty coats and breeches.”

The vicar scratched his nose. “Yes, well, I'm not certain why the man dressed the way he did.”

“Mama isn't going to be happy,” Walter said. “Mr. Wattles was supposed to play the pianoforte at Mary's wedding.”

“Oh.” The vicar rubbed his forehead. “That's right. Well, perhaps Mr. Luntley's mother will finally recover and he can return in time to do the honors. If not, we shall just have to make do.”

“You tell Mama that,” Henry said.

The vicar's shoulders hunched a bit as if he expected a blow. “Er, yes. I will.”

“You haven't told Mama this news yet?” Miss Hutting frowned. “But if His Grace is here, you must have found out”—she paused, and then her brows shot up—“at least early yesterday if not the day before.”

The vicar tugged at his collar. “Mr. Wilkinson thought it best not to say anything until the duke arrived.”

Miss Hutting made an odd little noise that sounded suspiciously like a growl.

The vicar turned to Marcus and managed a strained smile. “You must wonder where my manners have gone, Your Grace. Here I've kept you standing and haven't offered you the slightest bit of refreshment. If you will—”

“Oh, no, that's quite all right.” He shouldn't spend any more time here, especially given his inappropriate attraction to Miss Hutting. He'd intended to make his visit to the village as brief as possible. “I stopped only to see if you might be able to direct me to Mr. Wilkinson's office. I couldn't quite make out his direction from his letter.”

Miss Hutting grunted.

He looked at her, his eyebrow rising in inquiry before he could stop it.

“If you can't read the handwriting, Your Grace, that means it isn't Jane's—Miss Wilkinson's. Jane writes all her brother's correspondence since his scrawl is illegible, as you've discovered.” Miss Hutting frowned again. “The fact that he penned the letter himself means he's hiding the news from Jane as well.” She glared at her father. “I wonder why?”

“Perhaps Mr. Wilkinson merely thought it best not to get the ladies in a pother too soon. You know what the Boltwood sisters are like.”

Miss Hutting did not look convinced by her father's explanation, but as long as the village machinations didn't involve Marcus's marital state, he didn't much care what went on. He cleared his throat to recapture their attention. “So, have you Mr. Wilkinson's direction, then?”

“Yes, yes.” Mr. Hutting nodded. “But it's a little difficult to explain if you don't know the village.” He smiled at his daughter. “Cat will show you the way, won't you, Cat?”

If so, she wasn't precisely leaping at the opportunity.

“I'm supposed to take a basket to Mrs. Barker, Papa.”

Henry and Walter sniggered; Miss Hutting glared at them.

“A basket? What basket?”

“The one Mama put together when you told her
poor
Mrs. Barker was bothered by gout.”

Miss Hutting's sarcasm was thick enough to taste. Her brothers' sniggers had progressed to elbowing and eyebrow waggling.

“Oh, stop it,” she said. “It's not funny.”

The boys clearly thought it—whatever
it
was—was hilarious.

“Walter can take the basket to Mrs. Barker,” her father said. “We're done with lessons for today.”

Walter stopped laughing abruptly. “Why can't Henry take it?”

“Very well. Henry—”

“I can't, Papa. I have to . . .” Henry grinned. “I have to clean my room.”

Walter punched him in the arm. “No, you don't. It's my room, too, chaw-bacon. You're just going to wait until I'm gone and then go do what you want.”

“Ow. That hurt. And I'm not—”

“You can
both
take it”—the vicar raised his brows—“or we can read another section of Cicero.”

Henry and Walter glowered at their father.

“Perhaps
two
more sections.”

The boys recognized defeat when it stared them in the face. They shrugged, made their bows, and headed for the door.

“Mama said the basket's in the kitchen,” Miss Hutting told them as they passed her.

“And now,” the vicar said as soon as the boys had left, “you can—” He stopped to stare at his daughter. “Whatever happened to your dress, Cat?”

Of course this made Marcus stare, too, even though he'd already examined Miss Hutting's bodice far more carefully than he should have. True, her breasts weren't exceedingly large, but then he didn't particularly like large breasts in a woman. He—

He should not be thinking about Miss Hutting's breasts. He should be on his way to Mr. Wilkinson's.

Miss Hutting flushed. “Sybbie—” She looked at Marcus. “That is my six-year-old sister, Sybil.” She turned back to her father. “Sybbie had an accident with her watercolors.”