Time for a Duke
Authors: Ruth J. Hartman
by Ruth J. Hartman
Published by Astraea Press
www.astraeapress.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.
TIME FOR A DUKE
Copyright © 2012 RUTH J. HARTMAN
ISBN 978-1-62135-087-3
Cover Art Designed by For the Muse Designs
To my amazing fellow authors at Astraea Press who always offer such wonderful a
d
vice and encouragement. I’m so blessed to be part of such a wonderful publishing house!
December 2012
"Okay, it's not funny anymore. Let me out.
Please?
" Izzy took deep breaths, grasping her fingers together until they tingled and threatened to go numb. Her legs and lips would be next. She hated the out-of-control feeling panic attacks gave her. Visiting this old estate had been her first mistake. The second? Trusting the snotty women on her tour group.
She should've known their giggles weren't a good thing when she walked into what they'd assured her was a den. With little light in the room, she'd sucked in a gulp of stale air when the door had slammed shut and the key had clicked in the lock. The room had turned out to be a closet. A small one. Not the best place for a claustrophobic.
Izzy slumped to the floor and tried to calm her rapid heartbeat. Maybe visiting England hadn't been such a great idea, even though she'd dreamed of it for years and used up a lot of her savings to pay for it. All she'd wanted was to have an adventure and learn something new. And somewhere in the back of her mind, she'd secretly hoped for a little no-strings-attached romance. But the way her trip had gone so far, none of that was happening.
Now she was locked in this blasted closet! She tasted salt from her upper lip and knew she'd started to perspire. Hot sweat collided with frigid chills, as her body couldn't decide which way to turn. At times, her panic attacks left her wringing wet. Would this one be the same?
Breathe, Izzy.
Clutching her tan chinos with numbing fingers, she grasped at anything she could find in the dark. Her short fingernails snagged on a hole in the knee of her slacks. Had it happened when she hit the floor? Somehow, holding onto something gave her a tiny sense of control, even if what she held on to was herself. Stagnant, dusty air coated her throat and her eyes dampened. The air smelled… old, like her grandmother's trunk in the attic when Izzy visited as a little girl. Had the peculiar odor come from the huge fireplace? She'd been admiring how the stones fit together when the women suggested she check out the "den".
But the smell didn't make any sense. The house had been around for a century, but surely the people who ran the tours kept the building clean. She hadn't noticed it during her sightseeing or even when she was first shoved into the closet. Only
now
. Was she losing her mind trapped in the small space? How long would it take for someone to find her and let her out?
Why had those wicked women done this? They'd been somewhat catty to her the entire trip. Yet Izzy had been stupid enough to trust them when they'd told her they'd seen something interesting behind the door. Her curiosity hadn't done her any favors. What a dunce.
Izzy strived to be independent in life and her work, so she didn't have many close friends. Since she was mostly alone in the world, she had sought out companionship on this trip though. Who wanted to experience a foreign country by herself, having no one to share it with? Obviously, she hadn't chosen wisely with those witches.
A scratching sound low on the other side of the door caused her to dart her gaze that direction, even though there was barely enough light from the tiny crack by the floor to see much. It made her think of animals clawing, trying to get through the door and attack her. She gasped. What now? Were those women scratching to add insult to injury, or to make her feel even more like an idiot? She wasn't sure it was possible at this point. As she tilted her head closer to the door, she realized she could no longer hear their laughter. What was going on out there?
Her breathing hitched as finding air seemed harder to do. Wheezes and coughs were her companions now. Would she suffocate in here? What would happen to her if she died and they found her body? The only family she had left was her father, and he wouldn't bother to find out what happened to her. As her vision swam and whirled, a vague background noise hummed around her. Voices. Male voices. Who was that?
****
December 1812
Charles glanced at his cat. The animal seemed agitated, swishing her tail as she sniffed every inch of the crack below the closet door. What had gotten into her?
"Nephew! Are you paying attention? Why are you staring at the cat?"
Charles leaned against the stones of the hearth and sighed as he swung his gaze back to Uncle Sebastian. He'd listened to his uncle drone on and on. Prattle and nonsense. Could the man never be quiet? Nearly every day for the last two months, he'd had to listen to the necessity of attending Lord and Lady Kringle's Christmas Eve Ball at Holly Hall.
He had no desire to attend. Every ball and party was the same, which was why he usually avoided them. Loud, overbearing mothers who wanted a duke in the family flung their daughters at him. If he'd not met someone who took his interest by now, would he ever?
The boredom threatening to overtake him at such functions was nearly unbearable. He would stand on the sidelines, watching men fall over each other for a turn around the room with whoever the current beauty of the season happened to be. Attempting to hide his sigh with a pleasant expression when he would rather be anywhere else wasn't easy. Why did his uncle feel the need to keep pestering him about going?
Scratch. Scratch
.
What was that noise? He frowned, trying to concentrate on Sebastian's words. Charles knew every person in their tight-knit community, and there was no woman of appropriate age and standing who could make him happy. The women discussed the same subjects over and over while they simpered and giggled, waving their fans in front of their faces as if they had the vapors. Thoughts of spending time with any of them set his stomach to roil. Was there not a woman out there with a mind of her own with whom he could hold an intelligent conversation? Yes, of course, he could always marry someone for whom he had no feelings, which was the fate of many of his friends, but that wasn't what he wanted.
Charles drew his brows together when he heard a raking sound against the wood on the door. Pivoting away from his uncle and the boring conversation, he took a step toward the closet. "Kitty ,
stop
it."
Sebastian cleared his throat, snapping Charles' mind and attention back to the conversation. "Charles, are you even listening? You need to choose a bride. Soon." The older man tugged his coat down over his bulging belly. Gold buttons would surely shoot across the room any moment. Maybe Charles should take cover.
Charles sighed. "Uncle, I haven't met anyone who interests me."
"What has that got to do with anything?"
He glanced toward the floor. Knowing what his uncle thought of his ideas and wishes, he didn't want to meet his gaze. "I feel there must be someone out there. Someone meant for me."
His uncle snorted. "I don't know where you get your ideas, nephew. Maybe from all those books you read." He tilted his head and rubbed his chin. "What was that old, dusty one I saw you with last night? 'Gilbert's Adventure'?"
Charles watched his uncle through slanted eyes. "Gulliver's Travels."
Sebastian flicked his hand through the air. "Yes, yes. That's the one. Nonsense. A waste of your time."
Charles didn't want to be disrespectful to his elder, but wished at times his uncle would at least not ridicule his interest in reading about people and worlds unlike their own. Had the man no imagination? Or had he not ever longed to see something other than this drafty old house?
Sebastian waddled across the floor to the sideboard where the wine was kept. A crystal decanter reflected sun from the window across the room. "I wasn't in love with your aunt when we courted, and she wasn't in love with me, but we were married for thirty years before she died. You're getting older. And need to choose a bride. The Christmas Eve Ball is the perfect opportunity." After the older man drank down the wine in a single slurp, he set his goblet on the sideboard with a
thunk
.
Charles opened his mouth to protest, but closed it. His uncle was already halfway out of the room. For a large man, he scuttled quickly. No use anyway, as his uncle was set in his ways and mind. There was no changing him.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
Charles glanced down and frowned. The cat was furiously pawing the closet door.
What
'
s that cat doing?
He walked toward the closet and tried to pick the feline up. But the cat was having none of it. Twisting and kicking, she pulled loose from Charles' grasp, sliding down his pant leg to resume her activity.
Charles narrowed his eyes. "What's so interesting in there, Kitty? Moths?" Kitty's nose stayed buried in the tiny opening between the door and the frame, her paws swiping faster and faster until Charles feared the animal would expire from the effort. Charles knelt on the floorboards and leaned closer to the wooden door. Was that a whimper? He widened his eyes. Surely there wasn't a creature trapped in his closet. Was that why Kitty was so frantic?
Charles stood and nudged the feline toward the doorway with the toe of his boot and then herded the animal into the other room. He retraced his steps and grasped the closet handle. Edging the door open with a creak, he peered into the darkness.
****
Izzy opened her eyes and realized the closet was no longer closed. Someone had rescued her! She squinted against the pale light coming from the room. A man dressed in dark, old-fashioned clothes stood staring at her. Was he one of the tour guides? No, she'd have remembered seeing him. Dark, wavy hair nearly reached his collar. Huge brown eyes glared beneath lowered brows. Why did he look mad? It wasn't her fault those witches had locked her in there.
She sat up and stuck out her hand. "I'm so glad you found me! Help me up, will you?"
The man took a step back but said nothing.
Izzy raised her eyebrows. "What's wrong? Cat got your tongue?"
"What are you doing here? And why would my animal abscond with my tongue?"
Oops, seemed she'd interrupted an estate guide in the middle of his duties. But wow, his accent was convincing. "I, uh…"
He tilted his head. "Who are you? And why are you addressing me so plainly, without regard to my station?"
"Your—"
"It's customary to address a duke as "your grace"."
Izzy gritted her teeth. What was going on? The other guides were kind, even joking around with the guests. What gave this creep the right to treat her like dirt on his — she flicked her gaze down — boot.
The man narrowed his eyes to two small slits. "I'll have you banished at once."
"Banished? Now hold on a minute."
"Miss, I don't know how you came to be here on my estate, but I assure you, it won't be tolerated."
Izzy scooted closer to the man, grabbing the open door for support. If the rude guide wasn't going to help her, she'd do it herself. She pulled up to a standing position and reached around to dust off the seat of her pants.
When she glanced back up, she noticed his eyes open wide. Then he angled his head away. She stared at him. Did he avoid looking at her because she touched her backside? "Listen, duke, or whoever you are, my name's Izzy. All I know is some evil women on my tour locked me in this closet and left me to rot."
He swung back around and stared as if peering through her. "There isn't anything evil on this estate." He checked behind him and then back to her. "And there is no one here, save you and I. Maybe you're the evil one."
Izzy placed her hands on her hips. "I'd appreciate you not calling me evil. I haven't done anything wrong. The only reason I came on this
stupid
tour of this
stupid
estate was for an
adventure
." Peering behind the man, she lowered her eyebrows. Why was the furniture different? Hadn't the upholstery been a dark green? Now it was red. Besides that, she'd thought the closet opened right next to the fireplace, not closer toward the middle of the room. Surely she was seeing things. Maybe she'd hit her head on the floor during her panic attack.
The man crossed his arms, and the muscles bulged beneath his dark coat. Broad shoulders filled out his clothing quite nicely. Too bad he was a jerk. Otherwise, he'd be a good fit for the fling she'd hoped for while she was here.
He stepped closer, blocking her from possible escape. "I don't know what you're referring to as an adventure. You must realize there will be consequences for your trespassing and insolence. I don't tolerate it from servants, and I will not tolerate it from you. Whoever you may be. As a duke, I demand respect." He flicked his gaze up and down her body. "And why is it a woman would be dressed so strangely?" He frowned. "Not dressed as a woman, yet not quite as a man? Don't you desire to find a husband to care for you? You won't catch a man that way, I assure you."
"Well! Of all the…" Izzy tried to push past him. She planted her hands on his solid chest, fingers connecting with silky fabric. The man was built! But built or not, he was rude, and she needed to get away from him and this place. What had she been thinking, coming to a foreign land alone?
The man grasped both of her wrists in one of his large hands and tugged her toward him. The strap of her denim purse, which had until now managed to stay affixed to her shoulder, slipped down to her elbow. Izzy fumed. "Hey, you can't—"
He tugged harder. Izzy pulled one of her wrists free. Her purse fell to the floor, its contents tumbling out. She glanced down. Perfect. Now all her stuff was strewn about. She couldn't run away yet, because she needed everything in that bag to get out of this crazy estate and wicked country. ID, passport, wallet, and phone were just out of her reach.
Still holding one of her wrists in his massive hand, the man bent down to examine the items. He wrapped his free hand around her phone and gasped when the screen lit up. As he widened his eyes, he dropped the phone and jumped up, jerking her forward. "How have you managed this? Are you a witch?"
Izzy stepped closer, glaring into his eyes. "Of course I'm not a witch! It's just a cell phone, and not even a good one at that."
The duke stared at her while shaking his head. His fingers dug deeper into her wrist. Eyes still opened wide, he bent back down to retrieve a piece of paper and stood back up. One look told Izzy it was the brochure of the estate tour with her ticket stub attached to the front. She smirked and stared directly into eyes that appeared as if they could shoot sparks.
"There, duke. See? That proves I have a right to be here. I paid for my ticket. So what do you say to that?"
A frown marred the handsome face. He turned the paper this way and that, examining it from every angle. "This is not common paper. The light from the window reflects from its surface." He quickly scanned over the words on the page, narrowing his eyes after darting them back to the top. "What madness is this?"
"Huh?" Why didn't he stop playing his role? It had to be obvious she wasn't buying it.
"The date on this page. It states it's the year 2012?"
"Yeah, so?"
He held the paper closer to his face. "And this image. It's of my home. What trickery allowed it to occur? How did you come by this?"
"Because I signed up to tour this estate so I could see how the wealthy used to live. Now I wish I hadn't." Izzy yanked her wrist, trying to break free of his grip.
He opened his mouth, gaping like a fish. Even though Izzy wanted to be as far away from this madhouse as possible, she couldn't stop staring at the man's well-formed lips. They appeared to be soft and sensual. What would they taste like?
"I-it can't be." The duke tightened his hold on her wrist.
"What can't be?" Izzy gasped when the man pulled her roughly down the hall. Squeaks from the soles of her shoes bounced off the ceiling, creating a tiny echo. As she darted a gaze toward the wall, she spotted several portraits in a row to her left. Wait. That one looked like… She stared again at the man tugging her toward a closed wooden door. No, it couldn't be. Why would the tour guide's picture be on the wall?
Izzy sucked in air too fast, her lungs protesting the sudden intake.
Oh no, not now
. Another gasp morphed into a wheeze. Legs that still felt tingly from her closet panic attack now threatened to buckle. The man didn't even slow down to look at her. What was wrong with him? She could be dying, and he wouldn't even notice.
When they reached the closed door at the end of the hallway, Izzy watched as the duke pushed it open. What was he planning on doing to her? If he called the cops, she didn't know any English lawyers.
Izzy was yanked across the room and was relieved when the irate man finally let go of her wrist. She rubbed some life into her hand as she plopped down on the nearest piece of furniture, fearing otherwise she might collapse in a heap on the wooden floor.
The duke thrust the paper toward her within two inches of her face. "What's the meaning of this?"
She closed her eyes and leaned forward, swatting the paper away from her nose. Her breathing had slowed a little and the wheezing had stopped, but her heartbeat still felt like a drum at a rock concert. When she opened her eyes, he was closer than he'd been before.
"Meaning of what? The brochure? You should know, since you work here."
He stood taller, throwing back his shoulders. "Work? I'm not a common servant."
"Cut the act, duke. You don't have an audience for your theatrics anymore."
Izzy expected the man to berate her further. Instead, he slumped onto a chair near her. He slid his gaze once again to the paper in his hand. "It can't be. It simply can't be."
Izzy took a deep breath and was relieved to find it no longer hurt her chest. "What are you talking about?" She just wanted out of there, away from the rude tour guide with all the weird questions, and away from the mean women who'd put her in that position.
"The… the date." The edges of the yellow paper fluttered as he waved it around.
"Why not? Don't you people in England use the same date as we do in America?"
He jerked his head up. "America? That explains your strange accent. And your insolence."
"Insolence? I don't think so. I'm just standing up for myself. And there's nothing strange about my accent. What about
yours
? How long did it take you to learn to speak like you're from the year—"
"Eighteen-twelve." He rubbed a large hand down his face until his fingers rested on his chin. "The year is 1812."