What to Do with a Duke (6 page)

“Perhaps not at the moment—”

“Not at any moment.”

“I find that hard to believe.” He'd never met a female who didn't want to drag some poor fellow up the church aisle.

Miss Hutting's eyes narrowed. “Believe it. I do not wish to be subservient to any
man
—”

She could hardly have put more disgust into that word.

“—to be at his beck and call and bear his children, one after another, year after year like my mother did.”

Completely inappropriate lust slammed into his . . . chest.

Miss Hutting raised her chin. “I wish to write novels. I assure you a husband and children would be very much in the way.”

Madness. This beautiful, vibrant woman wished to lock herself away with a quill and paper and live in her imagination? She was made for the bedchamber—though not
his
bedchamber, of course.

“Your Grace, I wish to be the new Spinster House spinster.” She nodded at the grave marker. “Isabelle is my ancestor. I have some claim to the position.”

This was insane. Ridiculous. Totally wrong-headed—

And it would get him out of Loves Bridge by this afternoon. Tomorrow at the latest.

Who was he to argue with the next great English novelist?

“Very well. If you will finally take me to Mr. Wilkinson's office, I shall make the necessary arrangements.”

—from Isabelle Dorring's diary

 

 

The duke was going to let her have the Spinster House. Her dream was about to come true. Cat almost skipped up through the graveyard and around to the back of the church.

“I wonder why Randolph—that is, Mr. Wilkinson—didn't say anything about the Spinster House being empty and swore my father to secrecy as well,” she said as they approached the back gate.

“I believe you exaggerate. Your father merely said Wilkinson had suggested he not mention the vacancy. The man is a solicitor. He must be discreet. Allow me.” The duke lifted the latch and held the gate open for her.

“I assure you Papa would not keep something from my mother if he wasn't strongly encouraged to do so. And it is most odd that Randolph didn't tell Jane. She runs his office. Randolph wouldn't be able to function without her.”

“Perhaps he did tell her and she was simply busy when the letter needed to be written.”

“Perhaps.” But it was highly unlikely. What would Jane be busy doing? She spent all her time working for her brother. Yes, she came to church every Sunday, and she was on the fair planning committee, but that was about it. Cat and their friend Anne, Baron Davenport's daughter, had often taken her to task for it.

But then what did Cat do but tend to her brothers and sisters? It wasn't as though she had any time for herself—which was why the Spinster House opportunity was so exciting. She hurried down the narrow, tree-shrouded path that led away from the churchyard. The sooner they reached Randolph's office, the sooner she'd have the key to the house and her independence in hand.

“I would think Wilkinson would do better to have his office closer to the village green,” the duke said as he latched the gate and followed her.

She
did
like his voice. It was nothing like Mr. Barker's thin, nasally tones. It was deep, though not exceptionally so, and . . . well, she couldn't quite put her finger on what was so appealing about it, but something was. Even when she'd been arguing with him, she'd thought so.

Silly. It wasn't the duke's voice that was making it hard to keep her feet from dancing, it was his promise to let her live in the Spinster House.

She looked back over her shoulder at him. “Yes, but his office is in his house. So much more convenient for him and Jane.”
Wait until I tell Jane that I'm going to be the next spinster! Jane will be so excited for me.
“And everyone in the village knows where he—oh!”

Her ankle twisted. Bloody tree roots! She threw out her hands to catch her balance, but it was hopeless. She was going to end in a heap—

A muscled arm caught her, hauling her up against a rock-hard chest.

She pressed her cheek against the rough wool of the duke's coat and struggled to catch her breath. Her heart was pounding with . . . surprise. It must be surprise.

Mmm. He smelled of citrus and soap, linen and starch. There wasn't the slightest whiff of the barnyard about him. And his shoulders were definitely broader than Mr. Barker's, as was his chest, but then he was taller than Mr. Barker as well. She had to lean her head back to look up past his strong, clean-shaven chin and firm lips.

His brown eyes were shadowed with concern.

“Are you all right, Miss Hutting?”

And warmth? Was there warmth in his eyes, too? Warmth, turning to heat—

She pushed herself back, and he let her go at once. “Yes, yes, of course I'm all right.” She lifted her dress slightly and wiggled her foot. “See? No damage done.”

He was staring....

Oh, God, he could see her ankle. She dropped her skirt as if it had caught fire. He must think her a complete hoyden.

“It—it was my own fault.” It was suddenly hard to breathe. “I know b-better than to walk here without w-watching my step. As you can see, there are tree roots everywhere.”

“Indeed there are. Take my arm.”

She took a step away from him. “Oh, no. That's not necessary.”

“Please. I insist. I would hate for you to fall.”

She looked at his arm attired in expensive blue wool. It would be rude—and more than a little silly—to refuse his assistance. Not that she needed it, of course, but if she were to take a false step again, she would feel very foolish.

He leaned closer and whispered, “I don't bite.”

There was an undercurrent of something dark and seductive in his words.

Ridiculous. She was acting like a complete widgeon. “I didn't imagine you did.” She laid her hand on his sleeve.

His arm was so solid. And her head came only to his shoulder. She felt small, delicate.

There was absolutely nothing small or delicate about her. She was as tall as all the men in Loves Bridge, Papa included, except for Mr. Barker. She—

She twisted her ankle again and fell against the duke's side, but this time she was able to recover immediately. “Pardon me! I assure you I'm not usually this clumsy.”

He laid his hand over hers before she could snatch it off his sleeve. “The footing
is
quite treacherous.”

Yes, but
he
wasn't stumbling.

The weight of his hand on hers was doing very odd things to her breathing. She swallowed something that felt uncomfortably like panic.

“I don't need your assistance. I come this way by myself all the time.” Her tone sounded rude even to her own ears.

But he didn't take offense. Instead, the right corner of his mouth turned up. “Then I apologize. It must be my presence that is causing you to stumble.”

Oh, no. That wasn't it. Of course it wasn't. What? Did he think her some silly young virgin alone with a man for the first time and afraid for her virtue? Preposterous!

“I just wasn't looking where I was going. It won't happen again.”

He was overwhelming—so close, so big, so . . . male. She hadn't been affected by him in the churchyard, but now they were on this secluded, shady path....

He'd be horrified if he could read her thoughts. He'd run screaming back to the churchyard. No, he'd run all the way back to London.

That thought made her feel better, and she managed to smile. She only had to make it to the end of the path, which they were fast approaching. Then they would be on the lane where there were no tree roots. She could put some distance between them.

She lengthened her stride, keeping her eyes on her feet, and turned her thoughts to the business at hand.

“How soon can I move into the Spinster House?”

The duke's stride lengthened easily to match hers. “I would think immediately, but I assume Mr. Wilkinson will know.”

“So you don't have a document of some sort that tells you how everything is managed?”

“No. Wilkinson has all that.” His mouth tightened. “All I know is that I must be physically present when the spinster is selected, and I must sign the agreement.”

“You had to do that even when you were ten years old?”

He nodded.

She'd grown up with the story of the Cursed Duke. It had been her favorite fairy tale, and the arrival of the horses and traveling carriage when she was four had only added to its appeal. Isabelle, the tragic heroine seduced and abandoned by the evil nobleman, was family, albeit a cousin many, many times removed. The curse was Isabelle's victory from the grave and a source of pride, but she'd never thought about its effect on the duke's descendants. In truth, she'd never thought of them as real people—just as fairy-tale villains.

This man was very real and didn't seem at all evil.

“What if you'd been an infant? Surely then you would have been excused. It would be impossible for a baby to fulfill those duties.”

“My great-grandfather was three months old when the Spinster House became vacant. His guardian and his nurse brought him to Loves Bridge and had him in the room when the spinster was chosen. The earl signed the agreement for him, but affixed the baby's handprint as well.”

Superstitious nonsense. Did grown men truly think something terrible would happen if they didn't follow the letter of this ancient document? If she'd been there—

Wait a moment . . .

“You mentioned the baby's nurse, but not his mother.” Certainly an intelligent woman would have introduced some sense into the proceedings.

“Because his mother wasn't there.” His mouth twisted. “The Duchesses of Hart are not known for their maternal feelings.”

Oh, the poor baby! She didn't wish to be a mother herself, but she couldn't imagine a woman sending her infant off on such an errand with only a nurse and a stuffy old guardian in attendance. Mama would never have done so.

“But your mother came with you, didn't she, when you were here as a child?” Had she seen a woman that day? She didn't remember. Her attention had been all for the horses.

No, that wasn't quite true. Now that she thought more about it, she did remember a boy. Two boys, but she'd only focused on one. He'd been tall and thin and his back had been very straight and stiff. She'd thought him too serious and proud, and she'd felt a little sorry for him even though he'd got to ride in the beautiful carriage with the lovely horses. Had that been the duke?

“No, my mother did not come.”

His face was as closed as his voice sounded.

She had to force herself not to squeeze his arm. He wouldn't want her sympathy.

It was bad enough for a mother to send her baby with only a nurse and a guardian, but an infant wouldn't remember who was holding him. A boy of ten? He'd remember all too well.

“Was she ill? Is that why she didn't come with you?”

“Miss Hutting, my mother left me with my aunt—my father's older sister—shortly after she gave birth to me. I have not seen her since.”

He sounded very haughty, but she thought he was just putting up walls. She tried to study his expression, but the shade was too deep for her to see his eyes.

“That's terrible.”

“No, it's not. I'm sure I was happier growing up with my cousin and his family.” He stopped and frowned at her. “I'm surprised you don't know all this. Can it be that the villagers don't gossip about the Cursed Duke?”

“No, why would we? You're never here, and few people care about what goes on in London Society. What
is
important to us is what you do in the House of Lords, and most of the villagers approve of that. In truth, I think they're impressed you bother to take your seat instead of wasting
all
your time gambling and whoring.”

His brows shot up. “You are very frank.”

She grinned. “It is one of the benefits of choosing spinsterhood.” They had finally reached the end of the path, so she let go of his arm. “Randolph's office is just up this way.”

“Splendid.”

“You know,” she said, starting up the lane, “I never understood why your ancestor agreed to the Spinster House arrangement. I can't imagine a duke feeling compelled to do anything a mere merchant's daughter demanded.”

He frowned at her, his voice rough with emotion. “I hope it was because the man had a modicum of honor.”

Heavens, was he personally offended by the events of two hundred years ago? Perhaps that was what came from living in a house where generations of your ancestors stared down at you from every wall.

He needed to join the nineteenth century.

“The man didn't rape Isabelle, did he?” Though even if he had, it had still happened two hundred years ago.

“Good God, no!” This present duke looked ill. “Or at least not that I was ever told. As far as I know, their, er, relationship was consensual. But that doesn't excuse the fact that the duke got Miss Dorring with child and then married another.” He frowned. “Her heart was broken.”

Cat snorted. Yes, that was how she knew the story.

The duke's eyebrow arched up. “You don't believe in broken hearts, Miss Hutting?”

“I have no patience with such romantic twaddle. Isabelle wasn't the only woman in the history of the world to have been seduced by a wealthy, handsome fellow, and unlike many, she had money. She could have held her head up and managed somehow. It would have been better than drowning herself and her innocent baby.”

He stared at her. “She was a ruined woman.”

“She was a selfish idiot.” Cat had never been ruined herself, of course, and never would be, since she had no intention of letting a man into her bed. But she certainly hoped that, if by some odd fate she was in such a position, she'd manage things more intelligently than Isabelle had.

She grinned. “But I can't complain. Isabelle's actions have given me what I've always dreamed of—the opportunity to live on my own.” She wanted to pinch herself to be certain she wasn't actually dreaming. The sooner the duke signed the necessary papers and gave her the key to the Spinster House, the better.

“Won't you miss your family?”

Did he sound wistful?

“No. You said yourself the vicarage must be crowded. I assure you it is. I even have to share a bed with my sister Mary.”

“I can see how that might be uncomfortable.”

He didn't sound convinced, but then he had no idea what her life was like. He was a duke.