What to Do with a Duke (12 page)

His mother tugged back, refusing to move. “Part of the attraction was the curse, of course. It made your father seem so mysterious. Dangerous.” She giggled—at least that was what Cat thought the odd noise was. “We all wanted him, even if for just a slip on the shoulder.”

“Mama!”
Mr. Barker's face was now bright red.

Cat was quite certain her eyes were starting from their sockets. To think old, dumpy, cantankerous Mrs. Barker had lusted after anyone, let alone a Duke of Hart....

It was more than her poor brain could comprehend.

The current duke stiffened even more, if that were possible.

“Oh, don't be such a namby-pamby, Harold,” Mrs. Barker said. “I was young once. How do you think you made your appearance on this earth?”

If Cat hadn't been afraid the duke would explode at any moment, she might have found Mr. Barker's dumbfounded expression funny.

Good God—Mrs. Barker blushed!

“So I'm . . .” Mr. Barker swallowed again so hard, his Adam's apple bobbed violently. “I could be—”

“Of course you couldn't, you nod cock. The duke died almost three years before your birth.” She shook her head, exasperation writ large on her face. “You are clearly Mr. Barker's son.”

The current Mr. Barker at first looked relieved—and then, as he registered his mother's tone, vaguely upset. He must know there was an insult there somewhere, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

“Madam,” the duke said, “I really must—”

“You have the look of your mother, too, though,” Mrs. Barker said.

The duke froze.

A woodpecker drummed in a tree somewhere; a hammer clanged on metal in the blacksmith shop; farther down the lane, a horse snorted.

“You knew my mother?” The words were stilted, as if the duke hadn't wished to say them.

“Oh, yes. Miss Clara O'Reilly. I didn't know her well, you understand. She was Mrs. Watson”—she glanced at Cat—“the village dressmaker before Mrs. Greeley—Mrs. Watson's poor Irish niece. The girl hadn't been in Loves Bridge more than a day or two before the duke saw her.” Mrs. Barker snorted.

Cat glanced up at him. He was staring at Mrs. Barker, his face impassive.

“Clara was beautiful, so of course your father wanted her, but she was also terribly religious. He couldn't have her unless he married her.” The woman sniffed. “He tried for weeks to seduce her—everyone was making bets on when her walls would finally come tumbling down—but she held firm.” She shrugged. “The duke was desperate, so he did indeed meet her at the altar.”

“I see.” The present duke might well have been carved from stone.

“I will say Clara loved him—that was clear. And she didn't believe in the curse, not having grown up in the village, so she was quite shocked and rather brokenhearted when he died, though you must know that, Your Grace.” She smiled. “How is your dear mother?”

A muscle jumped in the duke's cheek. His nostrils flared. “I have no idea. If you'll excuse me, madam?” He turned on his heel and strode off across the green.

“Well.” Mrs. Barker rose to her full height. “That was rather rude.”

Cat opened her mouth to tell the old harridan exactly what she thought of her behavior, but for once Mr. Barker spoke first.

“You were the one who was rude, Mama. I thought the duke showed admirable restraint.”

“Harold!”

He ignored her to bow briefly to Cat. “Please extend my apologies to His Grace, Miss Hutting.” Then he frowned down at his mother. “I think we'd best do your shopping another day.”

“But I wish to do it today.”

“I, however, do not wish to spend any more time in your company. We shall return home, if you please.”

“Harold! How can you speak to me that way?” Mrs. Barker sputtered and argued as her son led her away.

Cat had to almost run to catch up to the duke. She would not have caught him at all if he hadn't stopped at the far edge of the green.

She put a tentative hand on his arm. “Do you really not know how your mother goes on?” She knew she shouldn't ask. She hadn't intended to—the words just tumbled out.

She might wish for some privacy and distance from her parents and siblings, but she couldn't imagine not having any contact with them at all.

At first she thought he wasn't going to answer. He was staring across the road at the inn—he'd barely glanced at her when she'd come up—and the arm under her fingers was as hard as granite. She bit her lip and waited.

“I do not,” he finally said. “I told you my mother gave me up when I was an infant.”

Dear heavens, how terribly sad. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and comfort him. Instead she grasped her hands tightly together.

“I see.” She knew he didn't want her sympathy, but she couldn't keep from giving it to him anyway. “I'm sorry.”

He looked at her then and smiled, though his eyes were bleak. “Don't be. It doesn't matter.”

He was wrong. It did matter. She might not wish to be a mother herself, but she knew how important a mother's love was to a child. Mama had been a constant presence in her life—too constant lately with her talk of marriage, but her heart was in the right place. She truly thought a woman couldn't be happy without a husband and children.

The duke looked back at the inn. “I must post this last notice. My friends must be wondering what has become of me.” He smiled with some good humor finally. “More likely they'll have drained the tap dry, and I shall have to haul them back to the castle in a wheelbarrow. Shall we go?”

He offered her his arm, and they crossed the road.

 

 

Marcus tried to rein in his temper as he opened the inn door for Miss Hutting. “Is there a specific place I should hang this paper?”

“Mrs. Tweedon—the innkeeper's wife—will know the best spot.”

No, he could not think about that now.

“I imagine I should ask her permission before daring to hang something in her husband's hostelry, shouldn't I?”

Miss Hutting laughed. “Yes, indeed.”

The inn was as old as the castle, but it looked far more inviting. The furnishings, while worn, had clearly been purchased within his lifetime.

Blast it, he'd like to haul every stick of furniture and every depressing painting out of the castle and have a huge bonfire. He'd invite all the villagers to come dance round it, and he would lead the steps.

“And here she is,” Miss Hutting said. “Good morning, Mrs. Tweedon. I've brought the Duke of Hart with me, as you can see.”

A stout woman with graying brown hair had emerged from another room, balancing a teacup and a plate of assorted cakes and biscuits in her hands. In age and shape, she was not unlike Mrs. Barker, but Mrs. Tweedon's face had deep smile lines by her mouth and eyes.

She put down her burden and curtseyed. “Welcome to Cupid's Inn, Your Grace. Your friends are in the taproom.” Her smile broadened. “You must know that news of your presence has spread like wildfire through the village.” She studied him intently.

Now he was going to wonder that every time he met a woman of a certain age.

He bowed. “I hope I am not too much of a disappointment, Mrs. Tweedon.”

“Not at all.” Her eyes twinkled. “I'm delighted to say you have your father's formidable good looks and your mother's sweetness of expression.”

It hadn't occurred to him that at every turn he'd encounter villagers who'd known his parents.

“Ah, I see I shouldn't have said that. I am so sorry, Your Grace.”

Mrs. Tweedon looked as if she'd like to give him a hug. He braced himself, but fortunately she thought better of the notion. Instead, she shook her head and frowned.

“That terrible curse. I don't wish to speak ill of the dead, but it isn't as if Isabelle Dorring didn't bear some responsibility for the situation she found herself in.”

“Exactly what I told His Grace, Mrs. Tweedon. And even if the entire blame could be laid on that duke's doorstep,
this
duke is not at fault.” Miss Hutting did go so far as to try to put her hand on his shoulder.

He stepped slightly to the side to avoid her touch. He didn't wish to snub the girl, but he couldn't allow such familiarity to continue. There was no future in it.

Unfortunately.

“Yes, well, that is neither here nor there, is it?” He held up the last notice. “Mrs. Tweedon, Isabelle Dorring's instructions say I must post this announcement concerning the Spinster House opening at the inn. Where do you suggest I put it?”

“Let's see, when Miss Franklin was selected, we posted it in the red room. I suppose that will do again.” Mrs. Tweedon chuckled. “There are several spinsters there now.”

“Splendid.” He would finally get this last notice up and start the clock running. In three days, the new Spinster House spinster would be chosen, and he'd be free to leave Loves Bridge for another twenty years.

No, forever. He'd be dead long before there was another Spinster House vacancy.

“Come along, Your Grace,” Miss Hutting said. “This way.”

He followed Miss Hutting through several rooms, closer and closer to a hubbub of female voices. When they finally reached the aptly named red room, however, silence descended like a door had been slammed shut. Six pairs of female eyes—and one infant's—turned to regard him.

Miss Hutting made the introductions. “You know Jane—I mean, Miss Wilkinson,” she said. “May I make known to you the Misses Boltwood”—two white-haired ladies smiled, ogled his person, and then leaned toward each other to giggle behind their hands like schoolgirls—“Mrs. Latham and Mrs. Simmons”—two young matrons, Mrs. Latham being the one with the baby on her lap—“and Miss Davenport.” The last woman looked to be close in age to Miss Wilkinson and Miss Hutting.

His eyes drifted back to the child, who gave him a wide, toothless grin. His heart clenched.

The sooner he got out of Loves Bridge, the better.

“Ladies,” Miss Hutting said, “this is the Duke of Hart. He is here to post the notice advertising the Spinster House opening.”

Marcus bowed to the assembled females. “My pleasure.”

“Oh, no, it is
our
pleasure, Your Grace.” One of the Misses Boltwood waggled her eyebrows at him.

“Behave yourself, Cordelia,” her sister said, cuffing her playfully on the shoulder. “What will His Grace think of you?”

His Grace smiled and hoped he would not be compelled to say what he was thinking.

“There's the notice board,” Miss Hutting said, gesturing. Did she sound annoyed?

“Thank you, Miss Hutting.” She looked annoyed. “I'll just tack up this paper, then, and leave you ladies to your meeting.”

He turned to the board. The sooner he posted this, the sooner he could find Nate and Alex and have a well-earned glass of ale.

“I'm not surprised Miss Franklin and Mr. Wattles—that is, the new Duke of Benton—made a match of it,” he heard one of the Misses Boltwood say. “My word, how the temperature rose whenever they were in a room together. I almost had to pull out my fan to keep from roasting.”

“And the way they looked at each other when they thought they weren't being observed.” That was the other Miss Boltwood. “It was very, er,
stimulating
.”

The two ladies giggled again.

“I didn't notice anything,” Miss Hutting said.

“
You
wouldn't.”

The sooner he got out of here, the better.

“At least they didn't take to rolling in the bushes.”

He made the mistake of looking at the sisters. They were staring at him, their eyebrows now waggling simultaneously.

He
had
to leave. Immediately. “Thank you, Miss Hutting, for your help. Now if you'll excuse me, I shall—”

“A moment, Your Grace,” Miss Davenport said. “I can't read the paper from here. Would you mind telling us the gist of it?”

“Yes.” Mrs. Latham laughed. “Perhaps Miss Cordelia or Miss Gertrude would like to apply.”

“Oh, no,” Miss Cordelia said. She looked at Marcus with what he feared was intended to be a coy expression. “We're still looking for the perfect mates.” Her eyes examined him from his head to his, er, hips.

He felt his face turn red.

Of course the Almighty would not suddenly concern Himself with the Cursed Duke.

Gertrude elbowed her sister. “Now you've embarrassed the poor boy, Cordelia.”

Miss Davenport frowned at the sisters. “Neither of you may be interested in the Spinster House, but I am.” She looked at Marcus. “Extremely interested.”