What A Gentleman Wants (20 page)

Hannah raised agonized eyes to the ceiling as the door clicked shut behind him. She shouldn’t have teased him into being nice to her the other evening. It made impossible things seem possible. She put away the rest of the pearls, closing the lid gently but firmly. Out of sight, out of mind—just like the duke.

She hoped.

“Of course we shall take it!” said Rosalind when Hannah asked her later about the bracelet. “You may see something you like for your ball.”

Hannah shifted uncomfortably. “No, I think the pearls are more than sufficient.”

“For now,” said Rosalind lightly. “Come, let’s to Bridges at once! It really is one of the loveliest shops in London.”

Since it would preclude receiving callers, or even worse, paying calls, Hannah agreed, and endured Rosalind’s chatter all the way to the jeweler’s without complaint. She had no intention of buying anything, or even touching anything, but it couldn’t be so awful to look at the jewels. And since the dressmaker had come to Exeter House, and the wardrobe had taken so much of her time, it would also give her a chance to see a bit more of London.

When they reached the small shop with a simple sign saying “Bridges,” Hannah stepped down first. The footman turned to help Rosalind down, and Hannah looked around in interest. The street was lined with shops, as far as her eye could see, it seemed. Liveried servants, their arms full of packages, hurried after elegant ladies. Gentlemen in gleaming boots and starched collars strolled along, pausing now and men to examine something—or someone—through a quizzing glass. It was quite unlike anything ever seen in Middleborough, and Hannah turned her head from side to side, trying to see everything at once.

Coming down the street toward them were Lady Willoughby and Mr. Bentley Reece. Lady Willoughby was smiling in a rather feline way, her heart-shaped face glowing with satisfaction. She was obviously enjoying whatever he was murmuring in her ear. Hannah felt again a prickle of dislike; seeing Mr. Reece with that woman only reinforced her instinctive feeling from the other night

“Rosalind,” she said on impulse as her companion stepped down. “Who is that couple?”

Rosalind turned. “Which—? Ah.” Annoyance flickered over her face before she composed it. That is my husband’s nephew, Mr. Bentley Reece,“ she said in a carefully neutral voice.

“And the woman?” Hannah pressed. “We met Lady Willoughby at the Throckmorton ball the other night,” she added. Rosalind’s head snapped around, and she looked shocked.

“You did?”

Hannah nodded. “Yes, she came and spoke to us.”

Rosalind’s mouth settled into a thin line. “Did she,” she murmured, her eyes flashing fire. “That scheming, grasping—” She broke off, drew a deep breath, and lowered her voice. “I do not care for Susannah Willoughby,” she said, very fast and low. “She’s Gerald Willoughby’s widow. He was twenty years older than she, and terribly wealthy. He was barely dead a month before she was carrying on with the earl of Manning, trying to move up from baroness to countess.” Hannah felt an uncomfortable stab at that; she had agreed to remarry only six months after Stephen died. It wasn’t pleasant to think that she was the same as Lady Willoughby.

“She pursued Marcus like a hound after a fox,” Rosalind went on, unaware of it. “She was… involved with him,” she added delicately. “Fairly recently.” Hannah felt a flush burn up her neck. Of course. Lady Willoughby had been the duke’s lover. And he had treated her like any society acquaintance the other night, while Hannah had gone on like a lovesick girl. What an idiot she was.

“It’s very unseemly of me to tell you this,” Rosalind said, whispering now. “But I have never met a more sensible person, Hannah—I mean that as a compliment—and I think you should know. She’s a very petty person, and I have heard from friends that she was telling everyone she would be the next duchess of Exeter. She may try to make trouble for you.”

“I see.” Hannah fought down an irrational flare of anger. Whom the duke carried on with was none of her business, after all. Hannah refused to act like a jealous wife, since she wasn’t one. In fact, it might make her life easier if the duke carried on with Lady Willougby and anyone else who caught his fancy, for then everyone would understand why Hannah left in a few weeks, not to mention put to rest her overheated imagination. And yet… “What sort of trouble?”

The sort I can combat,“ Rosalind said, shooting a glacial glare at the woman in question. ”Never fear I won’t stand with you. She’s done herself in, you know; by telling everyone she was to be Marcus’s wife, she’s left herself to appear bitter in rejection.“ Rosalind paused, seeming to weigh her words. ”There are many women in London who threw themselves at Marcus solely because of his wealth and position, and it made him very hard toward women in general. That’s why I was so delighted to hear that he hadn’t even told you he was a duke until after you were married, for it meant he wanted to be sure of your affections for him alone. I’m happier than I can say that he’s found someone like you, who will appreciate him for the man he is. Quite unlike that Willoughby woman, who only wanted his money and his title, I promise you.“

Hannah smiled weakly. “And the gentleman?” Mr. Reece and Lady Willoughby had seen them. She appeared to return Rosalind’s low regard in spades, from the way she stopped cold and glared rather poisonously at them, although Bentley’s face lit up and he tipped his hat Rosalind’s brow cleared at Hannah’s question.

“He is much more acceptable,” she said warmly. “Bentley is my husband’s nephew. Such a charmer! Half the women in London have been in love with him at one time or another. His father had no head for business, poor, dear man, so Bentley was often at Ainsley Park as a boy. He practically grew up with Marcus and David as a brother.”

“Then… they are friendly?” Hannah watched as Lady Willoughby said something to Mr. Reece, then turned on her heel and went back the other way, swinging her parasol violently.

Rosalind laughed lightly. “Perhaps not always! Bent-ley, I fear, came to feel the difference in their positions as the boys grew. He stopped coming to Ainsley Park shortly after Marcus became the new master.” She looked up, a pleased smile blooming on her face. “And here he is now, my neglectful nephew.”

Bentley lifted Rosalind’s hand to his lips. “I confess it, to my shame, and implore you to forgive me. Had I known you had arrived in town, nothing on earth could have kept me from Exeter House.”

She laughed. “Nonsense. I know you better than that, Bentley. You’ve been out seducing some poor woman into falling in love with you, I wager, and never once thought of your family.” She turned to Hannah. “But this time, you have only punished yourself, for I have had dear Hannah’s company. Have you met my daughter-in-law?”

“I had the pleasure the other night, at the Throckmorton ball,” he said, turning his dazzling smile on Hannah. “Although not, unfortunately, the pleasure of a dance.”

“Perhaps another time,” she murmured, wishing again that he wouldn’t look at her that way, as if he were picturing her without any clothes. He had all but leaned over to look down her gown the other night, and it made Hannah uncomfortable. No one had ever looked at her with such casual lust.

“It shall be my fondest hope,” he replied, his voice dropping a tone. “We are family now, and I shall be heartbroken if you forget.”

“No,” she said. No, she wouldn’t forget, but she would try everything to avoid it. She shouldn’t have asked Rosalind about him until he was well away.

“And is the rest of the family well?” Bentley asked Rosalind. “How are all my cousins?”

“Celia, as you well know, will be making her debut next Season,” Rosalind replied. “She longs to thank you for the lovely birthday gift you sent, Bentley. Do call on us soon. David is away from town at the moment, I’m not entirely sure where, but you know David, always here and there on a whim. And Marcus”—she cast a knowing little smile at Hannah—“is quite well.”

“Excellent,” said Bentley, although his smile looked a trifle tight now to Hannah. She doubted he truly cared how his family fared, but perhaps that was uncharitable of her. “I see you are for Bridges,” he went on. “Not unescorted, I hope? Surely my cousin hasn’t lost the famous Exeter pearls?”

“Of course not,” Rosalind said sternly. “We’re on a simple errand, having a bracelet repaired. Marcus never loses what he cares to keep.”

He laughed. “No, no he wouldn’t. It would give me the greatest pleasure to escort you on your errand and then for ices, but alas”—Bentley laid one hand over his heart, his expression growing mournful—“I have an appointment I cannot miss.”

“I suppose we must let you go, then. Do try to make time to call.” Rosalind offered her cheek, which Bent-ley dutifully kissed. He cast a quick glance at her, and Hannah forced a polite smile in reply, clutching her reticule with both hands. He understood, and merely bowed. His eyes gleaming, Bentley bade them farewell and walked on.

Hannah watched him stride away, wondering just what it was about him that bothered her. Rosalind, who knew him much better, thought him just a flirt, and no doubt she was right. Hannah told herself to stop worrying about him. Bentley wasn’t even, as he had said, truly her family at all. At the end of the season, she wouldn’t have to worry about crossing his path again, whether he unsettled her or not.

She heaved a sigh. This wouldn’t be the first worry she had kept to herself. If overly attentive cousins were the worst thing she had to endure, she should be very glad indeed. She turned away and followed Rosalind into the jeweler’s.

“We simply must have answers! The bank cannot wait forever on this question.”

Marcus stared coolly at Mr. Timms. The man had come to call on him yet again, to badger him, it seemed. Marcus was growing tired of that. “If I had answers, I would have already informed you,” he said, watching Timms drink his brandy. Perhaps that was the reason the man was always cornering him at home: the brandy.

“Yes, yes, I know.” Timms set down his empty glass. “But the other directors—”

“The other directors knew my terms,” interrupted Marcus. “They agreed. Are they sending you here for weekly progress reports, or do you come on your own?”

Timms’s round face flushed. “We must know,” he said stubbornly. “The bank is losing money.”

“The bank should make its notes harder to duplicate.”

Timms eyed his glass, as if hopeful there might be something left in it, “Yes, well. Hmmph. Understand, Exeter, we’re trying to be patient—you’re a newly married man, after all, and we do appreciate—”

“I shall call on you in a week or so.” Marcus got to his feet. His personal affairs were no concern of Timms’s, nor any other bank director’s. “Good day, sir.”

Timms flushed again, lurching to his feet and bowing. “Yes. Thank you, Your Grace. Good day.”

Marcus stood until the door closed behind him. If consideration for his bride got Timms to stay away, perhaps he should be glad. The man was like a terrier with his teeth in something. Marcus supposed that was good, from the bank’s point of view, but he preferred not to be prodded and queried at every turn as to why he hadn’t solved the mystery yet. It wasn’t his fault the bank made their notes laughably easy to duplicate.

And speaking of his bride… He wondered what she was doing this morning. Her child had been sliding down the banisters this morning with Celia. His sister was making the most of her last summer of childhood, to be sure. Marcus had watched them for a while, remembering when Celia had been so small he could carry her atop his shoulders. It had been a long time since Exeter House had echoed with childish laughter. It was loud, occasionally very loud, but less annoying than he’d expected. And the little girl had flashed him a smile so joyful, he had even smiled back without realizing.

But he hadn’t seen her mother. Rosalind had gone out to pay calls, and Marcus knew she’d left alone. Celia and the child were out in the garden—he could hear them shrieking and laughing through the open window—which meant his supposed duchess was wandering about the house on her own.

Without bothering to examine the impulse, he left his study and went to the drawing room. It was empty. He frowned a little. Perhaps in the music room, although he had no idea if she played an instrument. She was not. Perhaps the library? Rosalind said she liked to read, and his library was an extensive one.

Halfway up the stairs, he met Albert Redley. He had a plump, plain woman on his arm, and their heads were together in excited conversation. Marcus stepped aside to let them pass, wondering why on earth Redley was in his house, and the couple noticed him. The gentleman’s mouth dropped open in dismay, but the lady fairly leaped at him.

“Oh, Your Grace, how kind your wife is! The most generous, compassionate lady I’ve ever known! Thank you!” And she seized his hand as if she would kiss it. Marcus pulled free just in time.

“Thank you,” he said coldly. “Lady Redley, I presume?”

She bobbed in acknowledgment, hands clasped before her, face beaming with joy. “She’s just wonderful, wonderful! How fortunate you are, and we, too, are, and I simply must say—”

“Constance!” Red-faced, Redley lunged forward and hauled in his wife. “I’m sure his grace has other things to attend to—good day, Your Grace. Let’s be on our way, Constance.” And he rushed her down the stairs. Marcus stared after them with a growing feeling of dread, and anger. He went upstairs and found Hannah in the library.

She was sitting in front of a tea tray covered with the remains of tea for three. She looked up at his entrance and smiled at him, so brightly he knew she had done something he wasn’t going to like. “Good afternoon. Would you care for some tea?”

“Thank you, no.” He closed the door and leaned against it, watching her. She sipped her tea and smiled some more. She was far too pleased with herself. He pushed his hands into his pockets and started pacing across the room. “I met Redley and his wife on their way out. Did you have a nice visit with them?”

“Lovely.” She picked up a scone and bit off a corner. From the corner of his eye he watched her lick a crumb from the corner of her lip. Marcus stopped near the window, glancing out in time to see the Redleys get into a carriage at the end of the street