Read What to Do with a Duke Online

Authors: Sally MacKenzie

What to Do with a Duke (5 page)

BOOK: What to Do with a Duke
7.65Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
“Why do I suspect the twins were involved?” her father asked, smiling.
Miss Hutting smiled back at him. “Because they were, of course.”
“And the ink?”
“I was writing. Sybbie startled me.”
“Hmm. Working on that silly book again, were you?”
Miss Hutting's brows slammed down. “It's not silly.”
The vicar pressed his lips together, but said no more on that head. “You weren't going to change before visiting the Barkers?”
“No.” Miss Hutting's jaw jutted out in a distinctly pugnacious fashion. “I was not.”
Her father sighed. “I do realize nothing will come of that, but your mother has hopes.”
“Please persuade her to give them up.”
The vicar took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow, though the room wasn't particularly warm. “Yes, well, as to that, we shall see.”
“I am
not
marrying Mr. Barker.”
Ah, so that was what the boys' amusement had been about.
Mr. Hutting put his handkerchief back in his pocket. “You have made that painfully clear any number of times. Now we've detained the duke far too long.” He bowed. “My sincere apologies for boring you with our family squabbles, Your Grace. I don't know what you must think of us.”
He thought he'd best escape before some new domestic problem reared its delaying head. At this rate, he would have had more luck finding his destination by wandering the village with his eyes closed.
“Think nothing of it. Now if you will just tell me the way to Mr. Wilkinson's office—”
“Oh, no, Your Grace. My daughter will be happy to escort you.” The vicar treated Miss Hutting to a very pointed look. “Won't you, Cat?”
The man
is
throwing his daughter at my head.
The vicar was nothing like Rathbone, at least on the surface, but he was a man with an unmarried daughter on his hands.
Miss Hutting's cheeks turned pink. “Yes, of course. I'm so sorry, Your Grace. We'll leave straightaway.”
The vicar smiled. “It's not far. You'll be there in no time.”
Miss Hutting looked over her shoulder as she led the way out of the study. “You'd best tell Mama about Miss Franklin at once, Papa. She will not wish to hear it from anyone else.”
The vicar's expression turned slightly hunted. “Ah, yes. Quite right. I'll go find her, er, now.”
“I believe she's in the schoolroom.”
Miss Hutting grabbed her cloak before Marcus could assist her, but he was able to open the front door while she was putting on her bonnet.
“How many of you are there, Miss Hutting?” he asked as she stepped past him.
“Ten.”
“Ten?!”
Good God! Not that large families were completely unheard of. Certainly not. He'd just never had experience with one.
Well, of course
he
wouldn't have, not unless he'd had nine older sisters.
Miss Hutting strode away from him, apparently intent on delivering him to Mr. Wilkinson as quickly as possible now that she'd finally undertaken the task.
“Yes, though there are only eight—soon to be just seven—still at home. Tory and Ruth, the sisters just younger than I, are already wed, and Mary, the next one down, will be married in less than two weeks”—she paused to look back at him—“to Mr. Theodore Dunly, your assistant steward.”
“Ah.”
She snorted. “You don't know who he is, do you?”
“Er . . .”
Think.
There'd been a thin man hovering behind Emmett when they'd arrived. “Of course I know who he is. He has thinning hair and a prominent nose, doesn't he?” He probably shouldn't have described Dunly that way since the man was her sister's intended, but it wasn't his fault the fellow looked like a broomstick with a snout.
She shook her head as she led the way up the hill toward the graveyard. “That's Mr. Phelps, Mr. Emmett's sister's son. He's a coachman—or would be if you were ever here to ride in the castle's coach. Theo is much taller and broader and better looking. I'm certain you'll meet him shortly. Mr. Emmett depends on him.” She glanced at him. “You must know that Mr. Emmett is getting along in years.”
He nodded noncommittally. He
should
know. He knew such things about the stewards of his other properties, but he'd admit to being rather taken aback when he'd seen how stooped and, well,
ancient
Emmett was.
“He still has a clear, strong hand, though, unlike Mr. Wilkinson.”
She snorted again. “That's Theo's writing. He took over all the estate correspondence several years ago, when Mr. Emmett got a touch of the palsy. He runs the place”—she frowned at him—“with Mr. Emmett's supervision, of course. Mr. Emmett does very well for a man of eighty.”
Good God, Emmett was eighty? He hadn't seemed that old when Marcus had last seen him . . .
Twenty years ago.
“Ah. Of course.”
She stopped, her expression shifting from annoyed to worried. “You're not going to pension Mr. Emmett off because of what I said, are you? You can't. He loves the castle. He knows everything about it, and he's still very shrewd. He just moves a little slowly”—her jaw hardened as did her tone—“as you would, too, if you had eighty years in your dish.”
Did she really think he was going to rush back and turn the old man out?
“Yes, I'm sure I would.”
“You
can't
let him go.”
And who was she to tell him what he could and couldn't do? He was the Duke of Hart. He was not accustomed to such impertinence. He should give her a severe set-down.
He would if he had any confidence she would be suitably chastised. More likely she'd just snort at him once more.
“And your other brothers and sisters? What of them?”
She glared at him.
He raised his ducal brows and looked down his nose at her. Even Lady Dunlee was cowed by this expression.
As he suspected, Miss Hutting was made of sterner stuff. Her eyes narrowed, her glare becoming more pronounced.
“The others?” he asked again. He was not going to discuss Emmett and the castle.
She blew out a short breath. “Oh, very well.” She started walking again. “After Mary comes Henry—he's fifteen—and Walter, thirteen, both of whom you just met. And then there's Prudence, who's ten, Sybil, who's six, and Thomas and Michael, the four-year-old twins.”
He glanced back at the vicarage. It was not a large building. “It must get rather crowded.”
“Indeed it does.”
They'd reached the graveyard, and Miss Hutting stopped again, this time by a weathered headstone. Were they never going to reach Wilkinson's office?
She looked up at him as if she had something important to say, her wide green eyes, flecked with gold and framed by long, red-gold eyelashes—
He jerked his gaze away. There was nothing special about Miss Hutting's eyes, for God's sake.
His eyes dropped to the gray stone marker.
“Zeus!”
He blinked, but he'd read the stone correctly. He ran his fingers over the worn lettering.
“What's the matter?”
“This has Isabelle Dorring's name on it. I thought she'd drowned herself and her body had never been recovered.” He looked more closely.
Rest in Eternal Peace, 1593–1617.
So Isabelle had been twenty-four when she'd died. He'd thought she'd been much younger. Surely a mature woman would know better than to allow a man any liberties with her person before getting his ring on her finger. Perhaps, as Alex had suggested, she
had
meant to trap the third duke into marriage.
Her intentions were immaterial. He very much doubted the duke had been dragged kicking and screaming into her bed. He should have exercised some self-control or, failing that, discovered if his actions had had permanent consequences before marrying another woman.
“I imagine since Isabelle's father donated the funds to expand the church and paid for much of its upkeep”—she glanced at him—“the duke being a bit stingy, the vicar was easily persuaded that Isabelle must have slipped into Loves Water by accident. A wall memorial would have been more appropriate since there was indeed no body, but her family wanted the gravestone.”
“Her family?” This was news. “I thought Isabelle was the last of her line.”
“Oh, no.” She smiled at him, and his heart lurched.
Bloody indigestion.
“Her father had an older sister who married a man in Whiting Cross about twenty miles to the south.”
Ah. So Isabelle had had someone she could have turned to.
Well, no. Likely the aunt would not have welcomed a pregnant but unmarried niece.
“After Isabelle died, some of her cousins moved back to Loves Bridge, though not into the Spinster House, of course. Isabelle had already made arrangements for that.” Miss Hutting gave him a significant look.
He nodded. They both knew he was well aware of Miss Dorring's arrangements.
Miss Hutting smiled. “My mother's descended from that branch.”
“What?” He suddenly had an odd, disorienting feeling almost as if he'd been here before. Ridiculous. “Your mother is related to Isabelle Dorring?”
“Yes, but don't ask me to draw the family tree. There's an Isabelle in every generation. My mother and I are both Isabelle, which is why I go by my middle name.”
“Ah.” And the third duke's given name had been Marcus. If he was a superstitious sort, he'd be feeling chills up and down his spine right now.
Fortunately he was not superstitious.
“Merrow.”
A large black, orange, and white cat appeared from behind another headstone and picked its way carefully through the grass to Miss Hutting, glaring at him before rubbing up against Miss Hutting's legs.
“A friend of yours?”
She laughed as she bent to stroke the animal. “Sometimes. Poppy likes me better when the twins aren't around. They are a bit too exuberant for her tastes.”
“Where does she live?”
“At the Spinster House.”
“Does she?” He stooped and extended his hand. “I'm surprised Miss Franklin left her behind. She's a very handsome animal.”
The cat ignored him.
“Oh, Poppy doesn't belong to Miss Franklin. She doesn't belong to anyone.”
He chuckled. “I suppose that's true of most cats.”
“Yes, but Poppy is more independent than most. No one knows where she came from. She just appeared about a year ago and made herself at home.”
He kept his hand still, waiting, and finally the cat decided to acknowledge his presence, delicately sniffing his fingers. Finding nothing to disqualify him from her acquaintance, she bumped her head against his hand. He rubbed her behind her ears, eliciting a low rumbling purr.
Miss Hutting's eyebrows rose. “She doesn't usually care for men.”
“Then I feel quite fortunate to have met with her approval.”
He concentrated on Poppy, but he could feel Miss Hutting's gaze studying him. Oh, damnation. She wasn't going to raise the issue of Emmett again, was she?
He gave Poppy one last stroke and straightened. “Shall we proceed to Mr. Wilkinson's office? I do wish to conclude my business with him as soon as possible.” He watched the cat run off, and then glanced at Miss Hutting.
Her face had hardened with resolution. Blast.
“Your Grace, I have a proposal for you.”
A
proposal?
Good God, now that was something he'd not anticipated. Perhaps he should have. He must be a better catch than the despised Mr. Barker.
He held up his hand. There was no point in beating around the bush. “Miss Hutting, I am not going to marry you.”
Her eyes widened, and her jaw dropped like a rock.
Perhaps that had not been the proposal she'd had in mind.
“Marry me?” She snapped her mouth shut and swallowed, grabbing on to Isabelle Dorring's headstone as if she were in danger of losing her balance—or, more likely, of popping him in the nose. “
Marry
me?”
He made a small bow being careful to keep his nose out of her reach. “My apologies. I thought—”
“You thought I wanted you to marry me!” She was shouting now.
“Er, clearly I was mistaken.”
“You certainly were mistaken, you”—she jabbed her finger at him—“you—”
She balled her hand into a fist, pressing her lips firmly together. This time he'd swear the air vibrated as she struggled to control her temper.
He stepped back involuntarily. Not that he was afraid of her. Of course not. She was tall, but not as tall as he, and a woman. He had no doubt he could seduce her if necessary—
Blast it.
Subdue
. He could
subdue
her if necessary.
Her eyes were still shooting daggers at him, but her lips had turned up into the same tight smile she'd managed in her father's study. He was amazed—and a little disappointed—at her restraint. He'd like to see her lose control.
No, he wouldn't. He hated scenes.
“As it happens,” she said, “marriage does figure into what I wish to say to you.”
“Oh?” Now what was she up to?
“Yes.” She rested her hands back on the headstone and looked him in the eye. “Your Grace, not only do I not wish to marry you, I don't wish to marry anyone.”
BOOK: What to Do with a Duke
7.65Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Emily's Passion by Storm, A J
The Dark Labyrinth by Lawrence Durrell
Highland Destiny by Hunsaker, Laura
Little Deadly Things by Steinman, Harry
Traitor (Rebel Stars Book 2) by Edward W. Robertson