What to Do with a Duke (7 page)

“Your Grace, if you had ten children, none of them would have to share a bed or even a room. And you could retire to your study and close the door and no one would disturb you.” Well, that was true for Papa, too. Men definitely had an easier life than women. “No one could
find
you if you didn't wish to be found. I've seen the castle. It's huge. But I have no doors to close, no place to be guaranteed a moment's privacy. Can you even begin to imagine what that is like?”

He just stared at her. Of course he couldn't imagine it. It was like asking an elephant to imagine life as a mouse.

She shrugged. “The vicarage is just across the road from the Spinster House. If I have a sudden need to see my parents and brothers and sisters, I can do so.”

But they'd best not think they could cross the road to drop in on her whenever they liked. Oh, no. She would have to take steps to be sure they understood that
very
clearly.

Why was the duke still staring at her? “What is it?”

“Miss Hutting, surely you know I shall never share my home with ten children. I shall likely never share it with one.”

Heavens, was the man impotent? But how was she to know that? Still, it was very—

Oh. She stopped walking to stare at him. “You mean . . . But the curse—it's not . . . It's just a story, isn't it?”

“No. It is not just a story.”

 

 

Miss Hutting was gaping at him.

He liked the girl, but she made his head spin. She wasn't like any other woman he'd ever met. Not only did she not want to marry, she said the most outrageous things.

Could
Isabelle be at all to blame for what had happened to her?

No. The fault must be laid solely at the third duke's door. Women were the weaker sex, after all.

Though there was nothing weak about Miss Hutting. Perhaps she would indeed have the courage to survive an out-of-wedlock pregnancy, though he doubted she had any idea what that experience would entail.

Lust suddenly curled low in his belly. Nor did he think she had any understanding of what must occur before a woman found herself enceinte.

He would like to show her.

She was tall, as tall as many men. She must have long legs—she certainly had a well-turned ankle. He'd like to see the calf attached to that lovely ankle and the thigh and the soft hair—

Zeus!
He was losing his mind. He needed to get the Spinster House settled and get out of Loves Bridge before he did something very, very foolish.

“You mean the Dukes of Hart actually die before their heir is born?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She laughed. “Gammon! Everyone knows curses are only the stuff of fairy tales.”

The effrontery of the girl. His fingers twitched to grab her by the shoulders and shake her.

She'd felt so good in his arms when he'd held her after her stumble. Perfect. She—

He
was
losing his mind.

“I assure you, Miss Hutting, the curse is very real. Every duke, beginning with the one who treated Miss Dorring so badly, has fallen victim to it.”

Her jaw dropped again, and then she shook her head. “There must be some rational explanation.” She started walking again. “I assure you Isabelle was not a witch—not that I believe in witches either.” She frowned at him. “I'm very surprised an educated man like you does.”

He matched his step to hers. They could not get to Wilkinson's office fast enough. He looked around, hoping to catch sight of the place, but the hedgerows stretched higher than his head on both sides of the lane.

“Miss Hutting, I don't know what your cousin was or was not. All I know is my family's history.”

“You must be mistaken.”

Good God, did she think he didn't know his own destiny? “I am not. Five dukes, including my father, all died before their heir was born. The curse governs our lives, Miss Hutting. It is why we put off marrying as long as we can. The moment the Duchess of Hart conceives, the duke begins to count the days he has left on this earth—unless he gets a temporary reprieve and has a daughter. Which, I should add, has only happened once in two hundred years.”

Where
was
Wilkinson's office?

He picked up his pace, not caring if he left Miss Hutting behind, but she matched him step for step. Clearly she was used to walking.

Too bad she'd let go of his arm.

No. It was excellent that she'd let go. The sooner he broke this odd connection with her, the better.

“I think you should ignore the curse.” She smiled at him. “Well, not the part about the Spinster House. I certainly want you to attend to that. But as for the rest of it, live your life as you like. As Isabelle's distant cousin, I release you from any further obligation to our family.”

Would that she could do that. “The only way I can be freed from the curse, Miss Hutting, is if I marry for love.” Gah! Such drivel. He hoped he wasn't blushing, but he was afraid he was.

She snickered. “You can't be serious.”

“Unfortunately I am. Deadly serious.”

Her eyebrows shot up, and then she tried—unsuccessfully—to swallow her mirth. “Well, then, you have your answer. Find some female to love. I imagine they are lining up for the honor. You just have to pick one.”

She could not think it was that easy. “Oh, they are lining up, all right, but to grab my purse, not my heart.”

She snorted. “I find that hard to believe. Have you looked in a mirror recently? Scores of women must be sighing over you.”

Clearly Miss Hutting was not one of them.

Not that he wished the woman to be sighing over him. What a ridiculous thought.

No, it was not. He looked down the lane rather than at Miss Hutting. “Have we almost reached Wilkinson's office?”

“Yes. It's just around that curve.”

He would not run, but he did increase his pace again—and Miss Hutting kept right with him.

“Why didn't you have Randolph come to you at the castle, Your Grace? Wouldn't that have been the more ducal way to go about things?” She grinned. “Though I will say you've done a good job of keeping up with me. I was afraid I might have to dawdle while you huffed and puffed along.”

First compliments, now insults.

“Thank you, Miss Hutting. I do more than sit on my throne in London, you know.”

Her eyes widened. “You have a throne?”

Zeus, she was a confusing mix of worldly-wise and naïve.

“No, of course I don't. And I'm coming to Wilkinson's because that's what I'm required to do.” He shrugged. “I suppose Miss Dorring took some pleasure in compelling the dukes to dance to her tune.”

“You are likely correct.”

They had finally reached the end of the hedgerow. Miss Hutting turned up a walk toward a pleasant, white-walled, thatched house.

“I hope Randolph can see us at once.” She looked back over her shoulder at him. “I assume he's expecting you?”

“Yes. I have forty-eight hours after I receive his letter notifying me that the Spinster House is vacant to present myself at his offices.”

And once he had done that and handed the keys to the house over to Miss Hutting, he could leave Loves Bridge forever. He and Nate and Alex could head off for the Lake District. Walking the fells without a single annoying woman nearby sounded like heaven right now.

Miss Hutting's eyebrows rose. “I still wonder why Isabelle believed the duke and his descendants would follow her instructions—demands, really—since she must have thought your ancestor a complete dastard.”

“True. Which is likely why she added another curse. If the duke doesn't appear within forty-eight hours, he dies.”

Miss Hutting's eyebrows shot up to disappear into her hair. “He dies? As in drops dead the moment time runs out?”

“I believe so. No one has been brave enough—or careless enough—to find out for certain. And if the duke is married and his wife increasing, the child dies in the womb.”

She stared at him as he reached for the door latch. “That's terrible.” And then she snorted again. “And unbelievable.”

It did sound ridiculous. He'd laugh at the entire farce if he weren't the lead actor.

“I'm sorry you feel you must comply with this superstitious humbug,” she said—and then grinned, her green eyes sparkling. “Though I'm delighted to benefit from it.”

Need slammed into him. He wanted her joy, her excitement.

Her.

Had he really been leaning toward her?

He jerked his head back.

The curse was turning his mind. The sooner he was out of Loves Bridge and away from Miss Hutting the better. He'd attend to the Spinster House today and flee to the lakes tomorrow.

He opened the door, and Miss Hutting hurried inside and out of his reach, thank God.

“Jane!” She was almost dancing as she crossed the room. “Do you know what has happened?”

A pleasant-looking woman with brown hair, pulled back severely from her face, and brown eyes looked up from the papers on her desk and took off her spectacles. “No.” Her gaze moved from Miss Hutting to him. “May I help you, sir?”

“You
don't
know!” Miss Hutting grinned at the woman and then grinned at him. “This is the Duke of Hart, Jane. Your Grace, Miss Wilkinson.”

He bowed slightly.

Miss Wilkinson smiled as she stood. “How nice to meet you, Your Grace. What brings you to—” Her face froze, then her eyes widened and her gaze darted back to Miss Hutting.

If Miss Hutting smiled any more broadly, her face would split in two.

“Yes, it's true, Jane. Can you imagine? Miss Franklin has run off with Mr. Wattles.”

“Mr. Wattles?” Miss Wilkinson blinked. “The music teacher?”

“There's only one Mr. Wattles in Loves Bridge—or there
was
only one.” Miss Hutting frowned. “I can't imagine what Miss Franklin was thinking, giving up her independence for Mr. Wattles”—she shrugged and grinned again—“but never mind that. Her loss is my gain.”

Miss Wilkinson's brows snapped down. “What do you mean?”

“I mean the Spinster House is now empty, and I—”

An interior door flew open, and a fellow who looked like a male version of Miss Wilkinson stepped—jumped, really—into the room. “Cat! Why are you here?” He looked over at Marcus. “Ah.”

“Yes. See whom I've brought you, Randolph? The Duke of Hart!”

Now why the hell did Wilkinson look guilty?

“Thank you, Cat.” He shot his sister a worried glance before smiling at Marcus. “And I thank you, Your Grace, for coming so promptly.”

“My pleasure.” Not that he'd had any choice.

“Randolph.” Miss Wilkinson's voice was rather sharp.

“Later, Jane. If you'll just come this way, Your Grace.” Mr. Wilkinson gestured for Marcus to precede him into the room from which he'd just emerged.

Miss Wilkinson darted out from behind her desk to block the door. “Randolph, why didn't you have me write to the duke?”

“
Later,
Jane.” Mr. Wilkinson ran his finger under his cravat. “Now please step aside. You are impeding His Grace's way.”

Miss Wilkinson didn't budge. “I wondered why you had the Spinster House documents on your desk.”

Randolph stiffened. “You were poking around my office?”

“I'm your secretary. Poking around your office is part of my job.” She narrowed her eyes. “Why didn't you tell me the place was vacant, Randolph?”

“But it isn't, Jane.” Miss Hutting had been watching this sibling exchange, chewing on her bottom lip, but she now entered the fray. “Or it won't be. The duke has agreed to let me be the next Spinster House spinster.”

Miss Wilkinson's face took on a distinctly mulish cast. “He can't do that.”

Miss Hutting's eyes widened, her cheeks flushing. “Yes, he can.” She looked at Marcus. “Can't you, Your Grace?”

There was danger here. Fortunately Miss Wilkinson rushed to speak before he could.

“He can't let you be the Spinster House spinster.” She glared at her brother. “There are procedures that must be followed.”

“Jane, not now. Please.” Mr. Wilkinson tugged on his cravat as though that article of clothing was suddenly strangling him. “If you will just step into my office, Your Grace?”

“Ah, but I believe your sister has something to say, Wilkinson.” Surely the man realized Miss Wilkinson was going to say her piece one way or the other. Best to get it over with immediately. And if there was some rule preventing him from giving Miss Hutting the use of the Spinster House, he wanted to know it. In this matter, not following the rules could have fatal consequences. He did not care to drop dead in Wilkinson's damned office.

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Miss Wilkinson trained her gaze on her brother. “You know as well as I do, Randolph, that any opening at the Spinster House must be announced to the village.”

“Er. Ah.” Mr. Wilkinson's Adam's apple bobbed. “I believe that is a mere formality.”

“It. Is. Not.” Miss Wilkinson bit off each word. “And if there is more than one candidate, each must be given an equal chance to win the position.”