What to Do with a Duke (9 page)

It looked as if the portrait had been painted here in the study. The curtains and rug were the same, though in the painting their colors were much brighter. The fellow must be an ancestor.

Marcus leaned closer to read the small bronze plate in the frame:
MARCUS, THIRD DUKE OF HART
.

The blackguard.

The London house had long ago been stripped of all paintings of the scoundrel, as if banning the fellow's image from the walls could also wipe him from the family tree. Ha. Not likely. But his own dear mother had ensured that, no matter what else happened,
he
could never forget the dastard.

Nate's parents had said his father, in his last moments of lucidity, had insisted his son be given the third duke's Christian name, though that made no sense. He was already burdened with the title and its curse. Why give him more to carry? No, he felt certain it was his mother who'd thought saddling him with the bounder's full name would be a splendid jest.

He studied the fellow's face more carefully. He didn't see evil or dissipation or cruelty in his eyes. Well, likely the painter had chosen to flatter the man. An artist knew from whose pockets his fee was coming.

“There you are,” Nate said, entering the room with Alex. “You were gone longer than we expected. We finally gave up waiting and went for a ride without you.” He frowned. “Everything all right?”

“Everything is, regrettably, more complicated than I had hoped.” Blast it, Alex had come over to stare at the portrait.

“Marcus, this could be you, you know”—Alex grinned—“except for the facial hair and the outlandish clothes. Which relative is it?”

Bloody hell!
Marcus examined the third duke's face again. There
was
an uncanny resemblance.

Alex read the inscription and let out a long, low whistle. “It's the evil duke. You're named after him.”

“Yes.” God, he wished he could leave this infernal place in the morning, but thanks to Isabelle Dorring, he was trapped here for several days. He went over to the liquor cabinet, poured himself a healthy dose of brandy, and took a larger swallow than he normally would. The liquid burned going down, but it created a comforting warmth when it reached his belly. He held up the decanter. “Brandy, anyone?”

“Of course.” Alex looked once more at the painting before walking over. “I still don't see why you let this curse business bedevil you.”

Miss Hutting had said something similar. She'd laughed, her reddish gold hair gleaming in the sun, green eyes and lovely porcelain skin—

No. The decanter clinked against the glass as he poured Alex's brandy. He should not be feeling this . . . excitement. He shouldn't be feeling anything for the woman. She had no desire to wed.

And he had no desire to die.

“I believe my family history adequately proves the curse's existence,” he said, as he handed Alex his drink.

Alex shrugged. “Five deaths. Very sad, but I still think they must be merely coincidence. Or perhaps if you believe something will happen, you'll act in such a way as to make it come true. Don't you think so, Nate?”

“No.” Nate scowled as he took his brandy from Marcus. “For the last two hundred years, every single time the Duchess of Hart is increasing with a male child, the duke dies before the baby is born. That is far more than coincidence. And, as Marcus said in London, his father didn't believe in the curse, yet he died, too.” Nate glared down at his glass. “My mother lost her father and her brother to it. She made me promise to keep Marcus safe for as long as I could.”

Blast.
“Nate, you are not my keeper.”

Nate transferred his glare to Marcus. “
Someone
needs to keep you from dragging women into the bushes.”

“I did not drag Miss Rathbone anywhere. If anything, she dragged me.”

“You two are squabbling like children,” Alex said.

Marcus struggled to control his spleen. He wasn't normally so emotional.

“We were brought up together,” Nate said. “I consider Marcus my brother.”

Alex nodded. “Yes, I see that. In any event, even if there is a curse—”

“Which there is,” Nate snapped.

Alex gave Nate an exasperated look, but just continued, “Didn't you say you can break it by marrying for love, Marcus?”

“Yes.” Marcus sounded cynical to his own ears, but hell, it would be easier to find a unicorn at Almack's than a woman of the
ton
he could care for.

“Well, there you go,” Alex said, taking a seat by the fire. “Find—I say, I think this is the most uncomfortable chair I've ever sat in.”

Marcus laughed as he sat, too. The state of the castle's chairs was a much more welcome topic than the state of his heart. “I don't doubt it. My nefarious ancestor probably selected it.”

“More likely his mother.” Nate sat on the equally uncomfortable settee. “Family lore has it that the woman was a terror. Ruled everyone with an iron fist and put far more stock in show than in substance—or, in this case, comfort.”

“And none of the subsequent duchesses chose to redecorate?” Alex looked around. “I'm certainly no expert, but my guess is everything in this room dates from the early 1600s.”

“I imagine it does.” The room did look old and sad, though not as sad as when Marcus had left for the village. Emmett—or Dunly—had found a small army of maids to attack the cobwebs and remove the Holland cloth covers in his absence. “Since the curse, no Duke of Hart has made his home here.”

Alex's brows rose. “Even the third duke?”

“Even he.” Apparently the blackguard was capable of feeling some guilt. Not that guilt—or, one would hope, contrition—would have raised Isabelle Dorring from her watery grave or saved her child, but it was slightly comforting to think his relative's heart hadn't been made completely of stone.

“But this is your primary seat.”

“Yes, but the dukes and duchesses have always preferred London.” In London it was possible to keep busy enough to forget the curse, at least for a while. Not that the duchesses wished to forget. They looked forward to the duke's demise so they could enjoy the wealth and prestige their hopefully brief marriages had given them without the inconvenience of a husband.

Alex frowned. “Yet they must have felt the need to see if all was well with the estate.”

“They did visit occasionally.” Guilt cramped Marcus's gut. Once in his thirty years hardly counted as occasionally. “And they hired good stewards to look after the place.”

“Even the best steward isn't the same as the landowner,” Alex said. “It seems shockingly irresponsi—” He stopped, realizing at last that what he said was rather damning of the current duke. “Er, no insult meant, of course. I'm sure you have your reasons. I just . . . with my own estates, I . . .” He cleared his throat. “But that's neither here nor there, is it?”

Marcus nodded. He couldn't dispute Alex's words. Any good landowner
would
look after his land and people personally. “No offense taken. In the normal course of events, I'd visit often. As it is, I'm fairly confident none of my tenants would recognize me if I rode past him.” Yet another way Isabelle's curse had twisted his life. He shrugged. “Knowing you're going to die before your heir is born tends to dampen your interest in your property.”

Alex was frowning at him. “Only if you let it.”

He felt as if he'd taken a flush hit to his stomach. “Pardon?”

“He's right, Marcus.”

Marcus shifted his gaze to Nate.
Et tu, Brutus?

At least Nate had the grace to look apologetic. “It's true that no one would recognize you. When Alex and I were out riding, people stopped to ask if one of us was the duke.”

Marcus snorted. “So they could gawp at me.”

Nate shook his head, his expression serious. “No. So they could see you. You're their lord, Marcus. Their well-being depends on you.”

Was Nate criticizing him? Anger and hurt twisted in his chest. “Blast it, I've seen to their well-being. Weren't their homes in good repair?”

“Yes, but—”

“Did you see anything—bridges or walls or roads—that needed attention?”

“No.”

“Then I've done my duty. No one has reason to complain.”

“No one is complaining, Marcus,” Alex said. “Everyone's just curious. They want to see the Duke of Hart.”

“There's no bloody reason for them to see me or me to see them.”

Alex and Nate just looked at him. They didn't understand. They couldn't.

“You both have watched your fathers manage their lands. They've taught you how to go on just as you'll teach your own sons.”

Nate shifted on the settee. “Marcus, I know—”

“No, you don't, Nate. Neither of you know what my life is like.” Even knowing his history—and Nate knew it better than anyone—they couldn't know what it felt like to live with the burden of the curse every single bloody day. “I never met my father. I'll never meet my son—if I ever have a son, that is.”

He looked at the fire and watched the ashes rise with the heat.

He'd been certain at twenty he'd not wed. Even last year, he'd been determined to remain single. What did he care if the title reverted to the Crown? It would be a blessing if he were the last Cursed Duke.

But ever since his damn thirtieth birthday, the loneliness and the need had eaten away at his resolve, even though he knew any woman he married would, in the final tally, only make him lonelier. Sharing his life with someone like Miss Rathbone would cause his soul to shrivel and die long before the curse took his body. But his heart—or a far less noble organ—was no longer listening to his brain.

He was a strong swimmer, but Loves Water was large and deep and cold—

No. Not to judge Isabelle Dorring's actions—he'd be the last man to do that—but he'd thought Miss Hutting correct this afternoon. Choosing suicide felt selfish and rather cowardly.

Nate finally found his voice. “How did things go in the village? Are we off to the Lake District in the morning?”

“No.” Marcus rubbed the spot between his eyebrows. He could feel a headache coming on. “It appears I have to advertise the Spinster House opening, which means I have to stay here for a while. You'll have to go on without me.”

Oh, hell. Nate was frowning at him, worry back in his eyes. “Then we'll stay, too. What's a few days' delay, right, Alex?”

“Right. The lakes will still be there.” Alex grinned. “And if we stay here, we can help Marcus end this curse.”

Marcus's stomach dropped. “How are you going to do that?”

“By finding you a nice village girl to fall in love with, of course.”

God—or Isabelle Dorring—help him. Confirmed spinster Miss Hutting's face popped into his thoughts.

—from Isabelle Dorring's diary

 

 

Marcus, accompanied by Nate and Alex, stepped out of Wilkinson's office with the notices Wilkinson—no, more likely Miss Wilkinson—had written.

“Miss Wilkinson is quite attractive,” Alex said. “If the females of Loves Bridge are anything like her, I'm sure we can find one for you to fall in love with, Marcus.”

“I do not need you to play matchmaker, Alex.” If the notion weren't so ludicrous, it would be revolting. “And Miss Wilkinson is one of the two women vying to be the next Spinster House spinster.”

“Is she?” Alex laughed and glanced back at the building. They all saw the curtain on the window near Miss Wilkinson's desk twitch back into place. “I'm not so certain she's committed to the single life.” He adjusted the angle of his beaver hat. “Perhaps I could make your job simpler and remove her from the competition.”

“Not in three days.”

“What? You don't think I can enthrall the lady so quickly?” Alex said as they started down the lane.

“I know you won't try.” Alex could be annoying and a bit careless, but he'd never toy with a woman's affections.

“I don't know. This place
is
called Loves Bridge. Once we find you your love, I might look for myself.”

“Feel free to do so, but skip the part about looking for me.” He knew Alex was kidding. The man had been jilted almost at the altar only months earlier.

“I thought you'd sworn off marriage,” Nate said.

Alex shrugged. “If I can find a woman to break Marcus's curse, perhaps I can find one to mend my broken heart.” He grinned. “And what about you, Nate? Shall I find you a wife as well while I'm rummaging around in Loves Bridge's collection of maidens? You're looking a little lonely.”

“I am not, you lobcock.”

They reached the path to the churchyard. It was too narrow to walk three abreast, so Marcus let Nate and Alex go ahead.

The moment he stepped in among the trees, the woods' quiet enveloped him, causing the tight, tense feeling in his head and neck to relax. Instead of the din of London—tradesmen hawking their wares and coach wheels rattling over cobblestones—he heard birds calling and small animals rustling through the underbrush. He took a deep breath. The air was different, too, scented with pine and soil instead of smoke and filth.

Nate and Alex must feel the special quality of the place as well. They'd dropped their voices as though they'd entered a church. It was—

Marcus tripped over a tree root, but caught his balance before Nate or Alex noticed and teased him about it. It was not surprising Miss Hutting had stumbled here yesterday. The ground was very uneven. It had been a bit of luck he'd been able to catch her. He'd reacted on instinct and had almost gone tumbling with her.

He swallowed.

Best not to think about that. It wouldn't have been pleasant. Better to wait for a soft bed—

No! What was the matter with him? There would be no soft bed for Cat—for
Miss Hutting
—and him.

He kicked a stone and watched it bounce up the path ahead of him. It almost hit Nate's boot before veering off into the underbrush.

She had felt so good in his arms. She was precisely the right size—not too tall or too short or too thin or too plump. Perfect.

He clenched his hands into fists. She was
not
perfect. She was not anything to him except possibly the next Spinster House spinster.

He lengthened his stride to catch up to Nate and Alex as they went through the churchyard gate.

“Here, Marcus,” Alex said. “Give us each some notices to post. It will get the job done faster.”

It would, but he was not about to risk Isabelle Dorring's wrath. Her instructions had been quite specific. The duke was to post the notices, and so he would do so. Twenty years ago, his uncle had insisted Marcus tack each paper up, even though he was only a boy of ten. He could not think the rules had changed now that he was a man of thirty.

But he couldn't say that. Nate would understand, but Alex already thought he had one foot in Bedlam.

“Thank you, but I'd rather do it myself. There are only a few, and the places aren't far apart. Why don't you go off to Cupid's Inn and have a pint? I'll join you there when I'm done.”

He smiled when what he wanted to do was give them each an encouraging shove toward the inn. “I won't be long.”

“All right.” Alex grinned. “I'll never say no to a pint.”

Nate was harder to get rid of. He gave Marcus a long look. “Are you certain you don't want some help? I was with you last time.”

“Yes, but we were children then, and you were only there because your father was my guardian.” His smile this time came more naturally. “If you'll remember, we were mostly playing tag on the green. I don't think we need to treat the villagers to such a spectacle today.”

Alex laughed. “Oh, God, now that I would like to see, you two chasing each other over the lawn.”

Nate glared at him and then looked back at Marcus. “I don't mind bearing you company.”

“Thank you, but I really don't need any help.” He smiled to soften his words.

Alex slapped Nate on the back. “Leave the man to his task. We'll spend the time planning our matchmaking campaign to end this silly curse once and for all.”

Damnation. He did not want Alex busying himself in his affairs, and he definitely didn't like the fact it was Miss Hutting's face—and other attributes—that sprang to mind at his words.

Nate's expression twisted into one of disgust. “Good God, I am not discussing such a vile subject.”

“Oh, after a couple pints, you'll be inspired,” Alex said.

He was joking, of course. That was it. Alex loved a good jest. The best thing to do would be to play along. Then Alex would lose interest—it was no fun teasing a man who didn't react.

“I rely on you to keep Alex from matching me with a hideous harridan, Nate.”

Nate snorted and then shook his head. “All this jackanapes will be matching is himself to a glass of ale. Don't be long, Marcus, or we'll have to drag Alex's drunken body back to the castle.”

“Hey now, you know I can hold my liquor better than you.”

“Well, for God's sake, don't try to prove it here,” Nate said as he and Alex moved off. “Loves Bridge has enough to gabble about without adding an inebriated earl to the mix.”

“An inebriated marquess, more like!”

Marcus watched them leave and then turned toward the vicarage. He should speak to the vicar before he posted anything around the church. With luck, Miss Hutting would be away from home.

He crossed the churchyard, pausing to touch Isabelle Dorring's gravestone.

Well, technically just “stone” since the woman wasn't buried there—or anywhere.

He gripped the stone hard.
I won't let Isabelle control me. I'll avoid the woman from now on. How hard can that be? I'm only here three more days.

He looked up—and his stomach sank. Miss Hutting was just closing the vicarage door behind her.

No, that would be cowardly—and ridiculous. In any event, it was too late. Miss Hutting
had
seen him.

Perhaps she would go on about her business.

Of course she wouldn't. She changed direction to stride purposely toward him. For just an instant, he was tempted to turn tail and run, but he quashed the cowardly impulse and held his ground.

“Good morning, Your Grace.”

“Good morning, Miss Hutting.”

She eyed the papers in his hand. “I assume those are the Spinster House notices?”

What else could they be? “Yes.” He started to edge past her. “I was just coming to speak to your father about putting one up in the church, so if you'll excuse me?”

“Papa's away from home.” She grinned, a wide smile that crinkled her eyes and showed her teeth.

London ladies never grinned. They rarely smiled, and when they did, they only bent their firmly closed lips slightly.

“That's unfortunate.” He would have to do the church last. “When do you expect him back?”

“Oh, not for a while, but I can help you. I know exactly where the notice should go.”

“I really can't impose. You were on your way somewhere, weren't you?”
I
cannot
spend time alone with her.

But he desperately wanted to do exactly that.

“Only to Cupid's Inn. I'm meeting Jane and our friend Anne Davenport and some of the other ladies to discuss the village fair. I'm early though, so I have plenty of time to help you.” She snorted. “I could see Mama was going to saddle me with the twins so I dashed out the door. The boys would have been very much in the way at the meeting. As you might imagine, it's impossible to keep an eye on those two and have anything approaching a sensible conversation.”

Sadly he could not imagine it. He had no experience with children.

Miss Hutting had already started for the church. She looked back when she noticed he wasn't with her. “Are you coming?”

He felt himself weakening, but tried one last argument. “I'm not certain I should accept your help, Miss Hutting. Miss Wilkinson might object.”

“Don't be ridiculous. Jane isn't such a cabbage head.”

He
would
like to get rid of the notices as quickly as possible, and it would be easy enough to see if Miss Hutting tried to get him to hang the paper in a dark, out-of-the-way corner.

He caught up to her. “Yes. Pardon me for dillydallying.”

She laughed. “I didn't think dukes could do something so plebeian as dillydally.”

London women didn't laugh, either. They tittered.

“I don't make a habit of it.” Or did he? Perhaps that was all he did, dallying away his life. There was little point in doing anything else when his fate was out of his hands.

He fell into step with her. He'd noticed yesterday how easily she could keep up with him. It must be her long legs.

He should
not
be thinking of Miss Hutting's legs.

“If it's not prying, may I ask where your father has gone?”

“Off to visit Lord Davenport.” She wrinkled her short, attractive nose—

Hell, it was just a nose, just a place to perch spectacles, and too short for real beauty.

But it suited her face.

“I imagine they'll spend hours talking about horses and hunting. Papa is the brother of the Earl of Penland—Papa was the fourth son—and grew up riding.”

“Misses it, does he?” Everything about her appearance pleased him. He knew she wasn't classically beautiful, but she was beautiful to him. Looking at her made him happy—and other things.

He had to get the Spinster House issue settled as quickly as possible and get out of the village. His life might depend on it.

“A little. But unlike many younger sons I've heard of, he truly does enjoy being a vicar.” She turned her head to look up at him. “I don't believe he went visiting to discuss the baron's stables, however. I think Mama sent him to see if Lord Davenport knows of any suitable suitors for me.”

Something that felt perilously like jealousy stabbed him in the gut.

That was ridiculous. He'd just met the girl; she was determined never to marry; and to top it all off, she was distantly related to Isabelle Dorring, the authoress of all his woes.

“If the Earl of Penland is your uncle, why didn't your parents send you to London for your come out?”

She sent him a look of disgust. “What? So I could be paraded about on the Marriage Mart like a prize pig at the fair?”

He laughed. Miss Hutting's description was not so far off the mark. “Surely not a pig. A horse, perhaps. A thoroughbred.”

She snorted. “Not a thoroughbred. In any event, Mama would never suggest it. Papa and the earl don't get on. Papa says the man's a pompous old stick.”

“He is a bit.” The earl was much older than Marcus, but his son had been at school with him. “Viscount Edgedon is worse.”

Miss Hutting smiled at him with approval, which made him far too happy.

“Yes, indeed. When the earl and his family came down for Tory's wedding, nothing in Loves Bridge was good enough for them. Penland's daughter, my cousin Juliet, is the one who really vexes me, though. She's Tory's age and married to a viscount—”

“Uppleton.” Another fellow Marcus didn't care for.

“Yes. Short, balding, and obnoxious. I rather pitied her being yoked to him for life, but, if you can believe it,
she
feels sorry for
me
. She told me at the wedding how terribly disheartening it must be to have a younger sister marry before me, and she
kindly
assured me that I wasn't quite,
quite
on the shelf and shouldn't despair yet because certainly
someone
would have me, though I should probably steel myself to settle for a farmer.”