What to Do with a Duke (2 page)

“It started two hundred years ago.” Marcus leaned against his desk. Oh, God, it
was
ridiculous, but history proved it true. “Exactly two hundred years ago in 1617 when my great-great-great-grandfather insulted Miss Isabelle Dorring, a merchant's daughter.”

“He did rather more than insult her,” Nate said.

Yes, he had.

“He impregnated her.” Marcus took a steadying sip of brandy. “Apparently Miss Dorring thought my ancestor was going to marry her.”

Alex snorted. “A duke marry a merchant's daughter? Not likely.”

“It seems Miss Dorring didn't realize that.” Every time he allowed himself to consider the story of the curse, he wanted to wrap his hands round the third duke's neck and strangle the blackguard. Unfortunately the fellow was already very, very dead. “The bloody man should never have bedded her without making completely certain she understood marriage was not part of their bargain.”

Alex arched an eyebrow. “Perhaps she trapped him just as Miss Rathbone tried to trap you.”

“Then he should not have allowed himself to be trapped.”

There was no excuse for the man's behavior. None. What sort of scoundrel took advantage of a young woman that way? No, if the damned duke had had a shred of honor, he would have kept his breeches buttoned.

Just as
he
would keep
his
buttoned, no matter how many marriageable maidens tried to persuade him otherwise. Even if it killed him.

Which it might. It was getting harder and harder to resist temptation.

“Surely he offered to support the child,” Alex said, “if it was indeed his. Women have been known to lie about such things.”

“Miss Dorring didn't lie,” Nate said. “The fact that no Duke of Hart since has lived to see his son born proves that.”

Marcus drank some more brandy, trying to wash away the bad taste this tale always left in his mouth.

The entire decanter couldn't do that.

“And there's no evidence my disreputable ancestor offered his support,” Marcus said. “By the time Isabelle Dorring realized her, er, problem, the duke had left on a bridal journey with his new wife.”

Alex grimaced. “That wasn't well done of him.”

“No, it wasn't.”

“So what happened to Miss Dorring?”

“She drowned herself—and her unborn baby—in Loves Water.”

“You don't know that,” Nate said, as he always did. “Her body was never found.”

“What else could have happened?” Nate knew the story as well as he did—Nate's parents had been the first to tell them it. He hated the thought, but he had to face facts. “You know Loves Water is very deep. It's not surprising her body wasn't discovered.”

Alex was shaking his head. “It's a very sad story. Tragic, really. But that's no reason to believe in a curse.”

“As Nate said, my family history proves the truth of the matter. My great-great-great-grandfather broke his neck going over a jump two weeks before his son was born. My great-great-grandfather died of the ague eight months after his wedding; his wife was delivered of a son two months later. Generation after generation, the same result.”

“Your father?”

“Tripped on a loose pavement stone and cracked his head open on the marble steps of this house. I was born six weeks later.”

Alex scowled at him. “That's bloody unbelievable.”

“Belief isn't required. Finch told me my father scoffed at it all, and he's just as dead as the other dukes.”

“So is there no way to break this, ah, curse?” Alex was looking at them as if they'd just escaped from Bedlam.

Nate tossed off the rest of his brandy. “The Duke of Hart must marry for love.”

Marcus snorted. “And what is the chance of that happening? Zero.” Nate's parents were the only people Marcus knew who'd made a love match. His own mother certainly hadn't.

His heart clenched. Stupid.

His mother had dropped him at his aunt and uncle's estate on her way to the Continent when he was a newborn. Last he'd heard, she'd married some Italian count and was living on a Mediterranean island. Someone must be supporting her. She hadn't touched any of her widow's benefits in the years he'd been holding the purse strings.

He wouldn't recognize her if she stepped into the library this moment.

It's a
good
thing she abandoned me. It gave me a family. It gave me Nate.

Laurence, one of his footmen, came in then with a tray of ham, cheese, and bread. “Mr. Finch wanted me to be sure ye got the letter from Loves Bridge, Yer Grace. It's on yer desk.”

“Ah, yes, thank you, Laurence. I see it.” News of a leaky roof or crumbling fence could wait.

“What
did
happen with Miss Rathbone?” Alex asked once Laurence left. “I thought you were far too wily to fall prey to her.”

“I thought so, too, Marcus.” Nate's voice held worry, frustration, and perhaps a touch of anger. “You know you have to be careful, especially now.”

He was tempted to tell Nate he'd gone outside to get free of his bloody constant surveillance, but Nate hadn't been the only one he'd wanted to escape.

“You know how stifling a crowded ballroom can be. I just needed some fresh air.”

The noise and the stink of too many people in too small a space had indeed been gagging, but he'd also wanted to get away from the Widow Chesney. He'd crossed paths with her at a few events, and she'd seemed willing to explore a more intimate acquaintance. He might be the Cursed Duke—the Heartless Duke—but he was also a man, with a man's needs.

There, he'd admitted it. He could not hope for a long, happy marriage, but he craved a woman's touch, one that he wasn't paying for.

He took another large swallow of brandy. But it had turned out the Widow Chesney did have a price—a wedding ring.

He slammed his fist into the desk. The pain felt good. “Rathbone must have been watching me. I played right into his hands.”

“He likely just saw an opportunity and jumped on it,” Alex said. “Rathbone's not the brightest of fellows.”

Which made his error all the more galling. Maybe he
did
need a keeper.

Now Rathbone would spread his version of last night's affair throughout the
ton
, and yet another layer of dishonor would attach to Marcus's title.

“I can't believe I swallowed his story that his daughter had gone missing.”

“At least you found her,” Alex said, trying with little success to muffle a snigger.

Yes, he'd found her. She'd had her hair down her back and her bodice loosened so her breasts were almost spilling out.

His mouth went dry at the memory, blast it all.

“She was hiding behind a bush and jumped out at me. I stepped back, stumbled. . . .” He stared at his brandy glass. The situation would be ridiculous if it wasn't so blasted embarrassing. “We ended up tangled on the ground, which is when Lady Dunlee came upon us.”

Alex choked back laughter.

“It is
not
amusing.”

“Not when you're the one writhing in Miss Rathbone's claws,” Alex said. “But when you're not . . .” He sniggered again.

“You were very lucky Miss Rathbone didn't say you raped her,” Nate said.

“It would be hard for her to make that claim. When Lady Dunlee came upon us, the girl had me pinned to the ground and was kissing me.”

Nate's eyebrow rose. “And you couldn't stop her?”

Fortunately the study was too dark for his flush to show—he hoped. “It was a good thing I didn't try. If I'd had my hands on her, it would have looked like I
was
forcing her.”

The terrible thing—the deeply mortifying thing—was that he hadn't been that anxious to remove Miss Rathbone. He'd enjoyed the feeling of the girl's body on his.

This must be what had finally driven his ancestors into marriage, this overwhelming need for a woman's touch. It was a hunger that went beyond the physical. He'd tried to satisfy it with an assortment of creative, talented light-skirts, and while that had worked for a while, now even a thorough, passionate session with one of London's most skilled courtesans left him feeling unsatisfied.

Nate was frowning, of course. “The London Misses are shameless. You should leave Town for a while.”

“Let's go to the Lake District,” Alex said. “You're far more likely to encounter a sheep than a marriage-hungry female there.”

“Isn't the Lake District rather cold and damp?” Though the thought of getting away from Town—and temptation—was enticing.

His gaze settled on the letter from Loves Bridge.

“It's not so bad this time of year,” Alex said. “What? Are you afraid of a little wetting?”

“Of course not.” He picked up the letter and turned it over. He didn't recognize the seal, either.

“What does Emmett want?” Nate asked.

“This isn't from Emmett.” He opened the single sheet. The handwriting was very cramped—illegible, really. At least his correspondent hadn't felt the need to cross his lines, but even so, it was going to be a trick to decipher the message.

He held it closer to the lamp. Ah, fortunately the man had printed his name under his signature.

Randolph Wilkinson, solicitor.

That sounded familiar....

Oh, blast. Yes, it was familiar. Wilkinson, Wilkinson, and Wilkinson was the firm that oversaw the Spinster House. Getting a letter from Wilkinson could only mean one thing.

There was a Spinster House vacancy.

“It appears I have a destination.” He let out a long breath and dropped the letter back to his desk. “I'll be leaving in the morning for Loves Bridge.”

April 5, 1617—The duke smiled at me as we were leaving church this morning. He has the
most
attractive dimples.

—from Isabelle Dorring's diary

 

 

Miss Isabelle Catherine Hutting—Cat to everyone in the little village of Loves Bridge—wedged herself into one of the children's desks in the vicarage's schoolroom. Prudence, her ten-year-old sister, was curled up in the only comfortable chair, reading. Sybil, age six, sat by the window with her watercolors, and the four-year-old twins sprawled on the floor, building a fort for their tin soldiers.

A rare moment of peace.

She looked down at the blank sheet of paper before her. She'd been trying to begin this book for months. The characters whispered to her when she was helping Sybil with her numbers or looking at ribbon in the village shop or falling asleep in the bed she shared with her eighteen-year-old sister, Mary, but the instant she had a quiet moment and some paper, they went silent.

Well, she would force them to speak. She dipped her pen into the inkwell.

No, that wasn't quite right. She scratched out the words and started over.

Oh, fiddle, that sounded stupid. Who would wish to read a novel that began with a beautiful ninny grinning at an arrogant, persnickety duke? She should—

No, she should not. How many times had Miss Franklin told her she needed to write the story before she started to pick it apart? She—

Sybil screeched, and Cat's hand jerked, spattering ink all over her paper
and
her bodice. Drat!

“What is it, Sybil?”

Not that she needed to ask. She could see what it was—or rather, who it was. Thomas and Michael had lost interest in their fort and come over to torture their sister. They'd managed to spill water all over Sybil's painting.

“Look what they've done,” Sybil wailed, picking up her soaking masterpiece and flourishing it for Cat's inspection just as Cat reached her.

The wet paint joined the ink on her bodice. It was a good thing this wasn't one of her favorite dresses.

She peeled the picture off her front and inspected it. It was impossible to discern its original subject. Something blue and green and white and black judging from the paint smears.

“We just wanted to see the sheep,” Thomas said, his eyes wide with innocence—until you looked more closely and noted the mischievous gleam. He was only four, but he was going to grow up to be a complete terror, worse even than fifteen-year-old Henry or thirteen-year-old Walter.

How Papa, a vicar, had managed to beget so many wild boys was one of God's many mysteries.

“Sheep?” Sybil screamed. “Those were clouds, you noddy.”

Thomas put his hands on his hips and rolled his eyes in an especially annoying way—a trick he'd learned from Pru. “Paint clouds? That's m-mutton-headed.” He grinned, clearly pleased with the new word he'd learned, likely from his brothers.

She should be happy he hadn't learned any worse words . . . or at least hadn't used them yet.

Sybbie's brows snapped down, and her jaw jutted out. Oh, lud. She was going to have one of her explosions, which was exactly what Thomas was trying for.

“Clouds are an excellent thing to paint,” Cat said quickly, laying a supportive—and restraining—hand on Sybbie's shoulder. “Many famous artists include clouds in their work.”

Michael pulled on Cat's skirt. “We just wanted Sybbie to play wif us.”

Sybbie saw the perfect counterattack. She raised her nose in the air and sniffed. “I don't play with babies.”

God give her strength! Cat lunged for Thomas and caught him before he could reach Sybbie.

“We're
not
babies.” Thomas, his little fists clenched, struggled to free himself from Cat's grasp. “And you've made Mikey cry.”

Michael was the sensitive twin. Cat wrapped her free arm around him while keeping a strong hold on Thomas. Thomas was still determined to hit Sybil, and Sybbie, of course, wasn't helping matters. She'd crossed her arms and curled her lip into a six-year-old's approximation of a sneer.

Cat looked over at Prudence for help.

Prudence turned another page in her book. She didn't even glance Cat's way.

Cat had a sudden, almost uncontrollable urge to scream as loudly as Sybbie had.
She
didn't want to play with the boys, either. She wanted to be left alone in blessed, wonderful, heavenly quiet to write. She wanted, desperately, to have a book she'd written sitting on the lending library shelves. Miss Franklin thought she had the talent. All she needed was time. Some quiet. A few moments to herself.

She might as well ask for the moon and the stars. When she'd mentioned writing a novel to Papa, thinking he might let her spend an hour or two in his study every day, he'd laughed. Neither he nor Mama saw the point in telling stories that had never happened about people who didn't exist.

“No, you're not babies, Thomas.” She forced herself to smile. She must remember that while they weren't babies, they were still very little. They needed her. “Leave Sybbie alone. I'll play with you.”

Michael's face lit up. “Oh, good! I'd rather play wif you than Sybbie, Cat. Sybbie fusses.”

“I don't fuss.”

“Sybbie.” Cat gave her a warning look. There was no need for more brangling. “Why don't you get back to your painting?”

“But there's water everywhere.”

Cat made herself smile again. Smiling made it difficult to shout. “Pru will help you clean things up, won't you, Pru?”

Prudence kept reading.

Cat took a deep breath and smiled harder. “Prudence, please help Sybbie clean up.”

Silence.

“Pru!”
All right, sometimes shouting was necessary.

Prudence finally looked over at them. “Why? I didn't make the mess.”

Another deep breath. “No, but there's rather a lot of water, and Sybbie can't reach the rags.” Plus Sybbie would probably leave a puddle on the floor that someone—likely Cat—would slip in. “And I'm busy with the twins.”

Pru rolled her eyes, heaved a dramatic sigh, and marked her place in her book before closing it. You would have thought Cat had asked her to lap the water up with her tongue. “If I have to.”

Cat kept smiling. She must set a good example. Anger was a waste of energy. Telling Pru exactly what she was thinking would only give Pru an invitation to start an argument, and arguing with Pru wouldn't get the water mopped up.

“Cat.” Michael tugged on her skirt again. “You said you'd play wif us.”

And pulling caps with Pru would upset Michael and get Thomas stirred up again.

She swallowed her spleen. “Thank you, Pru.”

Pru grumbled, but she got the rags.

Cat allowed herself one longing look at the uncomfortable school desk and then sat down on the floor with the boys.

“You can have these,” Mikey said, pushing a few soldiers—the ones with faded or chipped paint—toward her.

She lined them up. She'd played this game before. It didn't take any thought. She could spend the time planning her book. She—

“Make them attack,” Mikey said.

Thomas nodded. “They have to attack so we can capture and kill them.”

Boys could be so bloodthirsty.

She marched a soldier forward to meet his fate.

“Look, men, a bloody Frog!”

Thomas kept his eyes on his toys. “Soldiers don't mind their language, Cat.”

“Perhaps not, but you will. What would Papa say?” Well, Papa might not care very much. “What would Mama say?”

Thomas made a face and then in a very high voice said, “Oh, dear, it's a French soldier.”

Thomas was going to be even more of a handful than Henry or Walter.

But he was going to be
Mama's
handful. Not Cat's. She was twenty-four years old. If she didn't find some way of getting free of her family, she would never write a paragraph, let alone an entire book. But what could she do?

If only she'd been born male. Life was so much easier for men. They could go where they pleased and do what they wanted. Just look at Henry and Walter. Mama never asked them to mind their younger siblings, but when Cat had been their ages—

Oh, all right. If Mama ever left either of those two in charge, the twins would be sure to free all the chickens in the coop and then race Farmer Linden's pigs down the village green.

Mikey erupted into shooting noises. Thomas yelled and made the sound of horse hooves charging over the ground. Cat's soldier was knocked down and dragged off to the dungeon.

“Cat.”

Cat looked over her shoulder. Mama had poked her head into the schoolroom. “Yes, Mama?”

“I need you to take a basket over to Mrs. Barker. Papa said he heard her gout is bothering her.” Mama smiled as her eyes drifted to a point just over Cat's head. “I thought she could do with some treats.”

Right. Nasty old Mrs. Barker whose son just happened to be a prosperous, churchgoing,
unmarried
farmer.

“Can't Henry or Walter take it?”

“Of course not,” Pru said, giggling. She'd finished helping Sybbie with the water and was back to her book. “
They
can't marry Mr. Barker.”

Mama laughed uneasily. “Now, Pru, don't be silly. The boys are with Papa, studying their Latin.”

And they would leap at the chance to get free of their lessons. Neither was an enthusiastic scholar.

“And Mary?” Cat asked. But Mary would be busy, too, of course.

“Mrs. Greeley will be here shortly to finish fitting her for her wedding dress.”

Mama would love it if Mrs. Greeley could start in on Cat's dress the moment she finished Mary's.

Tory and Ruth, the two sisters right under Cat, were already wed and procreating. Mary was going to step into parson's mousetrap in less than two weeks, and then there would be no more daughters but Cat to marry off until Pru was old enough in seven or eight years.

If things were bad now, they were about to get infinitely worse.

Perhaps she
should
consider Mr. Barker. He was certainly willing. He popped the question every few months and then laughed and patted her arm when she declined, promising he'd try again—and again—until she said yes.

Which only made her want to kick him in his patronizing shins.

However, marrying Mr. Barker
would
get her out of the vicarage—

And into his house with his cross-tempered, managing mother.

Oh, no, she was not doing that. Of course not! Even if Mrs. Barker were a saint—which she most certainly was not—her son had squinty little eyes and a beaklike nose and crooked teeth. He wore the distinct, pungent scent of manure the way other men wore eau de cologne.

And he would expect children. She'd have to—

Her stomach knotted.

She wasn't that desperate to get free of the vicarage.

“Mama, surely someone else can take the basket.”

“I'm afraid there really is no one else.” Mama's face was set, her eyes steely.

Cat sighed and played one last, desperate card. “All right. I'll bring Michael and Thomas with me.” Neither Mr. Barker nor his mother liked the twins, so their presence should keep the visit short.

“I don't want to go,” Thomas said. “Mrs. Barker's mean. She has a wart on her nose just like a witch. And her cook makes nasty biscuits.”

Mikey nodded. “And Mr. Barker's horse tried to bite me when I petted him.”

Mama frowned at the twins, but refrained from lecturing them for criticizing their elders. “It is much too far for you boys to walk.” She smiled at Cat. “You go by yourself, dear. Take your time and have a nice visit with Mrs. Barker.”

“There are no nice visits with Mrs. Barker,” Sybbie said.

Mama glared at Sybbie before turning back to Cat. “And then perhaps Mr. Barker will be free to give you a ride home in his gig.”

Now there was a treat. Mr. Barker's sullen, plodding horse could make a fifteen-minute ride last thirty, and the man's excruciatingly boring conversation made those thirty minutes feel like an eternity. The last book he'd read—perhaps the
only
book he'd read—was
Jeramiah Johnson's Thoughts on the Methods of Raising Sheep, including a Discourse on Breeding and Shearing
.

“That will give him ample opportunity to propose.” Pru sounded as if she was going to choke on her laughter. “It's almost time for him to ask again, isn't it?”

“Pru!” Mama said sharply, her patience clearly at an end. “It is unbecoming to be so pert.”

“Yes, Mama.” Pru sounded contrite, but the look she sent Cat rivaled Thomas's for evil glee.

Cat narrowed her eyes....

No, she was twenty-four. She should not stoop to a ten-year-old's level.

Michael's small fingers crept into hers. “You won't really marry Mr. Barker, will you, Cat?”

“Now, Michael, Mr. Barker is a fine man,” Mama said. “I'm sure you'll come to like him once you know him better.”

“I will?”

“Well, I won't.” Thomas thrust his chin forward and crossed his arms over his little chest. “I'll never like him.”