When the Duke Found Love (35 page)

“Here you are, Miss Fig,” she said, gathering the cat securely into her arms. “The last thing I wish is to have to chase you about the garden tonight. Come, into your basket now.”

She pulled Fig’s wicker traveling basket from beneath the bed and tried to lower the cat inside.

“Blast you, stop fighting,” she muttered as she struggled to maneuver the cat, suddenly all hissing and rigid paws and claws, into the basket. “Stop this, or I’ll leave you behind, and then you’ll be sorry.”

At last she pressed the lid down and buckled the straps to keep it closed while Fig mewed piteously. Diana flung her cloak over her shoulders and hurried back to the window. She opened the sash wider, wincing a bit at the unavoidable squeak, and leaned forward.

There was Sheffield, standing beneath her. He wore a long, dark cloak and a sword, and had a black cocked hat pulled low over his brow, all wonderfully mysterious.

“Sheffield!” she called softly. “Sheffield, here!”

At once he looked up, his handsome face turned toward her. He smiled warmly, which was very fine, and then pointed to the watch in his hand, which was not quite so fine. Time might be of the essences, but it wasn’t particularly romantic to be reminded of the hour like this. She blew him a kiss from her fingertips anyway, and hurried back to gather the valise with her few well-chosen belongings and Fig’s basket.

“Gardy-loo!” she called softly, and dropped the valise from the window. Sheffield caught it with a grunt, clearly surprised by how heavy it was, and set it on the ground beside him. He held his hands up, beckoning.

She grinned and set the basket with Fig on the sill. She checked the rope she’d threaded through the basket one more time, and slowly began to lower it from the sill. The frightened cat made the basket swing and jerk, but finally it came within Sheffield’s reach. He caught it by the handle, and as he began to coil the rope on top, Fig growled from within.

“What in blazes is in there?” he said, staring warily into the basket. At once Fantôme appeared like a portly ghost in the moonlight, trotting over to sniff at the growling basket. “Is that Fig?”

“It is,” Diana said. She sat on the edge of the windowsill and swung her legs over the edge. “You keep Fantôme away from her. She’s frightened enough as it is.”

“She’s making a precious great amount of noise for being frightened,” Sheffield said, skeptically peering into the basket along with Fantôme.

Diana recognized the potential for disaster. “Please mind Fantôme, Sheffield.”

But her warning came too late. Swiftly Fig’s paw swiped through the wicker to catch the bulldog’s nose, making him howl with pain and tumble backward.

“That’s your fault, Sheffield,” Diana called. “Poor Fantôme! Hush him now, if you can, else he’ll raise the watch and the kitchen staff, too.”

“Your cat’s a vicious wild beast,” Sheffield said, doing his best to calm the dog, who was slinking far from the basket with his tail between his legs. “I told you my mild-mannered Fantôme would bear the worst of the bargain.”

“I did warn you,” she said, tossing her shoes and rolled-up stockings to the grass beside him, for it was much easier to climb down in bare feet than in slippery leather soles. She turned and began to slide from the sill, holding on while her toes felt for the brick stringcourse. The architect who had designed Marchbourne House had doubtless intended the neat rows of protruding bricks and pilasters only for their appearance, but Diana had always found them as good as a ladder built into the house’s wall, and she moved quickly, with nimble confidence.

“Let me help you, sweet,” Sheffield called gallantly. “Jump, and I’ll catch you.”

“You needn’t,” Diana said. “I’m almost down.”

She edged her way to the roof of the porch, turned on the slates, and then began to lower herself over the edge. She was perfectly capable of making the small drop into the flower bed, but Sheffield charged forward, trampling through the spring pinks and foxgloves to seize her boldly around the waist.

“Oh, my goodness!” she exclaimed breathlessly. Her skirts had flown up when she’d fallen, forcing him to hold her around her bare legs, and as she struggled to pull her skirts down, he did nothing to help her but laugh. In all the times she’d climbed from windows, she had never once been caught like this, as if she were fragile and helpless. It was pleasant enough to feel his arms around her, but it was also a bit disconcerting, too, until he kissed her. That she’d expected, and she twined her arms around his neck to kiss him back, by way of showing she didn’t really mind him trying to catch her. He really was excellent at kissing (much better than at catching her), and before long she’d completely forgotten all about how he’d fussed about Fig and trampled Charlotte’s flowers, and everything else besides.

Fortunately, his memory was better.

“Enough, Diana, as much as I am loath to say so,” he said, disentangling her arms from around his neck and gently setting her down. “I wish to be far away before you’re missed.”

She hurried to retrieve her shoes and Fig’s basket, while he brought her valise and Fantôme. They slipped through the garden gate and back toward one of the streets bordering the park, where a nondescript hackney coach was waiting.

“This is a masquerade, isn’t it?” she whispered as he helped her climb inside. The hackney itself was an adventure, for ladies like her never rode in common hired carriages with murky recesses and unspecified pasts. To be in one with a man like Sheffield was almost too exciting to express. “No one will ever guess we’re inside.”

“That’s rather the point, isn’t it?” Sheffield said as he hoisted Fantôme on the opposite seat. “Subterfuge and disguise, dissembling and masquerade. All part of a good elopement.”

“You say that as if you’ve eloped before,” she said. “You haven’t, have you?”

“Why would you even ask such a question?” he said indignantly, settling beside her. “I can absolutely tell you, with no subterfuge or dissembling, that you are the only woman I’ve ever eloped with, or wished to.”

“Ever?” she asked, turning her face up toward his.

“Ever, ever,” he said, curling his arm around her shoulders to draw her closer. “The only one. It’s a fine thing that I love you as much as I do.”

She smiled, and kissed him in such a delicious and leisurely fashion that it was almost as if they were already wed.

“Where are we to be married?” she asked, feeling foolish for not knowing something so important. There hadn’t been time to ask for such details earlier in the evening. He had asked her to marry him, she had accepted, they’d agreed to elope, and that had been all. “How long before we arrive there?”

He sighed. As the rumbled along through the London streets, the lights from passing lanterns fell across his face in ever-changing patterns. “It’s not so easy as that, sweet.”

“I know it’s not,” she said, twisting about to face him. “The laws are against clandestine marriages, and require couples to have their banns read for three weeks before a marriage can take place. Unless, that is, the couple procures a special license.”

He stared down at her. “How the devil do you come to such knowledge?”

“Because Lord Crump had to acquire such a license to wed me,” she said. “A perfectly good license that I suppose shall now go to waste.”

“A good thing that ours shall not,” he said, patting the front of his coat, where she presumed he kept the all-important document. “But I wish there to be no doubt of our marriage, and not the faintest grounds for anyone to challenge it. Therefore we are heading for Oakworth, my house in Hampshire. We’ll be wed on my land, in what amounts to my county, and by a nearby bishop who owes me an honorable favor, all making for as ironclad a marriage as can be arranged in a day.”

“Goodness,” she said, impressed by his diligence. “It sounds wonderfully ironclad to me.”

She was thankful for that, too. Although her marriage to Lord Crump was likewise to have been a hastily arranged ceremony, she’d never doubted that it would be legal and binding, not with so many solicitors involved in the settlements and dukes as witnesses.

But an elopement was by its very nature constructed on a less steady foundation. She and Sheffield weren’t an ordinary couple, racing off to be wed by the blacksmith of Gretna Green for the sake of love alone. There were nearly royal titles and vast fortunes involved, not just for them but for their children as well. She thought shyly of the child she might even now be carrying within her, who, if a son, could one day become the next Duke of Sheffield. For his sake, there must be nothing to challenge his legitimacy or other entitlement to the dukedom. It would have been far easier if they’d wed in the abbey, the way Charlotte and March had, where there could never be any doubts, but the displeasure of their families had made that impossible.

Still, she liked the thoroughly respectable sound of the word
ironclad
. For an elopement, ironclad was likely the best that could be expected.

“We must change hackneys twice before we reach Oakworth,” he was saying. “While we can pause briefly for refreshment, I’d prefer to continue onward rather than stopping at an inn, not until we are wed. Just because I’ve dishonored you once doesn’t mean I intend to do it again.”

Her smile turned lopsided with emotion. “Truly? You will wait until we are wed?”

“I will,” he said. “Which means you must, too.”

She was proud that he would wish to be so honorable and noble in this regard. To her, having been already ruined by him, it did not seem to matter quite so much if she was ruined another time or two before they were married, so long as they finally were. Still, it was admirable that he wished to wait, even if she wasn’t entirely certain that either of them would show such resolve.

“However, since we will stop twice to change horses,” he said, “it’s best we use a false name to cover our tracks. I’ll leave it to you to choose one you like.”

That was another sobering thought. It had been a fine adventure to climb from the window and run away with him as she had. But in the morning, when Sarah came to wake her and would discover her note, the uproar in the house would be considerable. She didn’t doubt that March and likely Brecon, too, would come roaring furiously after them, and it would be better—
much
better—if she and Sheffield were wed before they were found.

“Mr. and Mrs. Hart,” she said finally. “Because that is what I have given you.”

He chuckled. “Very well then, Mrs. Hart, if that is what you wish to be. But only until I can announce you to the world as my duchess.”

“I’ll like that, too.” She heard a ragged pattering on the roof of the hackney, and she glanced at the first drops as the struck the windows. “Look, Sheffield, I think it’s raining.”

“Blast, it is,” he said, leaning forward. “Pray that it’s only a shower, so the roads don’t become muck and slow our progress. I want this journey to be a question of hours, not days.”

She sighed and pillowed her head against his shoulder. She thought again of Charlotte’s wish for her, that she find the same love, trust, and happiness with the man she wed as Charlotte had found with March. She’d no doubt that she loved Sheffield, and already he’d made her happier than anyone else in the world. Now she trusted him, too, not only with her heart but with her future and honor as well. She had to; it was too late to turn back now, even if she’d wished to.

“I do not care how long it rains, Sheffield,” she said softly, “so long as I’m with you.”

“And I with you, my love,” he repeated, pulling her close to kiss. “So long as I’m with you.”

C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN

Sheffield was sure he’d thought of everything.

Remembering how easily Brecon had discovered the details of Lady Enid’s elopement, he’d planned this one entirely himself, not trusting even Marlowe with the details. He’d only the day to make his arrangements, but still he believed he’d thought of everything, from not hiring the hackney in advance, but simply on the street, to having Bishop Pence waiting at Oakworth to marry them the moment they arrived. The special license had been the most difficult, but he’d managed that, too, though it had cost him a sizable amount. He’d even sent word to have the duchess’s bedchamber at Oakworth readied for her arrival, and filled with roses from the gardens. He wished he could have offered her the grand ducal wedding that she deserved with all her family around her, but under the circumstances, he thought, he’d done admirably well.

Earlier this night, Diana had told him he was perfect. He wasn’t, not at all, but for her he’d done his best.

If only it hadn’t rained.

They’d not even been a mile from Marchbourne House when it had begun, a light spring shower that he prayed would pass. But before long the shower had swelled to a driving torrent that lashed so hard against them that it felt as if entire bucketfuls of water were being heaved against the coach. The weary old hackney was far from a seaworthy vessel, and sprang leaks not only at the windows but through the roof.

At first it all had made Diana laugh, merrily shifting seats to dodge one leak, and then another. But as the storm had continued, there soon were no dry places left, and though he wrapped her in his cloak, he still could feel her shivering against him from the damp. Adding to general gloom was Fantôme, who hated being wet and moaned and groaned like a rheumy old man on the seat across from them; Fig answered with her own yowls of feline misery.

But the worst was happening on the road itself. The hackney’s horses were laboring hard against the wind and rain, and Sheffield could feel how the wheels slipped and pulled in the near-flooded roads. Their progress became so slow that it felt as if they were moving only from side to side and not forward at all.

“Where are we, Sheffield?” Diana asked at last. “Can you tell?”

“Not far enough, sweet, I can tell you that.” He peered through the rain and darkness, striving to make out any landmarks. “Nearly two hours, and I doubt we’re much beyond the city walls.”

“Truly?” she asked, the wistfulness in the single word enough to break his heart. She knew as well as he did that speed and distance were imperative, and the last thing either of them wished was to be overtaken before they were legally and finally wed. It wasn’t just the humiliation of having to face Brecon and March, either. Sheffield was certain the righteous pair of them would contrive a way to steal Diana from him and perhaps even return her to Crump.