What to Do with a Duke (20 page)

He knew where Catherine got her strong will.

“Very likely,” the vicar said. “Would you care for a glass, Your Grace?”

“Thank you, sir, but I must decline. I plan to go from here to the Spinster House, and I wish to have all my wits about me when I speak to your daughter.”

“Very wise.” Mrs. Hutting nodded with approval.

The vicar, however, was frowning. “Am I correct in assuming you are here to ask for Cat's hand in marriage, Your Grace?”

“Yes, sir, I am.” Thank God his voice hadn't wavered. “I came as soon as Mr. Dunly told me about the gossip.” He cleared his throat. “How is Miss Hutting taking it?”

The vicar laughed. “Not well, of course. She's furious. Got into a shouting match with Mrs. Barker on the village green yesterday. Henry had to pull Cat away, while Mr. Barker took his mother home.”

“Ah.” That was not the answer he'd expected, though if he'd considered more carefully, he should have expected it. Catherine was not a typical female.

Mrs. Hutting leaned toward him. “Cat says Anne Davenport saw something perfectly innocent and decided, once she lost the Spinster House lottery, to spin a tale, hoping to force you into marrying Cat and thus opening the Spinster House position again.”

“But Cat laughed at how silly Anne was to think she would marry anyone because of a little gossip,” the vicar added. “Or even a lot of gossip.” He smiled with what looked like pride. “Cat is very principled.”

“And strong willed,” Mrs. Hutting said.

Marcus nodded. “Yes, I noticed that.”

The vicar looked down at his hands clasped on his desk. “I confess I am curious, however. The rumor is just that you went into the bushes with Cat, and everyone has then embroidered on that to a ridiculous degree. Cat says she took you there to have a private conversation, but I don't think she's telling the complete truth.” He looked up. “What did happen?”

Marcus shifted in his chair. “I kissed her.”

“And then she slapped you?” the vicar asked.

“No.”

Mrs. Hutting put her hand on his arm. “Did she kiss you back?” She sounded as if she hoped the answer was yes.

He was not one to tell tales.

“The encounter was quite chaste.”

Mrs. Hutting's face fell.

He cleared his throat. “But I realize I shouldn't have gone with your daughter. Her intentions were innocent, while mine were . . .” He hadn't intended to do anything improper, precisely, but he'd certainly known better than to go into the vegetation with a female. “Not entirely so.”

Mrs. Hutting actually bounced a bit and clapped.

“I am willing to offer for your daughter's hand in marriage.”

“Oh, dear.” Mrs. Hutting frowned. “You don't sound very happy about that.”

“Of course he doesn't,” the vicar said. “Remember Cat told us he believes in Isabelle Dorring's curse.”

“Oh, that's right. That horrible curse.”

They both looked at him with eyes full of concern.

He forced a smile. “Everyone has some unfortunate, er, burden to bear, I suppose.”

“But not everyone thinks his wedding will be followed so closely by his funeral.” The vicar sighed. “You have my permission to court Cat, Your Grace, but there is no need to do so. If everyone who ever stole a kiss in the shrubbery was forced to marry, there would be no single people left.” He shrugged. “The gossip is silly. It will pass.”

Mrs. Hutting touched his arm again. “You should only ask Cat to marry you if you really love her, Your Grace. That's what she needs. Not a husband, but a man to love her.”

As he needed a woman to love him.

But things were never that simple, were they?

“Thank you.” He stood. “I'm off to see your daughter now. I hope you may wish us happy shortly.”

“I hope so, too.” The vicar smiled. “And I hope someday to see you dandle your sons and daughters on your knee.”

There was no chance in hell of that. “Thank you, sir.” He turned to leave.

“Oh, and one more thing.”

“Yes, sir?”

The vicar grinned. “Cat has a powerful right arm. You might wish to be prepared to duck after you pop the question.”

June 10, 1617—Marcus is back! I'm
so
happy. Except something is troubling him. I wish he would tell me what it is.

—from Isabelle Dorring's diary

 

 

Cat sat at the desk in the Spinster House library, a stack of papers at her elbow. True, most of the sheets had many of their words crossed out, but the story was beginning to take shape. Her poor, meek,
boring
heroine had finally seized control of her life. Instead of simpering in a corner, hoping the handsome Duke of Worthing would notice her, she was planning how to save him from an evil witch and the witch's familiar, a sly cat.

Poppy, stretched out in the sun on the window seat, yawned.

Cat grinned. All right, perhaps the story was inspired somewhat by current events. The point was, she'd got beyond the dreaded first sentence. It might all be complete balderdash, but at least she was finally writing
something
. Surely the lady who'd authored
Sense and Sensibility
and
Pride and Prejudice
hadn't been able to get her stories perfect the first time either.

She dipped her pen into the inkwell and prepared to skewer a character who bore a marked resemblance to Mrs. Barker. First she would—

Drat! Someone was knocking at her door.

Perhaps the person would go away. She leaned over her paper again.

No. More knocking. She frowned, brushing her pursed lips with her quill. It could be Mama or Papa or one of the boys—she'd persuaded them to knock rather than just walk in.

Well, yes, locking the door had helped with that.

The knocking was getting louder. Clearly whoever it was wasn't going to stop until she opened the door. She sighed and got up. “Why can't people just leave me alone, Poppy?”

Poppy stared at her.

Yes, all right. Thanks to Anne's maliciousness, people
were
leaving her alone. Apparently her reputation was now as black as possible, though it was hard to see how a single kiss in the shrubbery could be such a mortal sin.

She flushed. Likely she was now accused of far more than a kiss. She didn't precisely fault Anne, though her betrayal did hurt. But then she might have done something similar if she'd lost the lottery. Despair spawned desperation.

She'd just have to weather the storm. Everything would calm down once the duke left Loves Bridge.

She hurried across the sitting room. The blasted knocking was getting even louder and more insistent. “I'm coming, I'm coming.” She flung open the door. “What do you—”

Good God. It was the duke. Her heart attempted a very uncomfortable pirouette in her chest as she looked into his handsome face.

“What are you doing here?”

Not the politest of greetings, but apparently surprise and a far more carnal emotion didn't result in the best of manners.

“I am here to speak with you, of course. May I come in, Miss Hutting?”

“No!” That was all she needed. Reasonable people might question how much she could have sinned in the bushes with the man, but alone in a house . . . Not that
she
had any idea of what sins were possible, but the duke certainly must. He likely had a long list of shocking activities he could pursue.

A disconcerting heat flooded her, and she moved to slam the door in his face.

He blocked her easily by simply putting out his hand. “Thank you,” he said, and stepped past her.

Was that the scandalized breath of the Loves Bridge gossips she heard drawn in sharply?

No, it was her own breath. She glanced outside. Oh, dear. Mrs. Greeley, likely arriving at the vicarage to put the finishing touches on Mary's wedding gown, was staring at her from across the street.

“You need to leave
now
. You've been seen.”

“I have?” The duke leaned over her. “So I have.” He waved at Mrs. Greeley.

Mrs. Greeley, clearly dazed, waved weakly back.

“Ohh.” Mortification flooded Cat, and she backed away as the duke closed the door—with him still on the inside.

Lud! He was doing the same trick he'd done when he'd been here before—filling up all the available space. She felt a bit light-headed.

“Perhaps you aren't aware of it, Your Grace, but someone—I suspect Anne—has been spreading the tale of our brief discussion in the shrubbery, except everyone has embroidered the story past recognition. And while the village is giving me its collective back now, if you will only leave, I'm sure—”

He put his hands on her shoulders. “I know about the gossip, Catherine. I'm so sorry. I just found out, or I would have been here sooner.”

“Ah.” Just as she had feared, her poor brain was suddenly scrambling around like a mouse trapped in the bottom of a deep, slippery pot. It couldn't hold on to any one thought. Her body, however, knew exactly what it wanted—to press up against Marcus. She breathed in his scent, felt the comforting weight of his hands, and ached to taste his lips again, to—

“I've spoken to your father, and he's given me permission to pay my addresses.”

“What?” Marcus wasn't making any sense. Why wouldn't he stop talking and kiss her?

He laughed and shook her gently. “I will go up to London tomorrow for a special license, and we can be married—”

“Married?!”
She jerked back, and he let her go. “Have you lost your mind?”

More to the point, had she lost hers? She'd dreamed for years of this freedom she'd just won—to live alone on her own terms and be able to write without constant interruption—and at the duke's words, her first impulse was to throw it all away as Miss Franklin had done.

His brows snapped down so they met over his nose. “No, of course I haven't lost my mind.”

“Then why are you talking about marriage?” She couldn't stand still, so she paced back and forth, being careful to stay well beyond arm's reach—
her
arm's reach—of the duke. The temptation to go along with his plan was shockingly strong. Her body hummed so loudly with need, it was drowning out every other thought.

She did not want to cause Marcus's death.

The duke was still scowling. “I've compromised you. I've ruined your reputation. Of course I'm talking about marriage.”

“Nonsense. You didn't ruin my reputation; Anne did.” That didn't come out right. “I mean my reputation is not ruined. People may talk for a while, but they'll realize soon enough that they are making a great deal about nothing. I even think Anne—and Jane, too—once they get over their disappointment at losing the Spinster House, will come about and mend our friendship.” She hoped so, at least.

“And even if my reputation remains in tatters, I was the one who dragged you into the bushes, so it could be argued I'm responsible for my own ruination.” She forced a smile. “See? You can absolve yourself of all culpability.”

He was still frowning at her. What was the matter with him? He should be grinning and cutting a caper.

“But what about that woman with the ugly bonnet? She saw me come in here just now. I even waved at her.”

What woman? Oh! “You must never say that to her!”

He blinked. “Say what to whom?”

“To Mrs. Greeley—the woman who saw you come in. You must never tell her you think her bonnet is ugly. She's our village dressmaker and cares about such things.” The poor woman would be devastated if she discovered the London duke found her headgear lacking. Not that it should be any surprise to her. Mama, at least, had been trying tactfully to tell her for years that her fashion sense left something to be desired.

“Then she shouldn't put such a hideous hat on her head. I hope her taste in dresses is better.”

“Well, not much, but she does take instruction well. She got quite carried away with Mary's wedding dress, but agreed to remove all the furbelows when Mama insisted.” Cat laughed. “You should have seen Mama's expression when Mary's head finally emerged from the froth of flounces and pleats and ribbons and knots. Papa said it looked like a haberdashery had vomited all over her.”

The duke stared, and then shook his head as if
he
was trying to free himself from festooned fabric. “That is neither here nor there, Miss Hutting. My point is the woman has a tongue in her head and will likely use it. Everyone will know about this visit.”

“Precisely. Which is an excellent argument for bringing it to a quick end.” She strode toward the door.

The duke stood where he was. “But what about your reputation?” The poor man sounded extremely frustrated. He must be used to everyone falling in line with his plans.

“I told you, any injury to my reputation is of my own doing.” She shrugged. “And reputations are of most concern to young ladies hoping to catch a husband. I don't want a husband”—
other than you
—“so I don't need a reputation.”

She could almost hear his teeth grinding.

“Now if you will be so kind as to—”

She started to open the door, but the duke moved at the same time, so quickly he took her completely by surprise. One second her hand was on the latch, and the next her back was against the door, shutting it firmly.

She gawped up at him as she tried to comprehend her sudden change in position. It didn't help that his body was pressed against hers from her shoulders to her knees.

“You didn't give me time to slap you.” She should be furious. She couldn't move.

She didn't want to move, unless it was to press more tightly against him. She tried instead to press against the door, and the evil man just moved in closer.

The tiny part of her brain that still functioned knew he would let her go if she asked him.

“Of course not.” He smiled. “I'm not stupid.”

And then his mouth came down on hers.

This kiss was much different from the one they'd shared in the bushes. His lips didn't just brush lightly over hers. They clung. They stroked and nibbled and explored.

His hands were off exploring, too, tracing their way from her hips to her waist, up her sides to just under her breasts. Hot, drenching pleasure coursed through her, pooling low in her belly, throbbing between her legs, causing her nipples to tighten and ache. She was suddenly very, very hot.

Thank God Marcus and the door were supporting her, or she'd melt into a puddle on the floor.

She wanted to touch him. She moved her hands up under his coat, but his blasted waistcoat was in her way. She wanted it off. She wanted everything off—his clothes and her clothes. She wanted to feel his naked flesh against hers.

His lips and tongue traced the line of her jaw and then nuzzled a sensitive spot just under her ear.

She moaned and rubbed the part of her that ached the most against his legs and the bulge that had appeared between them. If she were only a few inches taller, that bulge would fit perfectly against her. She stretched and wrapped her arms around his neck.

His mouth moved back to hers, and this time his tongue traced the seam of her lips. Did he want her to open her mouth?

She did.

Ohh. His tongue slipped in, making the throbbing grow until her body felt hollow, aching for something only he could give her.

Her fingers slid deep into his hair, his thick, silky hair that had the slightest bit of curl, and she moaned again, her heart pounding in her ears.

Which is probably why she didn't immediately hear someone pounding on the door behind her.

Marcus heard, though. He lifted his head. “Are you expecting company?” he whispered.

“Huh?”

He looked at the door just as whoever it was knocked again.

“Oh!” She tried to shove him away.

“Wait,” he murmured by her ear. “Whoever it is will leave eventually.”

“And how will that look?” she hissed back at him. “You know Mrs. Greeley saw you come in. People will imagine the worst.”

He grinned, looking at once seductive and boyish and oddly happy. “Then let's do the worst.”

Oh, no. Tempting as that was, it would be a serious mistake. The sort of activity she suspected he meant could lead to a child, which would make it harder to decline his offer of marriage.

He saw her answer in her eyes and let her go. She jerked open the door. Her sister Mary was just leaving, Michael and Thomas by her side. They turned back, and Mikey and Tom broke into wide grins.

“It's true. Dook is here!” Mikey said, rushing past Cat to give Marcus a hug.

“We almost gave up,” Tom said, following Mikey.

“Where's Poppy?” Mikey asked. “We thought we heard her meowing just inside the door.”

Cat felt her face flush—and Mary's eyes study her. “I think she's in the room with the harpsichord, Mikey. Or maybe she's gone off somewhere. You know Poppy's a bit afraid of you and Tom.”

“Silly cat.” Mikey grabbed Marcus's hand. “Let's go look for her, dook.”

Marcus let the two little boys tow him away.

“I wonder what happened to the duke's hair,” Mary said, watching the small group vanish into the other room. “It's rather untidy.”