What to Do with a Duke (30 page)

Her chin came up then, and she met his gaze. “Yes, and have to suffer from the curse.”

Sadly that was true.

“I grant you the title comes at a great price, but it also comes with great wealth and privilege.” He'd considered letting the title revert to the Crown, but now that he'd started to manage his land and know his people, that option held no appeal. “And when I marry, as I'll have to do, and have a son, how do you think our son will feel when that younger half-brother inherits all that should have been his?”

“He won't care about such things.”

“Only a saint could not care.” He clasped her hand, stilling her fingers from their nervous picking at the bedclothes. “I want
your
son to be the next duke, Catherine. I want you to be the one to guide him when I cannot and see that he treats his people well, that he grows up to be an honorable man.”

She slipped her hand free and got out of bed, picking her nightshift off the floor and putting it on. She stood by the window, looking out over the tangled garden. “There must be another way.” She glanced back at him. “Our children can go to the United States. Title and birth mean nothing there.”

He went to stand next to her. He wanted to wrap his arms around her, but she was so straight and stiff, she might as well have lettered
DO NOT TOUCH
across her back.

“I wouldn't be so certain of that, Catherine. People are people. Americans might not have lords and ladies, but I suspect most of them are quite aware of a man's—or a woman's—birth. Illegitimacy is a burden anywhere.”

She scowled down at the innocent vegetation.

“And would you want your children to move so far from you? You would never see them if they sailed to the States.”

She bit her lip. “I-I could go as well.”

“And leave your parents and brothers and sisters here?”

“Y-yes.”

That was far too high a price for her to pay. Catherine might wish to live in the Spinster House so she could have quiet and solitude in which to write, but only a fool would think she'd want to be separated from her family by an ocean.

“And would you also leave me? I cannot abandon my lands.”

She glanced up at him, and then looked out the window again.

“Our son can go into trade here, then, and make his own way. The world is changing, Marcus.”

“Not that quickly.” He brushed her cheek with his thumb and felt dampness. He so wished he hadn't put her in this position, and yet he could not bring himself to regret what they had done together in her bed. “And our daughters? What will become of them?”

“Oh!” She jerked away from his touch. “You may be right about everything, but I still will not marry you. I will not be responsible for your death.”

“You won't be. I knew exactly what I was risking when I took you to bed.”

She sniffed, whether in disdain or to hold back tears, he couldn't tell. “You made a mistake. You shouldn't have to pay with your life.”

That was too much. He grabbed her shoulders and turned her to face him. “I did
not
make a mistake. My time with you has been the happiest of my misbegotten life. I love you, Catherine. I'd rather have a few months with you than years of bloody soulless living without you.” He couldn't stop the words from pouring out. He was reduced to begging. “Please marry me, Catherine. I cannot bear it if you won't have me.”

She was gawping up at him, so he did the only thing he could think to do—he kissed her.

—from Isabelle Dorring's diary

 

 

Marcus loved her.

Cat smiled, her cheek resting on Marcus's chest. They had ended up back in bed, of course. Saying yes she would marry him and love him for as long as they both should live—and she hoped that was far longer than a few months—could not be said only in words. It had to be said in actions, too. This time, every kiss, every touch was a celebration of their love, and their final union was far more than a simple joining of bodies. It was a marriage of hearts and souls as well.

Marcus tipped her head up so he could look into her eyes. “You're wonderful, Catherine.”

She felt wonderful.

“Thank you for agreeing to have me.”

She grinned. “I should like to have you again.”

He chuckled. “Witch! The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.”

He looked so relaxed and happy, it made her that much happier. “I'm not certain you should be quoting from the Bible in this situation, Marcus.”

“On the contrary. I assure you this has been a deeply religious experience for me.” He traced the side of her face with a finger. “An experience I feel certain your dear father would wish to have legitimized in church as soon as possible.” He kissed her quickly on the mouth and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “And that is why we must, unfortunately, get dressed. We need to tell your parents our good news, and then I need to procure a special license. I would like to be married as soon as possible. The longer we wait, the more obvious it becomes that we anticipated our vows.”

“All right.” She'd rather stay in bed with him all day, but she could see his point. And, in any event, he was already pulling on his pantaloons. She watched until his lovely muscled arse was covered and then climbed out of bed and reached for her shift. “Mama will be delighted that I'll finally be someone's wife. She had run out of men to throw at my head.”

Marcus put on his shirt and then helped her lace up her stays. “I suppose she will have to put aside her matchmaking efforts for a while. Henry is rather too young for marriage.”

Cat laughed. “I can't imagine Henry or Walter being at all amenable to Mama's marital machinations even when they are old enough to wed.” She slipped on her dress. “You know, Jane and Anne will be delighted to hear we are getting married.”

He lifted a brow as he buttoned his waistcoat. “Why is that?”

“Because they are the other two spinsters, of course, and now one of them will get to take my place here.”

“Oh, Lord, that's right.” He stepped over to look in the mirror as he tied his cravat. “Do you suppose they will insist I blindfold myself again when they draw lots?”

“I doubt it. They know you won't play favorites.” She combed her hair and put it up. She could do it all by feel, but she should check to see how it looked. Rather than trying to peer around Marcus, she'd use the mirror in Miss Franklin's old room. “I don't know which of them I hope gets the house. Jane has to put up with Randolph, but Anne has a new stepmother to contend with.”

She took a step toward the door—and almost stepped on Poppy.

“Ack!” She did a quick shuffle to reclaim her balance. “What are you doing?”

Actually it was clear what Poppy was doing—she was peering under the low cabinet just outside the bedroom door. The question was why.

An unpleasant thought struck. “I hope you're not playing with a mouse.”

Marcus came over to watch Poppy bat at something with her paw. “Do you have a mouse problem?”

“Not that I know of, but I assumed that was because Poppy took care of things. Oh, look.” Poppy had fished the thing—or, rather, things—out from under the furniture. Thankfully neither was a rodent.

“Here, let's see what you've got there,” Marcus said. Poppy sat down and started licking her paws, letting him pick up her finds. “It's a bit of pottery and a key.”

Cat examined the pottery shard. “That looks like a piece of the china dog I threw at you after Mary's wedding.”

“You almost hit me in the head with that, you know.”

“Yes. I'm sorry. I was angry about your interlude in the bushes with that London girl.”

“Miss Rathbone? Good God!” Marcus shook his head. “Not that I'll ever consort with another woman, but if you ever suspect I am doing so, please just ask.”

“Don't worry. I don't usually lose my temper like that.” She kissed his cheek as she took the key from him and turned it over. “Hmm. I
thought
that knickknack felt heavier than it should have. This must have been inside. What do you suppose it unlocks?”

“I have no idea.” From the tone of Marcus's voice, it was clear he also had no interest in finding out. “Let's go see your parents. The key has been here for years. It'll still be here when you get back.”

“Don't you have even a shred of curiosity?”

“Not when I'm eager to make arrangements for my wedding.” He grinned. “I'm going to try to be noble and not visit your bed again until you have my ring on your finger, but I know my limitations. The fewer days I have to test my willpower, the better.”

She grinned back at him. “You don't have to wait. You can sneak in the back door.”

“I am not sneaking into your bedchamber again, Catherine.”

“But—”

“No.” Marcus's jaw hardened. “I have to think of your reputation. Loves Bridge is a very small village with a very long memory. I don't wish to give the Misses Boltwood and their ilk anything more to gabble about.”

“Oh, very well.” She was beyond caring what the gossips said, but she knew a losing battle when she saw one. She started to put the key down.

Poppy hissed.

She looked down at the cat. The animal was staring at the key, tail twitching. “I think Poppy wants us to attend to this immediately.”

“It certainly does look that way.” Marcus drummed his fingers against his leg and then shrugged. “I suppose I can't object. I
am
indebted to her.”

“Why in the world are you indebted to Poppy?”

“The day of Mary's wedding, I was going to give up when I found your front door locked and go back to the party, but Poppy insisted I try the back door. She wouldn't take
no
for an answer, which I suspect is the case here as well.” Marcus shook his head. “She's almost as unsettling as the curse. No offense meant, of course,” he said, bowing slightly to Poppy.

Poppy stared at him and then turned and walked toward the storage room. She paused on the threshold to look back at them before disappearing inside.

“I'll wager that if we don't follow her, she'll hunt us down and bite our ankles,” Marcus said. He stepped aside and swept his hand in the direction Poppy had taken. “After you, Miss Hutting.”

“Coward.”

He chuckled. “Guilty as charged.”

When they entered the room, they found Poppy stretched out on top of the big cabinet.

“So, Poppy, do you want us to look inside that piece of furniture?” Cat asked.

“Good heavens!” Cat looked at Marcus. “It's as if she understood what I said.”

Marcus was staring at Isabelle's portrait where it was propped against the wall, but snorted at Cat's words and turned his attention to her. “Let's not get carried away. I know the concept of a curse is bizarre”—he glanced at the portrait again—“but the notion of an intelligent cat is—”

Poppy hissed, showing her teeth.

“Pardon me, you are quite correct. A gentleman never criticizes a lady.” Marcus raised his brows and looked down at Cat. “It does seem that Poppy wants us to examine the cabinet.”

“Yes.” Whether Poppy was giving them a message or not, Cat was quite eager, now that she had a key in hand, to poke around that particular piece of furniture. She opened the cabinet door to reveal its many small drawers, each decorated with a different, intricate carving.

“Which one do you want to try first?” Marcus asked.

“This one, of course.” Cat reached for the drawer adorned with the picture of a cat sitting on what looked very much like a windowsill.

Marcus laughed. “Poppy would approve.”

Poppy sneezed and licked her hind leg.

The key slid easily into the keyhole, but turning it was rather more difficult.

“Oh, drat. I can't open it.”

Poppy growled.

“Shall I try?” Marcus asked. “We don't want Poppy losing patience and pouncing on your head.”

She laughed. “Very true.”

Marcus's fingers were stronger, but it still took him a bit of effort before they heard the scrape of the lock opening.

Cat reached for the drawer—and stopped. Isabelle's curse had affected Marcus's life far more than hers. She glanced up at him. “You look inside.”

He gazed back, his eyes suddenly guarded. Then he nodded and pulled the drawer open.

“There
is
something here.” He reached in and lifted out an oilcloth packet. Inside were a small book and a letter.

“The letter is addressed to Isabelle.” He turned it over. “The seal is unbroken.” He glanced up at the portrait. “She must never have read it.”

Cat looked up at the painting, too. For some odd reason, she felt Isabelle wanted them to find these things.

“And the book?” Cat laced her fingers together to keep from snatching it out of Marcus's hands.

He put the letter on top of the cabinet next to Poppy and opened the book. Cat crowded up against him so she could see, too.

“Oh! It's Isabelle's diary,” she said.

“Yes, it does appear to be.” Marcus started to close it.

She grabbed his arm. “We have to read what she wrote.” She would go mad wondering about it if they didn't. “I think Isabelle wants us to.” She inclined her head toward the portrait. “She looks happy about it, don't you think?”

Marcus frowned at her. “Don't let your imagination run away with you, Catherine. Besides, we don't have time. I wish to see your father and get that license today.”

“Yes, of course.” How could Marcus not be as curious as she was? “Let's just read the last entry, then. That should only take a minute.” She shook his arm a little. “Please? It will eat at me until we do.”

Marcus stared down at her. For a moment she was afraid he would refuse, but then he shrugged. “Very well.”

He glanced up at Isabelle as if he was waiting for her to forbid this invasion, but then carefully turned the pages.

Isabelle had had rather large and flowing handwriting, ornamented with far too many flourishes until the last few entries. Then her writing became smaller and more cramped as if her spirit had shrunk as well.

“Here it is,” Marcus said. “Well, it's not an entry, really. It's addressed to the third duke.”

He read:

Cat looked up at Marcus. “She couldn't have known the baby was a boy.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps she really was a witch.”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“Look, do you want me to read this or not?”

“Read it, of course. I promise to hold my tongue.”

He raised his brows, but when she kept her lips pressed tightly together, he went back to the book.

Marcus looked up at Isabelle as he finished and bowed. “I must agree with you, madam. My sincere apologies for my ancestor's behavior.”

Cat tugged on Marcus's arm. “You know, Isabelle never says she's going to drown herself. She doesn't even curse anyone. Not really.”

“Perhaps that's in the papers Wilkinson has.”

“Perhaps.” Cat felt a flicker of hope. “Or perhaps there isn't a curse.”

Marcus frowned. “Explain that to my ancestors.”

“Their deaths
could
be coincidences.”

His right brow winged up in skepticism. “That's a lot of coincidences.”

She wasn't going to waste precious time arguing with him now. “What does the letter say?”

“Let's see if Poppy will let us read it.”

Poppy had put her paws on the paper, but she sat up when Marcus reached for it and graciously allowed him to take it. She watched as he broke the seal and opened the single sheet.

He gave a low whistle.

“What is it?” Cat pressed close to him again, and Marcus put his arm around her.

“It's from the third duke, and it's also dated August 4.”

“What does it say?” Marcus was holding the paper too high for her to see. “Read it—or give it to me to read myself.”

“Impatient, are you?”