What to Do with a Duke (19 page)

It
was
rather quiet—

Of course it was. That's what she wanted. Quiet. Room to think.

She picked up her valise and climbed the stairs, her footsteps echoing through the house. She could invite Anne and Jane over for a cup of tea—

No, they wouldn't come, not while they were still smarting from their failure to win the Spinster House. But in a few weeks they might accept an invitation. She'd hate to lose their friendship. Meanwhile she'd spend the time when she wasn't writing, arranging things the way she wanted them.

She put her bag down in her bedroom. The very first thing she was going to do was open a few windows and let in some fresh air and sunlight. She looked at the painting of Isabelle Dorring.

“And the second thing I am going to do is put you in storage.”

 

 

Marcus stood in the morning light and looked out the study window.

No. He stood at the window, but he wasn't looking at anything. He was lost in the quagmire of his thoughts.

He was free. He'd finished dancing to this part of Isabelle Dorring's tune and could leave Loves Bridge forever. Miss Hutting was only twenty-four. She might well live to be sixty or seventy.

But he wasn't free. The Spinster House tenancy had been decided two days ago—Miss Hutting, not one to waste time, had probably moved in yesterday—but he was still here. Nate and Alex had left for London. He should have gone with them, but he'd told them he had estate business to keep him busy until they returned for Miss Mary Hutting's wedding—Nate had agreed to play the pianoforte—and then they could all three go off to walk the Lake District.

Perhaps.

He did have estate business, but that wasn't the real reason he was staying—or at least not the main reason.

He was staying because he couldn't bring himself to leave Catherine.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Blast it, Nate had been spying on him again. He'd seen him go into the bushes with Catherine after dinner at the vicarage. Later that night, back at the castle, and again the morning after, Nate had gone on and on, lecturing him about the curse and the need to be careful. He'd made Marcus late to the Spinster House lottery.

He sighed. Nate only wanted to protect him. He understood that. But he had to live his own life. Make his own choices.

Even if those choices led to disaster.

So he'd lied to Nate. God. He'd never lied to Nate before. But he hadn't seen any other option. Telling Nate the truth—the complete truth—would only have set them at loggerheads and kept Nate here, breathing down his neck and sticking his nose into his business.

So he'd told Nate he and Catherine had gone into the bushes to discuss the Spinster House.

True.

And that nothing had happened.

Not true.

That she was a dedicated spinster, with no thought or wish to marry.

True, but he hoped to be able to persuade her to change her mind.

Nate had been delighted when Catherine had won the lottery. It had likely been the only reason he'd allowed himself to go back to London. He'd considered the danger over.

But it wasn't over.

Marcus leaned his forehead against the glass. He couldn't bear the loneliness much longer. It had become a howling wind rushing through him—and all because of Catherine, the new Spinster House spinster, a woman who had absolutely no interest in marriage.

But she had kissed him there in the bushes. She'd leaned into him, and her lips had softened under his. It had been unbearably sweet.

God, he wanted her here now. He wanted to crush her against him, to plunge his tongue into her mouth and—

He turned away from the window and sat down at his desk. He should try to think of something else. Perhaps he could get some work done. He picked up one of the papers on his desk and read the first paragraph.

And then he read it again.

It wasn't working. All he could think about was Catherine— her face, her voice, her body, the touch of her hands, the scent of her skin. He was a besotted idiot.

He had to do
something
productive. Perhaps he could answer some of his simpler correspondence. He'd just—blast, his pen needed trimming.

He started pulling open drawers. They were all empty. Emmett had said the desk had been cleaned out years ago—it hadn't been used since the notorious third duke's time—but a small penknife might have been overlooked. He stuck his hand deep into each drawer, earning only a covering of dust on his coat sleeve for his trouble.

Until the last drawer. There was something long and thin wedged into one of the back corners. He peered inside, but he couldn't quite make out what it was. It
might
be a penknife.

He reached back in and pulled and twisted. Whatever it was, it was stuck fast. Perhaps if he pressed down . . . Yes! The thing finally moved—

And the back of the drawer swung forward. Zeus! A secret compartment—with something inside: an old, worn, black book, about the length and width of his hand and roughly about half an inch thick—

“Y-Your Grace?”

His head snapped up as he slipped the little book into his pocket. He didn't want to share his discovery, at least not until he knew what it was.

A nervous Theodore Dunly stood in the doorway.

“Come in.”

“Thank you, Y-Your Grace.”

Dunly walked hesitantly into the room. He looked as if he might bolt if Marcus said the wrong thing. Odd. Dunly had never before struck him as high-strung.

“How may I help you, Mr. Dunly?”

This appeared to be too difficult a question for the man to answer. He stared at Marcus, his jaw flexing.

“Have a seat.” Marcus gestured to the two wing chairs facing his desk.

“Thank you.” Dunly perched on the edge of one of them. “Your Grace.”

Silence.

This was ridiculous.

“Mr. Dunly, please. You clearly have something to say. Just say it and put us both out of our misery.”

Dunly nodded. “Yes, Your Grace.” His Adam's apple bobbed, and then his jaw hardened. “Mary—Miss Mary Hutting—urged me to speak with you, Your Grace.” He took a deep breath. “About her sister.” Another breath. “Miss Catherine.”

Oh, hell. “Yes?”

“She . . . that is, they ... I mean Mary, er—”

“Just say it, for God's sake!” Marcus took his own deep breath. “My apologies, Dunly. I shouldn't have shouted. However if you don't come to the point immediately, I cannot answer for my actions.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Dunly fixed his eyes on a spot just above Marcus's right shoulder and spoke in a rush. “Mary wanted me to be certain you were aware of the rumors.”

This did not sound good. “What rumors?”

“The rumors about you and Cat.”

He'd swear his heart stopped beating in his chest.

“Dunly, I have not been back to the village since Miss Hutting won the Spinster House, and even if I had been, no one would gossip to me. Tell me what the
hell
you are talking about.”

Dunly's eyes met Marcus's and then darted back to the spot over his shoulder. “Someone—someone besides Mary and me, that is—saw you and Cat go into the bushes the other day, Y-Your Grace. Now everyone is saying you and she are . . . that Cat is . . .” Dunly blushed furiously. “Everyone is saying Cat is no better than she should be, especially since she is living without a chaperone in the Spinster House. All the women are giving her the cut direct.”

“Bloody hell!”
Marcus surged to his feet. How dare they treat Catherine that way? He'd beat the miscreants into the ground—except he couldn't very well attack a gaggle of gossiping females, no matter how much they deserved it. He knew damn well Nate hadn't breathed a word. “The vicar and Mrs. Hutting don't believe this calumny, do they?”

“No.” Dunly stood, too, and smiled briefly. “They know Cat too well. Mary said Mr. Hutting is planning to preach about the evils of gossip in his next sermon, and Mrs. Hutting—” He shrugged. “I'm afraid Mary thinks her mother would be happy if Cat
was
misbehaving with you, Your Grace. Mrs. Hutting cannot understand Cat's determination not to wed. Well, Mary can't either. Mary's certain Cat loves—” Dunly caught himself and snapped his jaws together.

“Yes, Dunly? Miss Hutting loves . . . ?”

Him?

Something hot and fierce coiled in his chest.

“Er . . .” Dunly's face flushed painfully red. “Ah . . .” His eyes suddenly brightened like a fox's might when he spies a way to avoid the hounds. “Independence. Mary is certain Cat loves her independence.”

Damnation. That was true, but he would swear Dunly had been going to say something very different.

“I hope I didn't give offense, Your Grace. I know it's a bit of meddling, but Mary insisted I speak to you. She felt you should know if you didn't already.” He cleared his throat. “She felt you would
want
to know.”

“Quite right. Thank you for telling me.” He would have to offer for Catherine now or she'd be ostracized by everyone she knew.

Dunly's shoulders relaxed, and he sighed with relief. “I'll admit I didn't want to say anything, Your Grace. Not really my place, don't you know? But Mary insisted.”

“Yes, indeed. She was quite right to do so.”

If he wed Catherine, he could start counting the days to his death. He was only thirty. It was too soon.

He waited for the crushing dread that always came whenever he thought of marriage.

It didn't come. Instead he felt anticipation. He wanted Catherine, and now he'd be able to have her, even if only for a few months.

“I'm going to ride into the village, Dunly, in case anyone asks for me.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

He went to the stables and had George saddled. Was he mad? He'd just refused to be trapped into marriage by Miss Rathbone and her father, and yet here he was on his way to step into parson's mousetrap voluntarily.

Perhaps he didn't have to. The gossip might subside, especially if he left Loves Bridge.

He didn't want to leave the village. He didn't want to leave Catherine.

He felt an odd sense of relief. He was finally going to turn and face the thing he'd been running from his entire life. There was freedom in doing that.

He rode to the vicarage first. Mrs. Hutting, the twins at her side, opened the door.

“Dook!”

The boys rushed at him to wrap their arms around his legs. He put his hands on their heads. God, how he wished he could touch his own son someday.

One of them—Michael; he was coming to be able to tell them apart—looked up at him. “People are being mean to Cat, dook.”

“I know. Mr. Dunly just told me.”

“Are you going to make them stop?” Tom asked.

“Yes.”

Mrs. Hutting snorted. “That will be a trick. Boys, let His Grace go. The poor man can't move.”

The twins stepped back, and Marcus felt strangely bereft.

Nonsense. He straightened and looked at Catherine's mother. “I've come to have a word with the vicar, Mrs. Hutting.”

She nodded. “He's in his study.” She looked down at the twins. “We'll go out later, boys. Right now Papa and I need to discuss a few things with His Grace.”

He was certain he'd mentioned only the vicar. Perhaps Mrs. Hutting had not discerned his intent.

Or perhaps she had. The boys definitely understood.

“Huzzah!” Thomas jumped up and down. “Dook is going to marry Cat!”

Michael's brows wrinkled. “Cat likes you, dook, but she might not say so the first time. She can be as stubborn as a mule.”

“Michael,” Mrs. Hutting said, “where did you hear that?”

“From you, Mama.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Hutting laughed. “I suppose I might have said such a thing on occasion. Now run along so that His Grace and Papa and I can arrange things.”

It wasn't his place to tell the woman that mothers were not included in such discussions. That was the vicar's job, though somehow he doubted the man would discourage his wife from joining them.

Nothing about this family followed his expectations.

“Yes, Mama,” Tom said. He looked at his brother. “Let's go tell Mary.”

“Yes, let's.”

“Nothing's decided yet, boys,” Mrs. Hutting called after them as they dashed up the stairs. She smiled and shook her head. “Those two will be the death of me. Now, if you will come this way, Your Grace, we can be comfortable.”

She led him to the study. “I admit I am very happy to see you, though I must warn you, Michael is right about Cat. The entire village could turn its back on her, and she wouldn't care.” Mrs. Hutting frowned. “Or in any event, she would pretend she didn't care. She can be maddeningly obstinate. Can you believe she has this silly idea that she wishes to be a novelist?”

Since Mrs. Hutting opened the study door at this point, Marcus wasn't required to comment on Catherine's literary aspirations.

“William, His Grace is here to see you.”

“Ah.” Mr. Hutting put aside his books and papers to stand and smile at Marcus. “Come in, Your Grace. Have a seat.” He looked at his wife. “Perhaps you could bring us some refreshments, my dear?”

“Oh, no,” she said, taking the chair next to Marcus. “You are not getting rid of me that easily, sir. If you are thirsty, you can have some of the brandy I know you've got tucked away behind Aristotle and Plato. I'm sure His Grace would rather have that than tea anyway.”