What to Do with a Duke (16 page)

“And, er . . .” Mrs. Hutting looked down to arrange the angles of the knife and fork on her plate.

“I've been meaning to ask you, Your Grace, since London is not so far away, whether you know of anyone who might be willing to come down to play the pianoforte for the festivities.” Mrs. Hutting smiled at him. “Mr. Wattles's—that is, the duke's—departure has disrupted our plans, I'm afraid.”

Mr. Hutting nodded. “Indeed. We would never wish to stand in the way of true love, of course—”

There was no “of course” about it. Marcus caught the grim look Mrs. Hutting sent the vicar. He'd wager the good woman would have thrown herself between Miss Franklin and the Duke of Benton gladly if it would have kept the duke in Loves Bridge for Mary's wedding.

“—but we could wish the timing had been better.” The vicar smiled. “For us. I assume the timing was just right for the duke and his new duchess.”

“It's all right, Papa,” Mary said. “We don't need anyone to play the pianoforte.”

Dunly wisely kept out of the discussion.

The vicar frowned. “I suppose we can forgo music at the ceremony, though I was hoping to find someone to play the organ, but what about the dancing afterward, Mary?”

“Mr. Linden is quite a good fiddler and—”

“We cannot dance to Mr. Linden's fiddling.” Mrs. Hutting looked as if she'd bitten into a lemon.

“We do at every other party, Mama.”

“Well, we won't at your wedding.” She sighed. “At least I hope we won't.”

He shouldn't say anything, but the words were out before he could stop them. “Lord Haywood is an accomplished musician, madam. I don't know if he'll still be in Loves Bridge by the time of the wedding—he and Lord Evans had planned to go walking in the Lake District.”
Which hopefully they will still do—with me.
“But I can inquire.”

“Oh, would you, Your Grace?” Mrs. Hutting looked at him as if he'd just offered her the crown jewels. “That would be wonderful, if Lord Haywood is available and willing, of course.”

“Yes, well, I can't promise anything.”

“I completely understand, Your Grace.”

But she was beaming at him. He felt committed to dragging Nate to the wedding or finding some other musician.

“Now if you'll excuse me, Your Grace, I need to get the younger children to bed. Come along Thomas, Michael, Sybil, Prudence. Say good night to His Grace.”

The girls curtseyed; Thomas managed a bow.

Michael grabbed Marcus's large hand with his small one and looked anxiously into his eyes. “I like you, dook,” he whispered. “Please marry Cat.”

“Come along, Michael,” Mrs. Hutting called as she shepherded the others out of the room. “Stop teasing His Grace.”

“He's not teasing me, Mrs. Hutting.” But what answer could he give the boy? Marcus gently squeezed Mikey's fingers. “We'll see. Now, go along. Sleep well.”

Mikey started to leave and then, all at once, turned back and flung his arms around Marcus's neck, hugging him tightly before running off to join his mother. It happened so quickly and was so unexpected, Marcus didn't have time to react.

“I'm sorry, Your Grace,” the vicar said, worry clouding his eyes. “I hope Mikey didn't give offense.”

Marcus struggled to control his emotions, but he was afraid his face reflected the shock he felt. At least, he hoped that was all it revealed.

“Of course Michael didn't give offence, Mr. Hutting.” He thought that came out rather well.

He wished he'd hugged the boy back.

Nate's parents had not been overtly affectionate. They'd loved each other—Marcus had never doubted that—but their love had been a restrained, formal love as befitted the Marquess and Marchioness of Haywood. He and Nate had spent most of their time with servants—nurses and governesses and tutors.

This family was very different.

Of course it was. Mr. Hutting might have been born to an earl, but he was now a vicar. He didn't have the funds for an army of servants to care for his sizeable brood.

“Boys,” the vicar told Henry and Walter, “you may be excused. Make your bows, and don't forget you each owe me translations in the morning.” He raised an eyebrow. “I hope the work is well under way, if not completed.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“I was just going to finish it, Papa.”

The vicar watched them go and then turned back to Marcus. “They are good boys, Your Grace. Perhaps not scholars—though I actually have some hope for Walter—but good-hearted.” Pride shone clearly in his eyes.

“They're hellions,” Miss Hutting said. “Always kicking up some sort of lark.”

The vicar laughed. “They're boys, Cat. That's what boys do.”

Miss Hutting frowned. “And, Papa, they've been teasing me unmercifully about—” She looked over at Marcus and flushed.

She jerked her eyes back to her father. “That is, they've been teaching Thomas and Michael the most inappropriate language.”

“As my brothers taught me.” The vicar laughed again. “I hate to say it, Cat, but that's probably the least objectionable thing that Walter and Henry will pass on to the twins.” He looked at Marcus. “I'm the fourth of four boys, Your Grace. I'm afraid I speak from experience.”

“Your daughter told me you're Penland's brother, sir. I can't say I'm well acquainted with the earl, but I do know his son. I wouldn't have thought either of them hellions. On the contrary, I believe they have a reputation for being very strict and proper.”

“Yes, now. That's the work of the countess. She—” The vicar pressed his lips together and shook his head. “And here I am, a man of the cloth on the verge of speaking ill of my sister-in-law. That will never do.” He put his hands on the arms of his chair. “Let's adjourn to the drawing room, shall we, and have some brandy”—he smiled—“and tea for the ladies?”

Marcus stood with the rest of those left in the dining room—the vicar, Miss Hutting, Mary, and Dunly.

“I'm afraid I have to decline your offer, sir. I need to return to the castle.” He'd had about all he could bear of such a comfortable family life. “I've left my friends to their own devices long enough.”

Dunly's face fell. “Of course, Your Grace. I'll—”

“Oh, no, I don't wish to curtail your visit with your betrothed, Mr. Dunly. I can find my own way back to the castle.”

“If . . . if you're certain, Your Grace.”

He'd better be certain. Dunly was trying manfully to mask his relief, but Mary wasn't. Her smile almost blinded him.

“Of course I am. Good night.” He bowed.

“I'll see you to the door, Your Grace,” Miss Hutting said.

Some emotion, rather darker and more complicated than Dunly's, stirred in his gut, turning to an intense ache in the most predictable part of his anatomy as he followed Miss Hutting and watched her hips sway.

Of course not. This emotion wasn't the chaste and virtuous one lauded by poets. It was intensely,
painfully
carnal.

He must have an especially bad case of lust.

Miss Hutting led him to the door—and then outside and down the walk.

“Do you plan to escort me all the way to the castle, then?”

She looked over her shoulder at him. “Of course not. I just wish to speak to you in private.” She headed for a clump of tall bushes that appeared not to have benefitted from a gardener's attention recently, if ever.

“We can converse here without being overheard or observed,” she said, and stepped through a narrow gap in the foliage.

His eyebrows almost shot off his forehead.

If this were bold Miss Rathbone, he'd be certain his freedom—and thus his life—was in danger. But this was Miss Hutting, one of the most determined candidates for the position of Spinster House spinster.

“Are you coming?” Her voice hissed from the greenery. “Or are you going to stand there like a complete lobcock all evening?”

Such seductive words.

He should stay where he was, but his raging lust moved from his . . . heart to his head, sending rational thought packing.

“I'm coming.” He stepped into the small, shadowy space. “I'm here.”

There was hardly enough room for both of them—or maybe it was merely his intense awareness of Miss Hutting that made the place feel close and intimate and tempting.

He could
not
be tempted.

Temptation was thick in the air, in the light scent of her hair, in the curve of her cheek . . . of her breast.

“What did you wish to discuss?” That had come out rather harsher than he'd intended.

“
Shh!
If you don't keep your voice down, we'll be discovered.”

“Yes.” And then they'd be marched lock-step to the altar.

It was a
very
bad sign that the thought didn't cause him to run for the castle.

“So why did you drag me into these bushes?”

“I didn't drag you,” she whispered. “You came of your own accord.”

“I needed to talk to you privately, and I couldn't do that inside. I want to be sure you understand why I
must
win the Spinster House position tomorrow.”

“But my understanding isn't necessary, Miss Hutting. Isabelle determined how the matter would be settled two hundred years ago. It is all to be left to chance.” She had no more control over her fate in this instance than he had ever had over his. “To luck, good or bad.”

He moved a little closer. She put a hand on his chest.

“Be careful. You're about to step on my toes.” She frowned. “I never realized how large you are. You take up a lot of space.”

“Mmm.” He covered her hand with one of his. He expected her to jerk away, but she didn't. “Why do you want the Spinster House so badly, Catherine?”

He hadn't meant to use her Christian name, but it felt very good on his tongue.

Other things would feel good on his tongue, too. Her lips, her breasts, her—

She'd stiffened. Was she going to slap him? She would be wise to do so.

“Everyone calls me Cat, Your Grace.” Her voice sounded husky.

She hadn't bothered to put on her bonnet when they'd left the vicarage. He wanted to touch her hair, to undo its pins and watch it tumble down over her shoulders. He wanted to bury his hands and face in the silky mass.

“But I will call you Catherine.” He brushed his thumb over her cheek. It was almost as soft as her little brother's. “And you must call me Marcus.”

“M-Marcus? I could never do that.”

Did she realize her other hand had also come up to rest on his chest? He covered it, too. “You just did.”

“No, I . . .” She shook her head as if to clear it. She must feel the same drugging heat clouding her thoughts that he did. “Why are you—”

“Shh.” He put his fingers over her lips. They were softer than her cheek. “You don't want to be discovered, remember?”

Need throbbed in him—in his cock, but also in his heart and in his mind. He shouldn't do this. He knew he shouldn't, but he
wanted
it. Just a taste. That was all.

If only he were an ordinary man like Theo Dunly. A man who could court a pretty girl, who could steal a kiss, who could think about marriage and dream of a future with a wife and children and perhaps someday even grandchildren.

“Didn't you see how it is with my family? How crowded and noisy? How it's impossible to have any privacy? I never have a moment to myself.” Catherine leaned into him, completely caught up in her need to persuade him.

She
was
persuading him, but not to the action she wished.

“I have too many moments to myself,” he said.

“Oh. Yes. Well, I suppose so, but your situation is vastly different, Your Grace.”

“Marcus. Please, Catherine. Marcus.”

Her tongue peeked out to moisten her lips, and he was lost.

“M-Marcus,” she said.

And then he kissed her.

—from Isabelle Dorring's diary

 

 

Cat turned over in bed and stared up at the shadowy ceiling. The candles had been blown out and the fire banked. The house was quiet. She should be asleep. She had to have her wits about her tomorrow when they drew lots for the Spinster House.

Oh, God.
She closed her eyes. The Duke of Hart had
kissed
her. It had been nothing like she'd imagined kissing to be. There'd been no mashing mouths or bumping noses. It had been just the briefest brush of his lips against hers, but she'd felt it all the way to her soul.

She felt it now, but in a rather more carnal location.

Her eyes flew open. Heat flooded her face—no, her entire body. Very odd bits of her ached.

She'd never thought he'd kiss her. She hadn't thought of kissing at all when she'd brought him into the bushes. She'd been thinking only of the Spinster House.

He was so tall and broad. He'd smelled of wine and wool and something dark and musky and exciting. Tempting. And when he'd whispered her name—
Catherine
—his voice had been so warm and—she grew even hotter—seductive.

She was glad now that no one else ever called her by her full name.

“Will you stop tossing and turning?”

Oh, drat. Mary was awake.

Her sister leaned up on her elbow. “What is the matter with you, Cat?”

“Nothing. I'm sorry. I'll try to lie still.”

“Why don't you try to
sleep
?” Mary pushed her hair back off her face and then sat up all the way, wrapping her arms around her knees as if she planned to have a long chat. “It's the duke, isn't it?”

Perhaps if she ignored her, Mary would lie down again. Cat closed her eyes.

“It must be the duke. You've never had any trouble sleeping before. It's quite disgusting how easily you drop off—and then you snore to wake the dead.”

Her eyes flew open again. “I do not!”

Did
she snore? What if the duke—

Good God, she was losing her mind. The duke was never going to be in a position to hear whether she snored or not.

“Yes, you do. I always try to fall asleep first or else I have to wait until you stop. After a while you sort of snort and snuffle and quiet down.”

Cat glared at Mary. “You're mistaken.”

“How would you know? You're asleep. You can't hear yourself.”

Cat contemplated the ceiling again. With any luck, she'd be sleeping at the Spinster House soon and would never have to share a bed again.

No! Good God, no! “I'm not snoring now. This is your golden opportunity. Go back to sleep.”

Of course, that's not what Mary did.

“Pru was right, you know. You
were
casting sheep's-eyes at the duke all during dinner.”

“Did he kiss you?”

“What?!”
Cat sat up. Mary couldn't have seen them. She'd been inside with Theo . . . hadn't she? “Why do you think that?”

“Because the duke looked like a man who'd just been kissing someone.”

“Uhh.” Her hands started up to cover her face, but she forced them back to the bed. She must brazen it out. Remain calm. Not admit anything. Mary might suspect, but she couldn't know for certain.

Cat took a deep, steadying breath.

“How do you know how the duke looked? Weren't you in the drawing room with Papa and Theo?”

“Oh, no. Theo and I told Papa we were going for a stroll. Which we were—to that clump of bushes. You know it's a favorite trysting spot, don't you? Tory and Ruth used to spend lots of time there with their husbands—before they were their husbands, of course.”

“They did?” All she'd known was that it was a splendid place to hide in hide-and-go-seek.

“So you
didn't
know.”

Was that pity she heard in Mary's voice? It had better not be. Simply because she chose not to frolic with men in the foliage....

Except that was exactly what she'd just done.

“He didn't force you in there, did he?” Mary frowned. “Theo told me there'd been some scandal involving the duke, an unmarried lady, and some bushes in London, but after meeting His Grace, he decided it must have been malicious gossip.”

Ridiculous. Nothing especially shocking had happened.

“Of course the duke didn't force me. The bushes were my idea.”

That didn't come out quite right. Mary's eyes widened as if they were going to pop out of her head.

“But only so I could have some privacy to push my candidacy for the Spinster House with him.”

Mary actually gasped. “You want to live in the Spinster House?”

Oh, God, that let the cat out of the bag. “Yes, but don't tell Mama and Papa.”

“Of course I won't tell, but if you still want to be a spinster, why were you kissing the duke?”

“I wasn't.” He'd kissed her. She'd been too stunned to return the favor.

Mary frowned. “The duke certainly looked kissed. Theo and I weren't more than ten feet away from him when he came out of the bushes. You can imagine our surprise.” She giggled. “And relief. It would have been beyond awkward, especially for Theo, to stumble on you and the duke in a passionate embrace.”

“There was no passionate embrace!” That, at least, was true. There'd been no embrace at all. The duke had merely touched his lips to hers.

And changed everything. She'd felt the shift as clearly as if the ground had moved under her feet.

“We were only discussing the Spinster House.”

That earned her a snort. “The duke did not look like a man who'd been discussing a house or spinsters. He looked”— Mary sighed dramatically—“bewitched. So much so that he didn't notice us standing there. Nor did you, but by the time you came out, we'd hidden behind the oak tree.”

Cat didn't like that at all. “So you admit you were spying on me?”

“No.” Mary suddenly sounded very serious. “When I saw the duke come out of the bushes, well, I wanted to see who he'd been cavorting with. I was glad it was you.” Mary touched Cat's arm. “There
is
the London rumor, and it's clear you care for him. I don't want you to get hurt.”

Oh. Mary's concern almost undid her. She bit her lip and blinked back tears. She wasn't normally so emotional.

It was all the duke's fault. If only he were the evil villain his ancestor had been. Then her life would still be following a rational plan, and she wouldn't be so confused and upset.

“There's nothing between me and the duke, Mary.”

“I think there is.” Mary bounced with excitement, shifting the mattress and making Cat feel slightly ill. “I think he's going to offer for you. Theo thinks so, too.”

Theo was so besotted, he'd agree with anything Mary said.

“A duke is not going to marry a vicar's daughter.”

“But Papa is an earl's son. Your birth is perfectly respectable, Cat.”

If only she
could
marry him. . . .

No! What was she thinking?

“I'm a confirmed spinster.”

“You didn't look like a confirmed spinster at dinner—and especially not when you came out of those bushes.”

There was no point in arguing that. Mary would never concede, and Cat was very much afraid she
had
looked a bit dazed.

Of course she had. She'd never been kissed before.

“The duke won't offer for me. He's too young.”

“Thirty isn't young.”

“It is if you think you'll die shortly after you marry.”

She must not forget that. Even if she fell madly in love with the man, he looked upon marriage as a death sentence. He had many more years before he had to do his duty and get an heir.

It was so unfair! Not for her, but for him. He should have the opportunity to be a father. He'd been so kind and patient with the twins at dinner. Lud, she hadn't known where to look when Mikey had asked Marcus to marry her. She'd been mortified, but terrified as well that the duke would cut up rusty—with good reason—and say something cruel to Mikey. But he hadn't. And later, when Mikey had hugged him . . .

Oh, God. That had made her heart ache. Marcus had looked surprised, but she'd swear she'd also seen yearning in his eyes.

“I hate Isabelle Dorring.”

Mary nodded. “She has certainly caused far more trouble than any one person should be allowed to. But I have to say it seems so silly that a man as intelligent as the duke should believe in curses.” Mary dropped her voice. “I tell you in strictest confidence that Theo wasn't best pleased when he heard the duke was coming to Loves Bridge. I'm afraid he judged him a bit harshly for being an absent landowner.” Mary shrugged. “Well, I agree that wasn't good for the estate.”

Cat bit her lip. Mary knew nothing about the estate; she was just parroting Theo.

“But in the little time the duke's been here, he's impressed Theo with his shrewd questions and well-considered opinions. So we are even more surprised he's so superstitious.”

Cat was, too, but perhaps she'd feel the same way were she in his position. “It's hard to ignore history. Every duke since Isabelle's time has died when his wife was increasing with his heir.”

“Coincidence.”

“That's a lot of coincidences.”

“What else could it be?” Mary asked. “
You
don't believe in the curse, do you?”

“N-no.” Cat wasn't sure what she believed any longer.

“Of course you don't.” Mary grinned, and then finally lay back down and pulled the coverlet up. “So persuade the duke. He'd be much happier if he overcame his fears and married you.”

Could
she persuade him?

No. It would be wrong even to try. In his mind, she would be asking him to sacrifice his life for her. That was too much to ask of anyone, especially someone you loved—

Oh, lud. She
did
love him, didn't she?

No. She couldn't. She'd only known him a few days.

She closed her eyes. She
had
to go to sleep. Tomorrow she would draw lots and, with luck, win the Spinster House. Then Marcus—the
duke
—would leave and everything would get back to normal.

Normal suddenly felt like a hollow, joyless trudge to the grave.

 

 

Cat sat at one of the schoolroom desks, a still-blank sheet of paper in front of her, and watched Thomas and Michael play with their soldiers. Sybil had gone down to the garden to paint, and Prudence was curled up who-knew-where reading.

She should be writing. She picked up her quill . . . and put it down again. She didn't feel at all needle-witted this morning. She hadn't slept well and in just—

She checked her watch once more. Time was passing so slowly this morning. Would it never be eleven o'clock?

In just thirty more minutes she'd go over to the Spinster House. Well, twenty-five. No, twenty. In just twenty minutes, she'd go. She'd be a little early, but with luck, the house would be open. If not, she'd stroll around the gardens, out of sight of the vicarage. She'd tell Mama and Papa her plans once she knew for certain that she'd won the lottery.

After today she should have hours and hours of lovely, uninterrupted time to work on her book.

Unless Jane or Anne won.

They
couldn't
win.

“Oh, there you are, Cat.”

“Eek!”
Drat, she shouldn't be so jumpy. Mama would suspect something. She stood at the schoolroom door now, looking at Cat rather closely.

Cat forced herself to smile. “You startled me.”

“Obviously.”

Mama came in and sat in the hard, uncomfortable chair next to Cat. This could not be good. Had Mary told her about the Spinster House?

No, Mary wouldn't snitch on her, though it wouldn't be surprising if Mama had guessed on her own. There weren't that many unattached women in Loves Bridge.

Cat kept smiling. “You don't have another basket for Mrs. Barker, do you, Mama?”

“No.” Mama picked at an imaginary bit of lint on her skirt. “I've given up on that plan. I can see Mr. Barker won't suit.”

“Cat's going to marry dook, Mama.” Mikey didn't even bother to look up from his soldiers.

“No, I'm not.”
Lud, am I blushing? Hopefully Mama is still looking at her skirt—

Of course she wasn't.

Cat forced herself to return her mother's gaze. It wasn't easy. Mama's expression was a terrifying mix of hopeful, worried, and determined.

“Papa thinks His Grace is interested in you, Cat.”

Mama had never invoked Papa's name before when discussing potential mates. Did Papa really think—

It made no difference what Papa thought. Papa didn't believe in the curse, but the duke did.