What a Duke Wants (7 page)

She watched him swallow, saw the tendons in his neck draw tight. His eyes closed and then opened again.

He stepped back suddenly, turned, and walked away.

She held her breath for a moment, until he pivoted and walked back toward her. Then he paced away again. He repeated the pattern several times before coming to stand before her. “If all you want is kisses I can be happy with that. Well, not happy precisely, but contented. You are right, a man does want more, but a man also controls those wants.”

There was a slight tap from the interior of the inn and then the maid who had been watching Joey popped her head out. She gazed down the stairs, looking beyond Isabella.

“Is he waking then?” Isabella asked.

“No, he’s still resting like the baby that he is, but I need to lay out my mistress’s dress for tomorrow and I didn’t wish to leave him alone.” She stuck her head out further. “I thought I heard you talking to someone.”

Isabella turned her head, following the maid’s gaze. Mr. Smythe was gone. “I was,” she said. “One of the duke’s men. He was advising me on what the roads should be like tomorrow.”

The maid gave a snort and stepped back into the inn. “A groom, I suppose. You need to be careful with them. They’re only after one thing.”

Isabella did not reply, merely following the maid back in and up the interior stairs to the attic room they shared.

The problem was she wasn’t sure what Mr. Smythe wanted. Well, he did want that, but he did seem to be considering something more besides. Somehow she had to find out just what—and quickly.

And then there was herself, what did she want? What did she need?

M
ark stood in the shadows and watched Isabella slip back into the inn. His body was still tense with both arousal and the nearness of being discovered. If there was one thing he knew about maids, it was that they never kept quiet. If he’d been caught kissing Isabella the whole inn would have known of it within the hour and probably half the surrounding town as well. It was bad enough that Douglas probably knew. The blasted man knew everything.

Mark glanced up at the dark windows above, looking for the familiar silhouette.

Isabella had been right to step back, to step away, to draw a halt to it all.

Still, he wished she hadn’t. His lips still longed for the feel of hers beneath them, soft, sweet, willing.

Only how willing was she, and did he care? Could he be content with kisses? Could he risk more than kisses? If he seduced her did he need to tell her who he was first? Surely it was the only honorable thing—and yet his whole being cried out against letting her know that he was the duke.

So he was back to the original question: Could he be content with kisses?

He never had been before. He couldn’t recall ever willingly entering into a relationship that would consist only of kisses—not that this was a relationship. It was more of a dalliance. Still, she was right. A man wanted more, needed more.

So why hadn’t he said that or even just walked away?

He still could. It would be the easy thing, the sane thing, to simply instruct the driver to travel a normal distance tomorrow instead of these shortened drives that Mrs. Wattington demanded. If he did that, perhaps even added an extra few miles to the day, he would arrive in London as expected, rather than late. It surely couldn’t be a good thing to be late for one’s king—and yet he’d been willing to risk it.

For kisses.

Was he truly willing to risk royal ire for kisses?

I
sabella’s mind danced with the glory of Mr. Smythe’s kisses. It had been years since she’d been so lost in the wonder of a moment. All things suddenly seemed possible. She almost skipped as she headed up the stairs to her room.

“We want what you took and we want it now.” The whisper came from behind her as she was halfway up the stairs.

She froze, the breath leaving her.

Then fear set in. She had to get away. Before she could turn and run she felt her arms grabbed and held tight. A large male body pressed against her back, forcing her against the stair rail. The scent of old sweat filled her nostrils.

Her entire body froze. Last night she had been scared to enter the inn. Tonight it had not even occurred to her. Her thoughts had been of nothing but Mr. Smythe and his kisses. How could she have been so foolish?

“Don’t turn, and don’t say anything,” the voice continued. “We want what you took from Foxworthy. Give it to us and we’ll let you be. If not, I am sure that many would be interested in what happened to the colonel and his papers.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Isabella tried to hold her voice even despite the terror that was fast taking over.

“Don’t give us that. You have until we reach London.”

“I don’t know—”

“I am sure you do know what happens to those who commit murder—they hang.”

Isabella’s heart jumped to her throat. They knew. They knew what she’d done. How?

“But—” Even as she spoke Isabella felt herself thrust forward, her feet slipping beneath her as she fell to her knees on the hard wood of the stairs, splinters slipping through her skirt. She turned quickly, but there was only the clatter of boots and the swing of the door into the taproom.

Chapter 7

H
ang. She could hang.

Isabella had always known that, but hearing it said aloud made it all too real, too immediate.

It was more than she could bear to think about.

She turned over, pulling the covers up high, glad that the sun was finally peeking above the horizon. The night was over. Joey still slumbered safely in his cot, unaware of the troubles that plagued her.

What did the whispering man want? She forced herself to remember that horrible day—not Foxworthy’s death, she always ran from that memory, but the aftermath. She’d been intent on finding the false papers that declared her brother guilty of treason. After the way Masters had treated her she almost hadn’t bothered, but her sister’s happiness had been tied up in it all as well.

She remembered sweeping all the papers off the top of Foxworthy’s desk and stuffing them in her reticule. She’d dumped everything on her bed at Masters’s house and fished out the needed papers, turning them over to Violet.

It would not make sense for the whispering man to be after those papers. Why would he want papers proving Masters was innocent of treason? Why would he want papers involving Masters at all?

There had to be something else. She tried to remember what she’d seen as she tossed things aside. There’d been other papers, but it truly had been rubbish, if she remembered correctly. A couple of unpaid bills from a tailor, an IOU from a game of hazard, some lady’s florid love letters written in purple ink—they had at least been educational, if a little strange in tone—and some scraps of paper used to scribble sums, nothing that was worth anything.

The IOU perhaps?

No, it had been for less than fifty pounds.

Perhaps the scribbles were a secret code? She could have built quite a drama with that as the plot. If that were the case, however, Foxworthy would probably not have been using them to blot spilled ink.

The love letters? Love letters could be used for blackmail, but surely she would have remembered if there had been anything truly scandalous in them. The most exciting thing about them had been the bright purple ink.

Could she have missed anything? Probably. But what did it matter now? The papers were tucked away at Masters’s house, if they had not been thrown away. The maid who had cleaned up after she left might very well have seen them as rubbish and tossed them aside. For that matter Masters might have just thrown all her belongings into the streets.

There was no hope there. She didn’t know what they wanted and even if she did, she’d have no way of retrieving the papers.

There seemed to be no possible solution but flight and even that did not seem possible. If only she had somebody to help, just one person on her side.

Could Mr. Smythe be that person? What would she need to do to make him so?

“D
o you see this? How am I supposed to travel with wrinkles in my skirt? I told you yesterday to be sure everything was ready. I cannot believe you pressed this at all. What did you do last night, flirt with stable hands? It’s almost ten, time for us to be on the road. I will be forced to travel looking no better than a servant.” The woman who said the words was as young and sweet-looking as any Mark had seen the last month—or at least since he’d kissed Isabella last night. The voice, though—the voice could have belonged to a fishmonger’s wife. Hell, it could have belonged to the fishmonger himself.

The poor maid to whom the comments were addressed bent her head and mumbled words of apology.

The woman was having none of it. “I don’t care what time we arrived or how many other tasks you had to do. You should not have slept until my clothing was ready. You’re lucky I don’t dismiss you on the spot. If I did not have such a tender heart I’d leave you in this godforsaken little town and just be done with it. The kitchen maid could do a better job than you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Wattington,” the maid whispered. She turned to go.

Mark’s head came up. This was Mrs. Wattington, Isabella’s employer? She didn’t look old enough to have a baby. He’d pictured a full-figured merchant’s wife, not this slip of a girl. Still, based upon the voice, appearances could be deceiving.

“I did not dismiss you.” Mrs. Wattington reached out and grabbed the poor girl by the collar.

He stepped forward reflexively. His boot bumped into a coatrack, causing it to smack against the wall.

Mrs. Wattington turned, her mouth open, ready to berate him—then she stopped. Her eyes swept from the toe of his polished Hessians to the well-shaped felt of his hat. A slow smile spread across her face.

She stepped forward, lowering her eyes and then raising them in a gesture surely designed to enchant. She repeated the move. There was temptation to ask if she had something in her eye.

“Forgive my boldness,” she said, stepping even closer. “I know it is not done to speak without proper introduction, but I fear nobody in this hamlet has the manners to accomplish even such a simple task so I must take it on myself. I am Mrs. Wattington, wife to Mr. Henry Wattington. Perhaps you’ve met my husband. He travels only in the best of circles.” She batted her lashes again.

“Strattington, at your service.” Mark gave the barest nod. He was tempted to cut her, his uncle probably would have. A duke would never speak to such a—a— He didn’t even have a word to describe such an obvious social climber.

“The Duke of Strattington, I thought it must be you. Poor man forced to dine alone each night because there is not suitable company along the road. I would have thought there would be more people of our class coming to London for the coronation, but alas, I seem to always be forced to dine with only myself for company.”

If she moved her lashes any faster he’d be able to feel a breeze.

“Personally I find no company better than my own.” There, that sounded like a duke.

“But food is always better shared.”

What was there to say to that? He certainly did not intend to eat with the woman. “I find myself occupied the next several nights. Perhaps you should see if the Duke of Hargrove is free. I am told he is now traveling this road also.”

It was an evil thing to do to poor Hargrove, but the other man was sensible enough to travel at a decent speed and must be far ahead of Mrs. Wattington’s meandering pace. Mark certainly was not going to miss a chance to spend time with Miss Smith in order to eat with Mrs. Wattington.

“Excuse me. My carriage is ready.” He nodded a last time to the woman and strode through the door without looking back.

E
leven hours later Mark had only one thought.
The hay was not fresh
. He walked through the inn’s stable and pulled in a deep breath. Normally he would not have stabled his horses in such a place, but there was not much choice in the village that Mrs. Wattington had chosen as their stopping point.

The woman must really hate to travel.

His ears still rang with the sound of her voice as she’d berated the maid. And he’d been sure she was about to strike the poor girl when she’d grabbed her by the collar. He wasn’t sure what he’d have done then. He’d stepped forward without thought, only knowing he hated the abuse of authority. He hated the thought that Isabella worked for such a woman.

Mrs. Wattington had changed soon enough when she’d seen him, however. The saccharine voice that had leaked from her lips then might have been even worse than the tone she’d used with the maid.

Being the duke was not always a pleasure.

Would he ever stop thinking of it as being the duke and start thinking of it as being himself?

He remembered his uncle’s humorless stare and doubted it. He was learning to act the duke, but he doubted he’d ever actually manage to be the duke.

There were some advantages, though. Mrs. Wattington had let the maid go with hardly another glance once she’d seen him. If only he could protect Isabella as easily.

He strolled to the stall holding his gelding and stared at the great horse. Achilles had been with him since before France and while the horse had not come to war with him, he owed the horse far more than his life—he owed him his sanity. Achilles listened without judging, something very rare in Mark’s life since the death of first his cousin and then his uncle—even Douglas judged him. He’d seen it in the man’s eyes often enough. He whistled quietly and Achilles wandered over, almost as content with a scratch as a carrot.

The horse kicked at the straw beneath his feet, impatient for more attention.

The straw was not fresh
.

The thought returned and with it the true motivation behind it. It was true that he would not normally have housed his horse, or any horse, in such conditions, but he accepted the realities of life. The straw did not trouble Achilles. Mark smiled as the horse nudged him again. No, the truth was he’d been thinking about Isabella—and not just about the need to protect her.

Achilles shoved his face harder toward Mark and Mark gave him one last good rub between the eyes.

He looked out the door at the nearly empty yard and then back at the equally empty inn. It was impossible to imagine a tryst of any kind in such conditions. He shook his head at his own thoughts. Isabella had not indicated definite willingness for any further relations and, if he was honest, if she did he would not care where they were. The condition of the straw would not matter in the slightest if she was smiling up at him.

And damnation, he should not be having such thoughts anyway—the rule was kisses, kisses only. He could not afford more than that.

A noise near the door drew his attention.

I
sabella shivered as she stepped into the yard. She hadn’t been sure she would come until the moment she stepped out the door. It had been the hardest day of her entire life as she pretended that nothing was wrong when all she wanted to do was run and hide. Only she didn’t know where to hide. The one thing that she did know was that she had to do something.

And so she was here, creeping through the darkness looking for the one thing that made her feel safe, Mr. Smythe. If only she could find a way to keep him with her forever, to feel safe forever.

She stepped toward the stable, her eyes darting around. “Are you in there, Mr. Smythe?” Isabella was relatively sure it was Mr. Smythe she had seen entering the stable, but she would hate to be mistaken and end up with the duke. There was something so similar about them, but it had definitely been Mr. Smythe’s loose-hipped walk. She didn’t know what she’d say to a duke besides “Yes, Your Grace.” Once she would have known how to flirt and what to say, but not any longer. Flirtatious gestures were not taken well when coming from a servant—or perhaps they were taken too well.

Which was ironic given that she was trying to decide if she could persuade Mr. Smythe to help her by flirting with him. She was steeling herself to try almost anything. Only somehow it was all different with him. She didn’t need to think and plan, although she did intend to try a couple of the things her sister had told her about. She’d seen Violet spin men in circles until they didn’t know which way was up. Could she do the same?

Could she make him help her, make him stay with her?

Pulling her cloak about her shoulders, she moved through the dark doorway. There was a light farther back, near the far stalls. It must be Mr. Smythe. Drawing in a deep breath, she considered. She released her cloak, let it slide open.

The first step was to make him want.

The second was to make him want more.

The third was to test what he was willing to do.

The fourth was to make him want even more.

The more he wanted, the more she held back, the more he might be willing to help her. She hadn’t decided just what she wanted yet, but she could figure that out once she knew he was on her side.

It should have felt cold-blooded, but when she thought of Mark cold didn’t enter into it.

Mark. It was the first time she had allowed herself to call him that in her mind. After their kiss last night it felt strange to think of him as Mr. Smythe or even just Smythe.

A shuffling from behind had her turning. “Mr. Smythe?” It was too soon to say his Christian name aloud.

All she saw was darkness. She shivered, peering into the darkness.

“Mr. Smythe,” she called out again.

No answer.

Could she gamble that Mark would help her, protect her, if—if she slept with him? That was what she was considering, wasn’t it? She was thinking about more than simple flirtation.

She swallowed as she let the thought form.

No, she wasn’t sure that she could go that far. It was too risky and she had always wanted to wait for love. Surely she could persuade him to help without actually seducing him.

Besides, what would happen if she failed? She shivered to even consider the possibility. If she had sex—she forced her mind to form the word; if she was going to consider it she had to at least think it—with Mark and then he abandoned her, what then? She would be even worse off than she was now.

And what was the best thing that could happen?

She doubted that he would leave the duke and take her away, but could he be persuaded to give her the money she needed, or perhaps to even find a place for her to stay?

That was the most likely scenario, that he would give her money. The idea was distasteful, but perhaps necessary.

No, she was not going to think that way. She wanted to be with him, to feel safe—not just to take his money.

Another sound brought her thoughts back to the moment. Her head jerked up and she stared more deeply into the darkness. And then she felt it, that prickle on the back of her neck, the sensation of being watched. Was somebody there? A movement near the inn caught her eye and she peered in the blackness. A cat. It had to be a cat.

Since the meeting with Blue Coat and the Whisperer—were they one and the same?—she acted like she needed eyes in the back of her head, always glancing about. It was only when she was near Mark that she let down her guard.

Mark. Was he the answer to her problems? The thought surfaced again.